The Hidden Memory of Objects

by Danielle Mages Amato

  “Or a minefield,” Eric countered. “Maybe you should take a break.”

  “Five more minutes,” I said. “Let’s try that George Bush bobblehead.”

  Rolling his eyes, Eric handed it to me. I stared at it until my eyes crossed. I rubbed it as though a genie might pop out. Nothing happened.

  “Okay, maybe the laptop?”

  I tried. Again, nothing. “Maybe another time,” Eric said.

  “A few more. What’s that thing on the shelf over there? The glass thing?”

  Eric passed me a green glass heart flecked with gold, and as soon as it touched my fingers, I found myself in the bedroom of a girl with a spill of dark hair and freckles across her face and chest. Her entire, naked chest. I dropped it like a hot potato. “Well. I found something that time.”

  Eric gave me a questioning look.

  “Let’s just say it’s a souvenir of a very particular kind.”

  “Sexytimes?” Eric asked.

  I snorted out a laugh. “You did not just say sexytimes.” He shrugged. I laughed harder.

  The more memories I experienced, the giddier and looser I felt: an intoxicating thrill, like the best part of being drunk. But at the same time, the pain grew worse and worse. My temples throbbed. Even my teeth hurt. And the pain mixed with elation left me feeling unbalanced. Volatile. An element in some in-between state, teetering on the edge.

  I wheeled around, looking for the next object I wanted to touch. My outstretched fingers landed on the leather of Eric’s belt, and I was yanked away from Tyler’s room in a sudden tunnel of light, only to be deposited beside the hospital bed of a painfully thin man. It took me a few seconds to recognize him, even though I’d known him since I was a little girl. Eric’s father. His face was slack, but his eyes seemed alert. A white plastic tube extended from a collar around his neck. Eric was there too, with his mom. She tenderly wiped her husband’s mouth and kissed him on his cheek, while Eric turned away and leaned on the bed rail for support, his jaw clenched with suppressed tears.

  I slumped to the ground. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking up at Eric. “I didn’t mean to . . .” A bitter taste filled my mouth, and I smelled burning plastic. Enough visions for one day.

  “What the . . . ,” Eric seemed confused. Then he rested his hands on his belt, and realization changed the shape of his face. “Oh. This was my dad’s. I started wearing it when he got sick.” He sat down beside me on the floor, his face apprehensive but full of hope. “You saw my dad?”

  “I think so. I’m really, really sorry, I didn’t—”

  “It’s fine. What did you see?”

  “Him in the hospital, with you and your mom.” I wasn’t sure whether I should intrude further, but I pushed ahead. “I know he was sick for a long time, but I never really knew what he had. What disease, I mean.”

  Eric took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He had ALS. Lou Gehrig’s disease?” He looked down at his hands. “Turns out he had a cousin who had it too, so it might be genetic. Kind of messed me up when I found that out. Like, you go your whole life thinking you’re one thing, but something else was lurking inside you all along.”

  Lurking inside you all along. That was the same phrase Eric had used when we were talking about origin stories.

  And with that tiny shift, a whole pattern emerged. My mind went smooth and focused, and suddenly I could see us, all lit up like cities from an airplane, all the people like me—the historians and artists and archaeologists and antique-store owners—the ones with this ability lurking inside us all along. Maybe we got broken. Maybe we broke the very things we loved. But maybe that was what it took to let the ability out.

  I saw Eric in a whole new way too—how much he’d been through, and how kind he’d been to me, even in the face of all that.

  My mom appeared in the doorway. “Time’s up.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”

  Eric bounced up like a Slinky and helped me to my feet. “Just talking. Seriously. That’s it.” He patted me stiffly on the shoulder. “Okay, so, see you at school?”

  I wanted to say something profound, something about origins and destinations and all the amazing things I knew Eric had lurking inside him—not only the potential for disease. But the moment passed, and he was gone.

  Over the next few days, my grounding went into full effect. My parents made a big show of cutting up the emergency credit card I’d used to pay for the cab in DC. The terms of my grounding were laid out. Dad would drive me to school and pick me up. There would be no visits with friends (their use of the plural felt exaggerated), no television or video games (I didn’t play video games), and no internet time. They turned off the data to my cell phone, but I could still make calls (which meant I could still text, but I neglected to point that out). No end date was mentioned for this grounding; it would be in effect “as long as we feel like it.”

  But when we sat down to eat dinners together, they made an effort to hold a normal conversation, as though they had taken what I’d said to heart. And yet by Thursday I was only half listening. I was tapping my fork on my dish—part of a set that had belonged to my grandmother. We’d used them for every meal as long as I could remember, and my grandmother had used them before us. They’d outlived her. Come to think of it, they’d outlived Tyler. Maybe in a hundred years, long after I was dead and gone, some other girl would tap her fork on this dish, her life so foreign from mine I could not even imagine it.

  “The gala tomorrow night is going to be the end of me,” my mother said. “Four major donors have RSVP’d at the last minute, and trying to juggle the ticket requests and the dinner seating has been a nightmare.”

  The Ford’s Theatre annual gala was a massive fundraising event that my mother helped to coordinate every year. Lots of rich people and politicians, and even some actual celebrities, got together to watch a performance, eat tiny food, and give someone a medal for carrying on the legacy of Abraham Lincoln. My mother had been asking me for months to go with her this year. She had even tried to tempt me by describing the entertainment for the evening, which featured some singer I had never heard of performing songs from some Broadway show I didn’t care about. That was one good thing to come out of being grounded—no more pressure to attend the gala.

  My father looked up from his food. “I was thinking. The Mid-Atlantic Historical Association is having its annual meeting at American University this week. I might try to catch some of the sessions.” He paused. “Before I join you at the gala.”

  Mom sat back in surprise. “You’re feeling up to that? That’s . . . great. I’ll be at the theater all day, so you can join me there afterward.” She looked over at me. “That means you’ll be on your own tomorrow night, Megan. You can get a ride home with Eric, but you’re still grounded.”

  I nodded absently, and my parents lapsed into silence, seemingly exhausted by the effort of conversation. I kept staring at my dish.

  I could hardly believe that I had to go to school the next day. The routine of classes and lunches and teachers had moved way past boring and into the realm of torturous. My father dropped me off, and I pulled out my phone as I walked into school, missing Elena, mentally composing the perfect Groundhog Day quote to send her. I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I almost ran straight into Detective Johnson.

  She didn’t belong here, in this place, and for the span of a few heartbeats, I didn’t even recognize her.

  “I was hoping to see you,” she said. “You want to step outside with me?”

  “I don’t know. Will there be handcuffs involved?”

  She actually laughed. It transformed her face and turned her into someone I hardly recognized. Someone’s friend. Someone’s mom. “No,” she said. “I have something to tell you, and I wanted to do it in person.”

  We walked out to the picnic table where I’d brought the things from Tyler’s locker on my first day back at school. It seemed like an era ago. An eon. Something that could only be measured in
geologic time. Johnson sat on the table and propped one foot up on the bench. Her face had turned serious again.

  “We’re seeing a lot of each other lately,” I said, trying for a joke.

  But her smile from earlier was nowhere to be seen. “It’s going to be soon. A matter of days.”

  “What’s going to be—” I stopped. “An article? About Tyler? And the drugs?”

  She nodded. “I got a call from a friend at the Post. They’re fact-checking it, trying to get it in on Sunday. But it probably won’t hit till Monday at the earliest.”

  My stomach dropped, and I rubbed my face with one hand.

  “You wanted to know,” she said.

  “I did.”

  Johnson stood and put a hand on my shoulder. “Megan, you came all the way to the station to see me, and you left without saying a word. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me? Nothing at all?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to meet her eyes.

  She sighed. “It’s not too late. You know where to find me.”

  As she walked away, I thought, It’s not too late. But once this story broke, Tyler’s legacy would be sealed. Most of us don’t live on in lengthy biographies and museums dedicated to the tiny minutiae of our lives. Most of us get the memory of our family and friends, and that’s it. Maybe a newspaper clipping or two. Maybe a work of art. What would Tyler have?

  In a rush, I made up my mind: I wanted the truth. Even if no one else ever knew, even if I never chose to tell my parents or the police, I wanted to know exactly what had happened to him. And there was still one card on the table, one piece of the puzzle I hadn’t explored: the Lincoln cigar box. Whatever memories were trapped inside, they were so painful I couldn’t even touch it. The objects in Tyler’s room didn’t have as strong an effect. But blood artifacts did.

  I needed to take it to Dr. Brightman, and I needed to do it today.

  I took out my phone to call Eric before I remembered he had no phone. So I went straight to Bobby’s locker instead. I waited there until the bell rang for first period, but he never came. As the hallway emptied out, I sat down beside the locker. If some teacher wanted me to leave, they could physically pry me off this square of linoleum.

  When I reached into my backpack for a book to sit on, my hand brushed against the black velvet jewelry box Dr. Brightman had given me, with Lucy Hale’s ring still inside. I took out the box cautiously and popped it open. The ring glinted warmly, even in the cool fluorescent light. Whatever memories it held, I didn’t want to wait anymore.

  I held out a single finger and ran it across the golden surface.

  A dead body lay beside me.

  I yanked my hand away. Booth. It had been John Wilkes Booth. Dead. Lying on a wooden bench, covered by a thick gray blanket. Except for his face.

  I took a deep breath and touched it again.

  With a blur of light, I was in a tiny, cramped room with Booth’s dead body. A woman knelt beside him, shrouded in black from head to toe. She lay across his legs, weeping. Beside her stood a gray-haired man with a paunchy stomach and a deeply ingrained crease between his eyebrows.

  “Enough,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

  The woman struggled to push herself to her feet. When she was finally standing, I could see that it was Lucy.

  The older man reached into his pocket and handed her the ring. “My influence bought you this ring back.” He waved it in the air between them. “Someone could have traced it back to you. It was retrieved from a dead man’s body, along with your reputation. See that you never, ever threaten it again.”

  All the spirit and fire I’d seen in Lucy during my last vision—sitting at a hotel restaurant, tossing quips at her fiancé—all that was gone now. “Yes, Father,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  He left the room, and Lucy gave the gold band a single kiss before dropping a dense black veil over her face and following him out the door.

  I took my hand off the ring, and instantly I was back in the school hallway, sitting doggedly in front of Bobby’s locker. Lucy might have lived a long life, but I felt confident from what I’d seen that every last day had been spent trying to live up to that promise to her father.

  The bell rang again, and I didn’t have much longer to wait before Bobby emerged from the between-class crowd. I scrambled to my feet.

  His chin dropped to his chest and he shook his head in disbelief as he spotted me.

  “Seriously?” he groaned. “Just go away.”

  He turned his back to me and opened the locker. The moment it swung open, my hand caught the door, keeping it from closing again.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” His voice turned mocking, and he leaned in closer to me. “I’m sorry, but sometimes, when a guy says no, he means no.”

  The hallway was packed with students. I looked around, making eye contact with as many people as I could, and then I channeled Elena’s loudest, most obnoxious voice, never removing my hand from the locker door.

  “Students of Westside!” I announced. “Bobby Drake is a slimy liar and a sexual harasser!”

  A few people stopped to stare, and Bobby’s eyes went wide. “You are a freak,” he whispered. “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, do you care what these people think?” I asked, feigning surprise. “Because I don’t.”

  “Let your freak flag fly, girl!” someone yelled.

  I kept going. “He has worn the same Yale shirt every Tuesday for a year!”

  Two girls burst out laughing. A crowd was starting to gather, and Bobby’s face had taken on a distinct sheen of panic.

  “Don’t trust him around your girlfriends! Or your wallets!”

  Bobby had stepped away from the locker now, trying to talk to a few of the people who had gathered around. The Lincoln cigar box was unguarded.

  “And worst of all,” I said, “he kisses like a starving, toothless St. Bernard!”

  As the crowd hooted with laughter, I pulled my sleeve down over my hand and took hold of the Lincoln box. I shoved it into my backpack as quickly as I could.

  Bobby grabbed my arm, and I yelled at the top of my lungs. “He’s laying hands on me! He’s laying hands on me!”

  Bobby let go instantly and backed away.

  I gave him a thin smile. “Sorry, Bobby. Nothing personal.” I pushed my way through the crowd and left him to his fate.

  As I broke through the last few people standing by Bobby’s locker, I came face-to-face with Eric. His expression was frozen in an almost comical look of shock.

  “I have only one thing to say.” He paused for effect. “Cooler than Captain America.”

  “I’ve got the box.”

  “Let’s go.” He turned without question and headed toward the nearest exit.

  We rushed out into the parking lot, the cigar box in my bag bouncing heavily against my back with each step, and we jumped into Eric’s car.

  A shot of adrenaline surged through me as he started the engine. Maybe we’d point this car west and keep driving. Drive and drive until the road ended in an ocean. San Francisco. Or Los Angeles. A whole city full of people who’d run as far as there was to run.

  But today, there was Dr. Brightman. And, hopefully, some answers.

  By the time Eric found parking on Capitol Hill, I was second-guessing myself. No one had answered Dr. Brightman’s phone when I called—what if he hadn’t gotten my voice mail? What if he wasn’t even home? He wasn’t the sort to appreciate random visitors.

  Eric started to unbuckle his seat belt, but I stopped him. “Stay here? I really think I need to do this alone.”

  He nodded. “I’ll stay here. But you’re not alone.”

  I hesitated, not sure whether I should ask what I wanted to ask next. “So I’ve been wondering . . . can you get tested? For the ALS?”

  Eric leaned his head back on the car seat and blew out a long breath. “When I’m eighteen. But the test’s not clear-cut; it can’t predict whether I’ll get symptoms. So I don’t k
now.”

  My stomach twisted. “Well, if you ever do, and you want . . . I don’t know. Company? Just say the word.”

  Eric snorted. “It’s a date.” He swatted my shoulder. “Now go.”

  To my relief, Dr. Brightman’s assistant answered moments after I rang the bell. She was . . . beige. A solid wash of sandy brown extended from her hair to her suit to her “natural”-colored pantyhose. “If you’ll give me a moment,” she said blandly, “I’ll let him know that you’re here.” And she left me standing in the entryway.

  It was the first time I’d been alone in any part of Dr. Brightman’s house, and I immediately began looking around for some raw materials, some memento of this place I could take with me. The only thing I saw was the set of car keys hanging on the wall, complete with the goofy Lincoln keychain. They looked like they hadn’t been used in years. The plastic was cracked and faded, and a tiny cobweb connected Lincoln’s head to the wall.

  The compulsion I felt was inexplicable. And irresistible. I removed the keys from their hook and held them tightly in my hand. They buzzed slightly against my bare skin.

  I thought of Bobby’s horrified, embarrassed face in the hallway earlier, and I felt a stab of genuine remorse. In the last hour, I’d stolen the Lincoln cigar box and Dr. Brightman’s keys. The moral high ground I’d thought I occupied was sinking rapidly.

  I heard footsteps, and I shoved the keys quickly into my backpack just as Dr. Brightman came down the stairs. His face was bare, no glasses in sight, and he wore a slim-fitting black suit. His pant legs stopped at his ankles, revealing dress shoes and azurite blue socks.

  “Miss Brown. A pleasure.” He gestured me in. “Please, have a seat. I got your message. I can’t wait to see what you’ve brought me.”

  I perched on one of the leather couches in his office, dropping my backpack on the floor between my feet. “Before we start,” I said, screwing up my courage, “I want you to know that this is my last visit. I don’t want to continue . . . authenticating things. I just want to find out more about this box, and then I’m through.”