After You Died

by Dea Poirier

  “Sayid! Thank God you’re back. I’ve needed a cig for weeks. Never thought they’d get merch moving again.” A squirrely kid says. His auburn hair is stuck up in a thousand different directions, like he stuck his finger in a socket. By the looks of it, he didn’t do it on purpose. His face is narrow, and pointed, his brow low. He has a dopey smile that reminds me of my friend Dominic.

  “Good to see you too, Gord. Don’t worry, I should have my channels open again in a day or two. Prices will be high until I get back to full supply. I’m sure you understand.” His words are smoother than a Lucky Strike. He’s like some kind of reform school diplomat or something.

  “Gordon.” He points to squirrely kid who greeted him. “This is Asher.”

  He then points to the rest of the guys at the table, introducing them one at a time: Chris, Westly, Brandon, Josue, Alex, Cameron, Luis and Hunter.

  There’s no way I’ll ever learn all their names. Not today, anyway. They all blur together, a sea of names and features I don’t want to remember. I’m not planning to be here long enough to make friends.

  When I look up from my tray, Sayid is staring at me. What is he looking at? My eyes move around the room as I shift in my seat. My glance drifts toward Sayid again, and I swear his eyes dart away just as a smirk creeps across his face.

  Gord starts talking to Sayid again. “What’d you do this time?” His eyes are wide, hungry. Scrambled eggs nearly fall out of his mouth when he talks.

  “Same.” Sayid grins. If I didn’t know better, the way he puffs out his chest and grins, I’d say he’s proud.

  “Ever gonna learn your lesson?” Gord laughs, spraying his tray with half-chewed eggs.

  Sayid folds a pancake and shoves it in his mouth. He chews twice, but doesn’t swallow before he says, “Probably not.” Half chewed pancake squishes around his teeth when he smiles. “You ever leave?”

  Gord shakes his head.

  “I thought you were supposed to get out right after I did.” Sayid’s brows furrow and leans into the table on his elbows, waiting to hear the reason.

  “Was, I got in a fight with Tory. That and my parents don’t want me back.” A smug look creeps across his face, he crosses his arms, and leans toward Sayid. “Good fucking riddance, right?”

  “Fuck them.” Sayid says, but not loud enough for the guard a few feet away to hear.

  I pick at my breakfast while they talk back and forth, for what feels like forever. Once I’ve finally gotten down to my last bite of sausage, a bell rings. I look toward Sayid as the rest of the boys scatter. The sounds of shuffling, clinking, and a rush of voices fills the dining hall. In thirty seconds flat, only Sayid and I are left.

  We walk from the dining hall to a small administrative building. A few older women sit at the desks, they only glance at us when we walk in, then immediately return their attention to their work. Toward the back of the room is a corkboard covered in flyers for boxing, football, basketball, and all the other sports offered at Dozier. On the desk beneath the board sits a pile of schedules and a list of jobs with spaces beneath them for names. I look over the work detail options and spot the job I want immediately.

  “Ugh, really?” Sayid asks as he watches me write my name on the list.

  “Yeah?” I’m not sure why he seems upset with my choice, it’s my dream job. I put my name next to Stables/Vet Assistant.

  “You’re going to shovel shit all day,” he explains, as if I wasn’t aware. Then his face falls, like he’s about to tell me something horrible. “And you’re going to have to be around horses.”

  “So?” I still can’t understand why he cares what job I’ll be doing.

  “You’re really okay with that?” he asks, baffled. “That’s a job for the kids.”

  “I like being around animals,” I say as I shrug, “even if it’s just shoveling shit, better than cleaning it up with my hands.”

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugs and puts his name next to ‘Laundry’.

  “Laundry?” I ask. That seems like just as much work as the stables.

  He nudges me and says, “That’s how I get things in.” He raises his finger to his lips. Guess it’s our secret now.

  After I’ve got my name on the work detail list, I find my schedule on the desk. I look it over.

  Monday to Saturday

  6am - 7am - Breakfast

  7:30am - 11am - Work Detail

  11:30am - 12:30pm - Lunch

  1pm - 5pm - Work Detail

  5:30pm - 6:30pm - Dr. Lennox

  7pm - 8pm - Dinner

  Sunday

  6am - 7am - Breakfast

  7:30am - 9:30am - Worship

  10am - 11am - Work Detail

  11:30am - 12:30pm - Lunch

  1pm - 5pm - Work Detail

  5:30pm - 6:30pm - Dr. Lennox

  7pm - 8pm - Dinner

  “Who’s Dr. Lennox?” I ask, noticing he appears on my schedule every day.

  “Shrink.”

  I nod, unsurprised. Maybe it’d help to see a shrink after all. There has to be something he can do to help me get my memories back.

  “So, this is it?” I say, holding up the slip of paper. This is the next five years of my life lined up on this thin piece of paper. It hits me then, I’ll never get more than a eleventh grade education. Hell, I’ll never even graduate.

  “Unless you try out for sports, then you get less work detail. If you’re really good at sports, you don’t have to do any work detail at all.” He explains. “There are bells that ring out over campus for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Since it’s your first day, work detail is technically optional. My work isn’t optional, I’ve got to start getting resources in the doors. Otherwise, I might end up with some really unhappy customers.” He claps his hand on my arm, and heads out the door. At the last moment, he turns around. “Whatever you do, don’t duck that appointment with Lennox.”

  “I won’t. Thanks,” I say as I wave at him.

  Sayid doesn’t leave, instead he hovers, his hand on the knob. “You going to be okay?” he asks, his eyes survey my face. I can tell by the look on his face, he’s torn. He doesn’t think I can handle this place by myself. He’s probably right.

  It’s strange to have someone care. I don’t want him to worry about me. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I say, though I’m unsure.

  He doesn’t move, but studies my face for another moment, lips pressed together, like he doesn’t necessarily believe me. Finally he nods and says, “See you later,” before disappearing outside.

  I head out of the administrative building and take a long look around the campus. Now that the bell for class has rung, there aren’t any students lingering. I don’t want to head to the stables just yet, the horses will be able to sense I’m uneasy. It will be better to introduce myself to them tomorrow, once I’m more settled. I wind my way to the library, check out a book and disappear until it’s time to meet with the shrink.

  After

  Dr. Lennox has a small office outside the hospital. The large brick building is two stories tall and nearly a hundred and fifty feet long, and a circular porch sticks out from the front doors lined with white columns. I find it frightening the hospital looks more than big enough to room every student in Dozier.

  Why do they need a hospital this big?

  I walk toward the small building, a lump forms in my throat as I pass a group of guards. They’re laughing and smoking, they don’t even give me a second glance. I’m starting to wonder if the guards ever do anything.

  I turn the handle, and find myself in a small waiting room. A haze of cigarette smoke hangs in the air. An ugly shade of light blue carpet lines the floor, the walls look like they were white once, but are now a sickly brownish-yellow from smoke stains. A few cracked plastic chairs line the walls. At the back of the room there’s a small desk with a receptionist behind it. It appears to be a work assignment, because it’s a boy behind the desk. He has shaggy hair hiding his face, until he looks up.

  “Asher?”
the receptionist asks.

  I nod.

  “Head on back, he’s expecting you,” he says, completely uninterested. He waves his hand toward the hall, but doesn’t bother to show me back himself. As soon as I start to walk back his attention snaps to a magazine.

  Down a narrow hallway, lined with pictures and diplomas, I find a large office. The door peeks open into the room, where a thick cloud of cigarette smoke hangs in the center. It’s so thick, I’m tempted to ask him to open a window, but I don’t. Everything I’d expect to find in a shrink’s office is here. Couch, chairs, ornate wooden desk with a large typewriter. When I push the door open I see a husky hunchbacked, gray-haired older man watering the plants crowded in tiny pots on the windowsill. He doesn’t look up at first. Though I’m ten feet away, I can see the milky quality of his eyes behind his glasses. His skin seems to sag, like someone let the air out of him.

  “Hello, Mr. Flemming,” he says as he sets the watering can on his desk, and squints at me.

  “Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand to shake his, I’m surprised how thin and cold his skin is. His grip is light, his hand feels brittle beneath mine. I pull my hand back faster than I mean to. I shift as he stares at me. I feel like he can see what’s wrong with me just by looking.

  “Take a seat wherever you like.” He extends his shaking hand to show me toward the couch and one of the sitting chairs.

  I plop down on an ugly green arm chair, a cloud of smoke and dust escapes the cushion. The scratchy fabric bites at my exposed arms. I cross one leg over the other in an attempt to keep myself from fidgeting, or to keep my legs from shaking. It doesn’t work. He grabs a notebook and a pen before sitting down in the chair across from me.

  “So,” he says as a warm smile creeps across his face, “why do you think you’re here today?” His voice is friendly, but waivers slightly as he speaks.

  “Here in this room, or at this school?” I ask as I lean into the chair arm and prop my head up on my hand.

  “Either, both. Whatever you prefer to tell me,” he says ardently, and folds his hands across the notepad in his lap.

  In the brief moment before I speak, after he finishes speaking, he starts to write on the paper. His hand trembles as he writes. Though I try to look at the notepad, from where I sit all I can see are scribbles. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, and the smoke wafts toward me. I watch him as lifts the cigarette to his lips, then rests it on the ash tray. There’s an urge growing inside me, I need a cigarette. My eyes fall to the paper again.

  Is he writing down how long it takes me to answer?

  I pause, uncertainty twists my thoughts into a tangle. I’ve never been the kind of person to share my secrets with strangers. Even if I did want to tell him anything about myself, I wouldn’t know where to start. So, instead I look out the window as I chew on the inside of my cheek.

  “I know how difficult this must be,” he finally says when the silence between us becomes palpable. “You don’t have to tell me anything. We can sit here if you like, and you don’t have to say a single thing,” he offers.

  My eyebrow perks up. “And I won’t get in any trouble?”

  He shakes his head. “You won’t get in any trouble for anything you say in this room.” He clears his throat. “That is, unless you threaten to harm another student here. That’s where I have to step in.”

  “Okay,” I say as I turn my attention back to the window.

  He lights another cigarette and eyes me as he smokes it. I can feel his eyes burn against my flesh. “Where are you from?” he asks.

  “Ocala,” I say simply.

  “Did you like it there?”

  I shrug. “Before—” I catch myself and swallow the truth before it tumbles out of me. “Before I was sent here, yeah. It was okay.”

  “Do you have any siblings?”

  “A sister,” I pause. “Twin sister,” I correct myself. “And an older brother, but he’s in ‘nam.”

  “That’s brave, honorable.”

  I eye him, unsure if it’s a jab at me. Brave, honorable brother, and here I am, murderer. He smiles kindly, and I shrug off the comment.

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  My eyebrow perks up. It’s a strange question. “White,” I guess.

  “Why white?”

  “Because that’s the color she always wore,” I almost say, but I catch myself. I take a deep breath and clear my mind. “It just is.”

  I don’t want to tell this guy anything about myself. But I realize, if I don’t try, I’ll never get better. I’ll never figure out what happened. As much as I don’t want to, as much as I don’t trust him, it may be the only way to uncover the truth.

  I press my lips together as a question bubbles to the surface. “Have you helped anyone else like me?”

  His lips twist, and he looks down for a moment, his brows drawn together. “With your specific set of circumstances, no.” He clears his throat. “But lost memories are something I have helped other students with. It’s a lot of work, it’s a big undertaking. Memory is not something to mess with lightly…”

  “But you can help? You have done it?” I interrupt him.

  He nods slowly.

  I take a deep breath and try to remember where we’d been in the conversation. Why are you here? “I’m here at Dozier because the police think I killed my best friend, Olivia,” I explain, shifting uncomfortably in the chair as I talk. “I imagine I’m in this room because I don’t remember killing her.” I expect my response to get stuck in my throat, but it doesn’t. The words fall out of my mouth easier than usual.

  Is it possible I’m finally numbing to their grip on me?

  “I see,” he says as he takes notes. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen. I was seventeen when it happened.” I’m not sure if that detail matters, but I add it just in case.

  There was no ceremony around my birthday. Not that I remember, anyway. I turned eighteen in the cellblock six weeks after Olivia died. Even if I survive this place, I will never celebrate another birthday. It won’t feel right. Prior to eighteen, every single birthday was celebrated with Eden and Olivia. Though Eden and I are twins, she was born before midnight, I was born an hour after. Olivia and I have closer birthdays than Eden and I do. Olivia was fifteen minutes younger than me. Our mothers met in the hospital and became best friends.

  “Have you ever suffered memory loss before?” He doesn’t look up from the paper when he asks, he barely stops writing at all. His hand shakes so much, it looks like the paper is covered in a series of scribbles. I’m not sure how he can read what he’s writing.

  “Along with not remembering when she died, I also don’t remember most of the month after. I was in the hospital, they said I was mostly catatonic. Other than that, no.” I try not to pry, but I can’t help but stare at that piece of paper.

  What could he possibly have to say about me?

  “Do you have a history of violence, fights, threats? Anything like that?” He stops writing to take a sip of water, and looks at me over his thin glasses.

  “No, never.” I shake my head. It’s much easier to talk to Dr. Lennox than I imagined. The last time I tried to talk to a shrink at the hospital, tears pricked at my eyes and my throat went so dry, I thought it might crack and bleed. Here though, I feel like I can breathe, and I can talk to him.

  “Have you ever had a head injury or a concussion?” he asks, lifting his shaking hand to light a cigarette.

  Though a few times, breaking up fights between my parents I did get hit in the head, I doubt that ever caused a concussion. So I say, “No.”

  He hunches his shoulder forward, his glasses slipping toward the end of his nose, as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. It’s torture sitting so near, while not being able to have one myself. A long knobby finger reaches up, pushing the glasses up.

  “How would you describe your relationship with Olivia?” He waits for me to answer, the pen hovering in the air above the paper.


  “Great, I mean, we’ve been best friends since we were little. Our moms are—were—best friends. So we grew up together. We were even born on the same day.” When the words are out, my eyes fall to the floor. Talking about her like this, about my history with her, rather than about the night she died, warmth floods my chest. The cold fingers of guilt squash it nearly as quickly as it came.

  I don’t deserve to be happy.

  “Did you ever wish that there was more to this friendship?”

  I consider lying, because of how embarrassing it is. But if I lie, he may not be able to help me remember. “I hoped it would become more, that maybe eventually she’d be my girlfriend. I’ve told her I love her about a thousand times.” It takes me a moment to find the words to go on. Explaining our history makes me feel like an idiot. I spent so many years loving someone who didn’t love me back. But I wouldn’t change any of it, I wouldn’t take anything back—except the night she died. I’d spend every day of my life loving her, getting nothing in return, if it’d mean I’d get her back.

  “I stopped saying I loved her for a while. It hurt to keep saying it, since she never said it back. I’d been planning to try again, tell her I still loved her.” I look down at my feet. The tears sting my eyes, knowing I missed my opportunity, the reality of it crushes me. I’ll never be able to tell her again how much I love her—loved her. Even though she’s been dead for almost four months now, it doesn’t feel like she’s gone to me. I swear, sometimes I can still feel her.

  “I see. How long had you been romantically attracted to Olivia?” he asks after taking another note. He sets the cigarette down on the ashtray next to him.

  “As long as I can remember.” I shrug. Trying to calculate how long I’ve loved her would be like trying to figure out how many breaths I’ve taken, or how many heart beats have passed. It’s impossible.

  “Can you tell me what you remember of that night?” He starts to write again.

  My mind jumps back instantly, replaying the few details I remember.