The Hidden Memory of Objects

by Danielle Mages Amato

  “Nothing,” Emma snorted. “He’s perfect. We all are. Anything less will not be tolerated.” She took another long pull off the vodka, scrunching up her nose. “All he’s got are closets full of Abe Lincoln’s underwear.” She put on a fake deep voice. “What ho! Four score! Gettysburg!” Slumping down onto the desk, she dissolved into giggles.

  Then the door slammed open, and all three jumped, their heads jerking guiltily toward the sound.

  It was Matty, the guy I’d seen drop Emma off at school on my first day back. He looked exhausted, his black hair as rumpled as his suit and tie. “What are you . . . You know no one is allowed back here.” He spotted the bottle in Emma’s hand. “Is that alcohol?”

  “Oh my god, Charity Case,” Emma snapped, “chill out. You’re like a sixty-five-year-old Republican trapped in a twenty-one-year-old body.”

  Matty stiffened. “I’m not a charity case.”

  She laughed. “Are you kidding me? If it weren’t for my dad, you’d be shipped straight back to Hyattsville.”

  “Hey.” Tyler put a hand on her shoulder. “Not cool, Em.”

  “Is that what you think?” Matty said. “Well, let’s see what he makes of this little scene.” He gestured to the three of them.

  Emma stood, a look of panic on her face. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Watch me.” Matty turned and left.

  Emma looked back and forth between Tyler and Bobby. “I can’t . . . The last time he caught me drinking . . .” Tyler reached out to her, but she dodged him and walked to the door. “I just . . . I have to stop Matty before he gets to my dad.” She paused in the doorway without looking back. “You know what?” she said. “Take whatever you want.” And she left.

  Bobby immediately grabbed a cigar box off a shelf—the one I’d seen in his locker, the one with the naked woman on it—and started loading cigars into it.

  Tyler sat down at Senator Herndon’s desk, his expression dark. Beside a brass pen holder sat a glass bowl full of the same pitted metal marbles I was holding. He ran his fingers through them and put a handful in his pocket. Then he turned and stared at the portrait of Lincoln hanging over Herndon’s desk.

  The desk lamp flickered, and I thought of what Dr. Brightman had said. The strongest memories. The brightest lights. I gripped the marble in my hand and stared at the lamp until it grew blinding bright.

  The image shifted, and I saw Tyler sitting in Nathan’s kitchen, the same room where I’d eaten pancakes a few minutes before. He was rolling a marble in one hand, staring off into the distance. Then he bent over Dr. Brightman’s book, which lay open on the table in front of him, and wrote furiously in the margins.

  Nathan came into view, carrying a camera and a tripod. “Red. Dude,” he said. “Stop reading the damn book. I thought we were making a video for The District this afternoon.” He snatched the book out from under Tyler’s pen and tossed it onto the counter.

  “Did you know,” Tyler said, “that John Wilkes Booth targeted Lincoln because he was operating above the law? Suspending the writ of habeus corpus, tossing his critics in jail. Basically abusing his privilege and running this country into the ground.”

  “Did you know,” Nathan shot back, “that John Wilkes Booth was a murderer? Not to mention a racist asshole who wanted slavery to go on forever?” He gave Tyler a significant look and picked up the marble. “Your fave is problematic, is what I’m saying.”

  Tyler looked up at Nathan. He seemed tense, his usual carefree energy gone. “He’s not my fave.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “I just mean—all along, Booth thought he was the good guy. Thought he was gonna be this big hero for what he did. Then he finds out . . . nope. He was the bad guy. For all time, that’s how he’d be remembered.”

  Nathan drew his fingertips down his cheeks, one after the other.

  Tyler shook his head. “What are you doing?”

  “Crying some white, slavery-loving assassin tears.”

  Tyler busted out a laugh. “Okay, okay. I’m not looking for a role model here. I’m looking for a symbol.” His mouth disappeared into a grim line. “Senator Herndon wants to pretend he’s this modern-day Abe Lincoln, but the truth is he’s just another entitled bully. His whole political philosophy is basically ‘more for me and everyone like me.’ He’s way overdue for a little poetic justice.” Tyler picked up Dr. Brightman’s book again, examining the photograph of Booth on the cover.

  Then a slow smile spread across his face.

  “Well, sic semper tyrannis, motherfucker.”

  Nathan snorted. “What’s your obsession with Herndon, anyway? He’s no worse than any other politician. And why focus on taking someone down? I thought we were about letting new voices be heard.” He tossed the marble back to Tyler, who caught it. “Don’t be John Wilkes Booth, man. Be, like, Frederick Douglass instead. Don’t take the other guy out. Influence his opinion.”

  Tyler opened his mouth to argue, but then he shut it again. “He’s got—” He paused. “I’m working on something. Not ready to talk about it yet, but I’ll tell you more later.” He held up the metal marble. “Anyway, if it makes you feel better, I promise I won’t shoot anyone to get what I’m after.”

  All at once, the pieces fit into place: the bowl of marbles in Senator Herndon’s study, the safe that Emma said had guns in it. Those weren’t marbles after all. They were bullets. I’d been carrying bullets around in my pocket. Probably antiques, given how old they looked, but still. A shudder of revulsion ran through me, but I didn’t let go of the small hunk of metal in my hand.

  Tyler stood, shaking out his hands and arms as though he could throw off whatever was bothering him. He grabbed the crutches that were leaning against the table. He’d broken his leg only a few weeks before he died, so this scene couldn’t have happened very long ago. He hobbled over to Nathan. “We got some great footage in Northeast yesterday. Do you want to head back there?”

  “First,” Nathan said, “I want to swing by Bailey’s Crossroads. I’ll show you the site I chose for the next underground. It’s gonna be a killer.”

  Tyler gestured to his cast. “Yeah, well, the last site you chose was a killer too. It killed my entire preseason.”

  Nathan laughed. “My bad.” And he held out a hand. Tyler slapped it, setting off a complex series of high-fives that escalated to ridiculous proportions. They were like boys on the playground, unself-conscious but totally in sync, members of the same team. I had a sudden thought: even though Tyler was gone, Nathan and I had become a kind of team too. I wondered if Tyler might have been happy about that.

  I could sense the vision slipping away, gently this time, and I blinked at Nathan’s car re-forming around me. My eyes felt crusty and my head foggy, as though I’d woken up from a heavy sleep—and an intense dream. Nathan was holding my hand, and I could hear him saying my name.

  “Megan. Megan, thank god,” he said. “Are you okay? You glazed over and . . . Man, you scared the crap out of me.”

  I leaned my forehead against his shoulder, breathing deeply as I shook off the effects of the vision. Then something Nathan had said to Tyler came back to me.

  “I’ll show you the site I chose for the next underground.”

  The site Nathan chose? Nathan had acted like he barely knew anything about the parties. And Tyler had told all of us he’d broken his leg climbing some kind of cage on the baseball field. But it sounded like he’d been with Nathan instead.

  And Nathan had been making videos with him. In secret.

  I pulled away from Nathan and looked him in the face. He’d been lying to me. It was as though I’d fallen through another wormhole, and he’d become a stranger to me yet again.

  “How could you?”

  I got out of the car. I looked around, not sure what to do next; then I started walking.

  Behind me I heard Nathan’s door slam, and he caught up to me. “What is going on? Is this about your . . . visions . . . or whatever?”

  “It’s about you. Lying to m
e.”

  Nathan didn’t look confused. He looked caught. I kept walking.

  “I don’t know what you think you saw,” he said, “but I’m sure it’s not how it looks.”

  I turned on him. “Oh, really? Because it looks like you knew a hell of a lot about what was going on with Tyler that you never told me. Like how he broke his leg? And how he went around exploring buildings for these underground parties that were all your idea.”

  Nathan froze. “Well. Then I guess it is how it looks. But how did you—” Nathan pointed to the bullet in my hand. “Are you telling me this vision thing is real? You actually saw that?”

  I gave him a thin smile and shoved the bullet into my pocket. “I’m sorry. Were you happier when you thought I was losing touch with reality?” Beneath my anger, I was beginning to feel something else: embarrassment. I’d actually started to believe Nathan might feel something for me. But clearly he’d been lying to me all along.

  “Listen, Megan,” Nathan said. “There were things I couldn’t tell you. If my parents found out I was planning those parties . . . I couldn’t disappoint them like that.” He held out a hand toward me, but I stepped away.

  “And the videos!” I said as the vision washed back over me. “I want to see all the videos. The ones you were making with Tyler but you supposedly knew nothing about. The ones you’ve got hidden away somewhere. For The District, whatever that is.” My voice broke, and I struggled under the weight of yet another blow, of losing once again someone I never had in the first place. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It was stupid,” he said, speaking quickly now. “When I first saw you, at the funeral, I only wanted to make sure you were okay. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. And with the police asking you a million questions all the time, I figured it was safer for me to tell you as little as possible. I never knew that we’d get to be . . . and then we were, and I didn’t know how to—”

  I cut him off with a gesture. The real question burned in my chest, demanding to be let out. “How long was he doing drugs?” I asked. “What made him start? And were you with him when he . . .”

  “God. No. I swear to you, I didn’t know about any drugs. When you showed me that roll of cash, I was as shocked as you were.”

  A sinking feeling spread through my body as I connected all the dots. The pieces fell together with a click that felt like an ending, like the final closing of a door.

  “Where is the Lincoln box?” I asked slowly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You took it, didn’t you? From Tyler’s room, last week. It was stolen, just like Eric thought. And it was you.” I shook my head.

  Nathan’s face turned ashen. “I didn’t.”

  “You were there.” I struggled to keep my voice steady. “The last night I saw it. I fell asleep; you were alone upstairs. Who else could have done it?”

  “You think I, like, burgled your house?” He let out a long breath. “I’m not a thief.” For an instant, I thought I saw tears in his eyes. Then he smiled bitterly. “Apparently that was more Tyler’s thing.”

  That stung, and I struck back at him in response. “But you are a liar.”

  “Fine.” Nathan nodded. “So that’s what you think of me.” He headed back toward his car. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  “I’ll get another ride.”

  He stared at me a moment, deliberating. Then he began to walk away.

  I yelled after him, “And I want it back.”

  He turned to me, his face blank.

  “The box. I want it back.”

  “Well, good luck with that,” he said. And he was gone.

  CHAPTER 13

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE NATHAN STOLE THAT BOX FROM you,” Eric said. He’d still been awake when I texted him, and it had only taken him a few minutes to come and get me. “Did you see why he did it? In your vision?”

  I shook my head, distracted. My mind was back on the sidewalk in front of Nathan’s house, his voice echoing in my ears: “I’m not a thief. Apparently that was more Tyler’s thing.” I wanted to shove those words down his throat. But I couldn’t deny what I’d seen: my own brother, standing in Senator Herndon’s study, chatting about expensive cognac, cigars, and first editions. He’d been stealing, and lying. And Nathan right along with him.

  The more I tried to put Tyler back together, the more everything seemed to fall apart.

  “Okay, well . . .” Eric kept glancing over at me, his face full of concern. “You don’t have to talk about it, but if there’s anything you want on the way home, just say the word.”

  “You know what I want?” I let my head fall back, exhausted. “Not to go home.”

  “Coffee?” Eric suggested. “We could get coffee? Or, wait—you told your mom we were going to that twenty-four-hour diner, right? Let’s do that! We’ll turn your lie into the truth.”

  Eric changed direction, heading toward the Beltway, but his words played over in my mind: turn your lie into the truth.

  Wasn’t that what I’d been trying to do for years?

  Since the first day of high school, I’d played the role of Brown Brown. I’d followed all of Tyler’s rules, because I’d seen firsthand what might happen if I didn’t. I’d laid low. Stayed small. Kept out of sight. Even my art felt brown these days. I held up the button I wore around my neck and flipped it over to study my collage. Did all my pieces have to be so tiny? Why was I limiting myself to buttons and artist trading cards and decorated matchbooks? I hated playing it safe.

  It’s for your own good, Tyler had said.

  All this time, I’d thought it was concern. But now it felt more like control. And maybe even a lack of respect.

  He’d had no faith in me. Or he’d thought something was wrong with me, deep down. He’d made me lie about myself until it became the truth.

  Well, now he was gone. And I was done lying.

  We drove past a massive shopping center anchored by a big-box hardware store, and an irresistible urge took hold of me.

  “Right here,” I said to Eric, making him jump in surprise. “Pull in here.”

  “Whoa. Okay, here I go,” Eric checked his rearview mirror and turned the wheel sharply.

  “Park by the hardware store.”

  I marched inside, Eric trailing behind me, and came out ten minutes later with three large sheets of galvanized steel. We struggled to fit them in the backseat of Eric’s Geo, and when we finally got the door closed, he looked at me, wide-eyed.

  “Anything else?”

  Without answering him, I crossed the parking lot toward a small beauty supply store. I prowled the aisles until I found what I was looking for: an entire shelf of neon hair dye.

  Screw Brown, I thought. I’m going Red.

  Back home, Mom’s car was gone, and Dad was nowhere to be seen. All the better for me. In my bedroom, Eric helped me tear down the tiny corkboard that hung on my wall. Together, we moved my worktable out of the way and wrestled the sheet metal into place. I’d raided the garage for some nails and a hammer, so when I figured out how I wanted the metal arranged, Eric held it in place, and I started pounding.

  Barely one nail in, I heard my dad’s groggy voice from my parents’ bedroom down the hall. “Megan! Is everything okay in there?”

  “Just hanging some things on the wall,” I yelled. “It may take a while.”

  There was a pause. “Carry on.”

  With the third nail, I hit a stud. The shock of the wood traveled up my arm to my shoulder, and I gritted my teeth with the pure satisfaction of it. From then on, I sought out the studs, savoring the feeling of knocking those nails through the metal and straight into the frame of the house itself.

  When I was done hammering, my breathing ragged and my arm sore, Eric and I stood back and admired our work.

  Eric hadn’t said much during this whole process, but now he put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s frakking awesome. Now what?”

  “Now we add the raw materials.”r />
  I pulled out everything I’d gathered since Tyler’s death: scraps of clothing, paper place mats, weepy notes written in purple ink. I hung them on the metal wall with magnets, arranging and rearranging them as I went.

  Eric took his research binder out of his backpack and almost shyly offered me a few pages to add to the wall. He paused as he was handing over one particular sheet, caught up in reading what was on the page.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “More of my research, trying to track down other people like you and Dr. Brightman.” He showed me the paper. “Did you ever see that TV show Letters from the Other Side?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “People bring this guy objects that belonged to their loved ones, and he gives them messages from the dead. But before he was a TV psychic, he was an archaeologist. See?” He indicated the paper. “And he also suffered a major loss. His wife was killed while they were on a dig together in India.”

  “And he ended up a TV psychic?”

  “He got prosecuted for destroying some artifacts. Guess that kind of put the kibosh on future archaeology jobs.”

  I took the page from him, scanning the article. “Why does it matter so much to you?” I asked. “My origin story or whatever?”

  Eric shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I just wonder . . . something big happens, changes your whole understanding of who you are. Was it lurking inside you all along? Or did you trigger it somehow?” He ducked his head, embarrassed. “Or something like that. Listen, take this.” He handed me the whole binder. “Use all of it if you want. I’d better get home. You going to be okay?”

  I nodded, and as Eric left, I turned back to the metal wall. I sensed a massive artwork lurking in all these pieces, a major mixed-media collage, but I couldn’t really see it, didn’t understand how to begin it. I started to organize the pieces by color, building a palette, hoping it would help me see the final image. As I worked, the colored groups began to resemble shapes, but it was like looking for animals in the clouds. The blue group looked kind of like a hat, the brown group like a guitar. Or maybe a gun. Instead of fading to a manageable level, my anger grew. That wasn’t supposed to happen. My art was supposed to center me.