The Memory Thief

by Rachel Keener

  But as she read about Achan and his children, I knew. You had a story, too. Your very own right words about what happened to you. About all the things you’ve seen and felt.

  “What happened to her?” I struggled to whisper.

  “I hid our sin. I thought I was doing the right thing, I thought I was saving her. I promised her.”

  “But what happened to her?” I demanded.

  “Like Achan,” she sobbed. “I put stones over my people. Stones over my children.”

  IV

  Days continued to pass inside the basement. A nurse attended my slow-healing wounds. She poured soothing drugs and powerful antibiotics into my IV. The old woman promised I wouldn’t feel whiskey withdrawal ever again, as long as I didn’t fight the slow wean of addiction. As long as I didn’t try and escape, try and do something drastic, like before.

  But I still fought. I pulled against the restraints and yelled all the curse words Janie ever taught me. I screamed hate for the old woman. When my screams didn’t work, I begged. And then night would come. Night always changed my mind. The heat began to swarm over my body. The pain, the gagging, and the shaking returned. I remembered the feel of that ocean and its icy water, the one I found after I jumped through the window. “You win,” I’d whisper. “I won’t fight you.”

  In the mornings, the nurse brought a walker and I practiced taking steps. The record of my last desperate run marked in scars across my body. I hated to look, even though the nurse promised the wounds would fade.

  The old woman came to me nearly every day. She spoon-fed me soups and stews as she told me your story, bit by bit.

  “I did all I could to save her. I wasn’t ignorant of her descent. I found a clay baby that she made. I held it in my hands, stared at that blank mud face. I shivered to imagine what she must’ve felt, what hunger she must’ve suffered, to have formed such a thing. I wrote letters. I made calls. I went back to the place I gave you away. No one knew where you could be.”

  “Black Snake trailer,” I whispered. “I burned it down.”

  “That’s what the police told me at the hospital.”

  “They didn’t know for sure it was me,” I said. “I wouldn’t give them my name.”

  “Oh, they knew it was you. They came here for you, just after your first week of work.”

  “Why didn’t they arrest me?”

  “I made arrangements on your behalf.”

  “Why?”

  “I couldn’t let them get in the way.”

  “What was the arrangement?”

  “I am making restitution. And in return, the Swarm family will drop the charges. They will agree it was an accident.”

  I laughed softly. “Where would we be without your money?”

  “You’d be in jail,” she said dryly.

  “No. I’d of been with you, with her, all along. Momma never would have taken me if it hadn’t been for your money.”

  She nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “So they don’t care I burned it down anymore. Just like that. You write a check and they don’t care.”

  “I’m paying your debt,” she said. “And now you’ll pay mine.”

  “How?” I whispered. “Just tell me. Why are you keepin’ me prisoner?”

  “You have an important job to do.”

  “What is it?”

  “This basement, Angel. It’s about more than you recovering, becoming sober. The nurse has already reduced your morphine to half of what it was. You didn’t know, did you? You didn’t know that you are only half as addicted as you once were. It was that easy. And now you’re ready for the next step. We don’t have time to waste.”

  The old woman stood and leaned over me. Her eyes searched mine, as she spoke again. “You must learn your story.”

  “My story?”

  “The story I’m going to teach you. The story that will bring your mother peace. That will set her free from the pain and guilt she’s been plagued with since the day you were born.”

  I sucked in my breath and held it till my lungs throbbed for relief. “She’s alive?” I cried.

  The old woman nodded.

  “But you said—”

  “Death has many forms.”

  I repeated her words to myself, over and over. But I couldn’t think what to ask. I couldn’t think anything, except this: You were alive. I’d lost you, twice, but you were alive again. Alive!

  “I’ll explain it all, in time,” she said.

  “Where is she?”

  “I’ll take you to her. But first, you must earn the right to see her.”

  “What must I do?” I begged.

  “Start by learning your name.”

  “What?”

  The old woman stood up, leaned over me. “The name you will give your mother when she first sees you.”

  “I’ve dreamed it a thousand times,” I said. “I always say this: You can call me Angel.”

  She shook her head. “This is my last chance to fix her. This is my last chance to keep the promise. I can’t afford mistakes.”

  “My name’s not a mistake.”

  “For my sweet Hannah, your name is Lily Adams. A nice, polished name. A name I wouldn’t mind giving a third daughter, if I’d been blessed with one.”

  “What’s wrong with Angel?”

  “It sounds like a vision. It sounds like something that would speak to Hannah through the hum of a baby monitor. And that’s exactly what Hannah will think if you call yourself Angel.”

  “But that’s my name. I’ve always wanted her to know that. There was this one time, I got home from school and walked into the trailer to find Momma passed out on the couch. She’d been that way for days. I stared at her, wondered if she was dead. I let the door slam behind me. She opened her eyes. She said, ‘Who in the hell are you? You come in here to steal my prizes?’ I tried to act easy, tried to act sweet. I said, ‘It’s me, Momma.’ But she shook her head, all confused. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. So I tried again. ‘It’s Angel, I’ve come home from school.’ She pointed at the door. ‘Git outta here ’fore I call the cops. I don’t know no Angel. I only got one girl, and she’s out with the farmhands. Go on, git!’ I ran outside. Sat in the middle of the empty fields and cried for someone that knows me, someone that won’t forget my name. I cried out for her. My mother. So don’t you dare tell me, now that I got my chance, she can’t know my name.”

  The old woman reached over me, jerked the IV out of my arm. “I’ve planned this for years. From the first time I tried to find you, I’ve had a plan. I thought it would be easier. I didn’t count on a fight. I thought you would come to love me, love this place. I didn’t foresee your love of whiskey. Or your wanting to leave. I never imagined you’d try and kill yourself. Just think if she found out about that. Think of all the new guilt she’d feel. Knowing her baby jumped out of the window of her old bedroom. She can’t ever know those things. She can’t ever know how right she was about you. How lost you really were. She would never forgive herself.”

  She turned out the light and started to leave.

  “You can give her life again. You can soothe her in a way that nothing else will. You can lay to rest all her dreams about you and the danger you were in. I’ll teach you how. I’ll give you the right story. I’ll tell you every word that you need to say.”

  “I’ve got my right words,” I said. “Found them long before I found you.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. You are an expensive criminal, and you burned down half a farm. I agreed to a payment plan. I have three months to either finish paying or hand you over. And it’s up to me. Do you hear that? It’s up to me.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I cried, as she left the room.

  “I made a promise once. I always keep my promises.”

  I sobbed in the darkness. And spent the night crying for you. Crying for my name. And hoping I’d be strong enough to keep it.

  I wasn’t. She didn’t come to me the whole next day. She l
et me suffer without the hope of any relief. Just before the start of the second night without my IV, when my body felt every cut and a fever swept me up in a tight grip, she returned.

  “Say your name, child. Say your name and I will end your pain.”

  “Lily,” I sobbed, “Lily Adams.”

  “Good,” she said, as she stroked the top of my hand. “Hannah will love that. It’s so pure. So very safe.”

  I cried as she tried to comfort me. As she told me I was fulfilling my purpose.

  “You didn’t just come here. You were sent,” she said. “And this isn’t just for her, but for you, too. When it’s over, you’ll be sober and well. You’ll have seen your mother. You’ll have helped her heal. It’s for you, too, that I do this.

  “Nurse,” she called. “Lily needs a full dose, please.” She leaned over me and kissed my forehead. “There, there, sweet child. Our sweet baby girl. It’s all going to be okay. I promise.”

  Soon, a new IV was in my arm, dripping fresh magic into my veins. The blur, the sweet numbness, crashed down on me heavier than before.

  “I’ve a gift for you, Lily,” she said. “Something you’ve never had or seen. Something of your mother’s.”

  I shook my head, heavy as it was, back and forth. “I had somethin’ of hers,” I mumbled. “Green blanket. It burned, though. I kept things less precious. But I burned the only thing I had of my mother’s.”

  “I’m sorry it burned.”

  “No, I meant to. So I could find her, look at her, and say, I’ve got nothin’ of you.”

  “Well here’s something new,” she said, as she reached down to the floor. She lay a copy paper box across my lap. She pulled the newspaper stuffing out of the top. Underneath lay something red. It was the bottom of a plate. A clay one.

  She picked it up and held it before me. Turned it so that I could see all the paint that you once swirled across its surface. She placed it under my tied-down hands so that I could run my fingers across the surface.

  “What do you see in her art?”

  “The bacca,” I whispered, my eyes following the broad strokes of green and gold.

  She lifted the plate from my lap and placed it by my bed. My tired eyes closed, and the colors of your paint danced behind them. I forced them open and saw the old woman staring down at me.

  “What do you see in her art?” I mumbled.

  She laughed softly and stroked my forehead. “Clay baby, come to life.”

  The room was a fuzzy rainbow. I felt all my pain, all my fear and misery, float up to the pulsing colors above me. “Ain’t afraid of you,” I whispered, and enjoyed the lie.

  “Reconsider,” she said bitterly. “It just took twenty minutes to give you away. I remember thinking as I walked back into the shack to check on Hannah, that it should’ve taken longer. To give away something so beautiful. It should’ve taken time, to kiss you, such a sweet baby, the way you deserved. Time to worry over whether it was the right thing or not. But I was gone and back in twenty minutes. I didn’t pause to pray or worry.”

  “Ain’t afraid,” I repeated. “You’re one of us.”

  “Who?”

  “Sycamore people. You’re broken. You’re scared. You can never be allowed inside. You can never be trusted.”

  “Go to sleep,” she whispered, as she left the room.

  Later, I stirred in the night and called out for a new dose. It was brought quickly, and soon I saw sycamore leaves, scattered in the darkness. I felt my body float out of bed. I picked up the leaves, one by one. Lined them up, like straight rows of bacca and read them.

  Go to sleep, Clay Baby. Go to sleep, and rest well. You’ve got a promise to keep.

  V

  “Good morning, Lily,” the old woman sang over my bed. I pretended to sleep.

  “We don’t have time to waste,” she said, as she jostled me. “Wake up. Are you awake?”

  I blinked my eyes open and nodded.

  “Good. I have your breakfast here. Eat, then I’ll have the nurse take you for a walk around the room to stretch. No meds this morning; you need to be completely alert today. You have so much to learn.” She looked at me and smiled. “You’ll do fine, though. You’re very smart. Remember when I asked you, in the library, whether you could learn? You thought I meant sewing. You said, ‘I taught myself how to read.’ ” She laughed softly, then sighed. “You know, your mother was the smartest girl in school. On track for valedictorian until she met your father.”

  “Did he know about me?”

  She shook her head. “He could barely admit to knowing Hannah. There’s no way he would have accepted responsibility for you, too. We never told him, and she never spoke to him again.” She leaned over and held a spoon of eggs out to me. I opened my mouth. “It’s not like if we kept you, everything would have been ideal. I know you’ve told yourself that all these years. It’s just not so. You would have had a seventeen-year-old child for a mother. You would’ve never had a father.”

  I finished the eggs and waited for the nurse to come. She undid my restraints and pulled me from bed. I leaned against the walker and scooted around the room with her, wincing with pain.

  “Help me,” I whispered to the nurse when we turned our backs and started walking the other direction.

  “Sorry, no meds this morning.”

  “She’s holdin’ me prisoner down here.”

  “Oh, honey,” she replied, loud enough for the old woman to hear. “You’re her precious grandchild. If only more grandmothers cared the way she did. I work in a clinic downtown. I’ve seen so many lost girls your age come in. Hooked on all sorts of things. Be glad you got a grandma that will help you out. That cares enough to get you healthy again. Weren’t for her, you’d be dead.”

  “That’s enough exercise for the day,” the old woman called out. The nurse nodded and we turned and walked back to the bed. She helped me lay down. Gently wrapped the restraints around my wrists.

  “Are you in pain?” the nurse asked me.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “She’ll have to wait,” the old woman said. “She has work to do. I’ll call for you when we’re ready.” She waited for the nurse to leave the room. “Shall we begin?”

  I nodded slowly; tears that I refused to cry sat in my eyes. “My name is Lily Adams,” I whispered.

  “Perfect,” she said, smiling. “Now after introductions, Hannah will wonder why you found her. Her natural assumption is going to be that you are in some kind of trouble. That you called out for her over the monitors. It’s your job to prove that false. So you’ll need to be prepared to explain why you’ve come. I’ve watched several of those daytime TV reunions lately. Oh, I see you’re surprised. Yes, I bought a TV and hid it in the storage room for research purposes. The best reunions, the ones that made the audience smile, were when the child said, ‘Thank you for giving me away.’ It makes sense, doesn’t it? How wonderful that would feel to have a child find you, just to say, ‘You made the right decision. Thank you for your sacrifice.’ Imagine what those words could do for Hannah. Try it, let’s hear how it sounds.”

  I said it, the words catching in my throat and sounding as painful as they were. Lies, what used to be my one great mercy, suddenly hurt worse than anything. Suddenly wouldn’t slide smooth and easy off my tongue.

  “Try it again. Say it like you mean it.”

  “My name is Lily Adams. I’m your daughter, and I came here to tell you thank you. To tell you that you did right by me, when you gave me away.”

  She stared at me while I said it. Then she sighed loudly and shook her head. “It will be fine to cry when you see her. She is your mother, after all, so of course you will cry when you see her. But we have to make your tears seem like happy ones. Perhaps if you could just smile a bit as you say it. Let me get a mirror for you to see.” She brought a hand mirror and held it before me. “Say it again. Watch your face. Keep your forehead smooth. Make your eyes a bit happier. Your voice a bit softer.”

  I trie
d again. And again. And then again.

  “No, no, no,” she said with frustration. “Hannah is so smart…. If we were dealing with Bethie, things would be different. But if you don’t look believable, if you don’t look grateful, Hannah will never buy it. Try again. We’ll go all night if we must.”

  I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes and thought only of the bacca. I didn’t think about the rest of it, about all the things that happened to me, all the things I saw and felt, after you gave me away. I didn’t think about Black Snake trailer. Momma’s couch. Daddy’s sweet tooth. Or even Janie. I just thought about the bacca. And pretended that was it. That was all that waited for me on the day I was born.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “I found real goodness after you gave me away.”

  The old woman clasped her hands to her chest, nodded, and smiled. She had me repeat it, over and over. Her effort to stamp the words in black-and-white letters behind the lids of my eyes.

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “What an excellent beginning. Now we must create a history to prove such goodness.”

  “History?” I asked.

  She nodded. “The details of your life. About your wonderful parents, your older sister that was always your best friend. About family vacations, childhood Christmases, family pets. The day your parents threw you a surprise birthday party. About all the funny times that still make you laugh.”

  She was pacing the room, talking loudly, her hands waving as she yelled out new ideas. She looked up at me and smiled. “Don’t look so worried. The challenging part will be introducing yourself and explaining why you’re there. But you’ve got that down pat.” She threw her hands up in the air and nodded quickly. “I have an idea,” she said. “Maybe we can use a bit of your own stories after all.”

  “My own stories?” I whispered, shaking my head.