The Memory Thief Read online

  “Yes. The good parts. You pick. Something from the list I just gave you. Perhaps a family vacation? Or a family pet? Did you have a dog you loved?”

  I shook my head again.

  “There must be something you can use. A favorite holiday tradition?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “All of it couldn’t be bad. That’s impossible. There must be some good memories.”

  “I had a good sister. But she done a lot of bad things. We did have this one vacation together, a weekend in Gatlinburg. It ended awful, but while we were there… it was perfect.”

  “What about laughter? Hannah would enjoy that. Did funny things ever happen? Did you ever laugh?”

  Of all the questions I had prepared for during those nights out in the bacca, that one never crossed my mind. Did I ever laugh? I laid there for a moment, my mind searching. And then I remembered.

  “Ever been to the races?” I asked her. “Not the big ones, but small local ones or anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “Daddy had this car, the coolest car. It was all power and when I was young, man that thing could move. We’d shine it up Friday nights during the winter, take it to a track a few miles up the road. It was farmland come spring and summer, of course. But during late fall an acre or so was turned into a dirt circle. People would come from miles around. They’d bring blankets and lawn chairs, chicken and beer. We’d all sit and watch the muscle cars line up. Half of ’em dinged up, missin’ mufflers and roarin’ so loud me and Janie would cover our ears and try and read each other’s lips when we wanted to talk. Man, we loved race night. Momma would get so pretty. She’d spend all day frayin’ the edges of her cutoffs just so. And she’d do this thing with her T-shirt, where she cut the collar out, not like it had been ripped out, but cut with purpose, you know? And then she’d wear a tank top underneath, a real thin one that made her tan show through. That T-shirt would go over top, but with the collar cut out it just sort of hung off her shoulders, the way those princess ball gowns do in all the fairy tales. She was the sexiest woman there. Daddy was so proud back then. He had the coolest car, the hottest woman.

  “He won a lot, too, at first. It was good winter money for us. One night, Daddy bet big on his car. He had to win, or we wouldn’t have money for the rest of the month. But when it came time to line up the cars, his radiator sprang a bad leak. He worked hard to fix it, but the race was gettin’ close to start. The man he bet against came over. ‘Looks like you need a new radiator,’ he said. ‘Good luck findin’ one in the middle of these fields.’ Daddy ran to me. ‘Angel, you run git me an egg.’ Momma cussed big. ‘What in the hell you need an egg for? I fed you good ’fore we came. You just need to focus on fixin’ that bucket of yours ’fore you lose all our money.’ Daddy didn’t have time to fight her then. He grabbed me by the shoulders. ‘Farmhouse is over them hills. You can do it. Pretend it’s Momma’s treasure. Go git me an egg and I’ll win this race for you.’ I ran as fast as I could. Even though I knew farmhouse rules were the same everywhere. Girls like me don’t belong in ’em. But I had to git that egg. Not just ’cause Daddy sent me and nobody told Daddy no. But because of what he said when he sent me. That he’d win the race for me. I walked around the house till I saw the door that led to the kitchen. I opened it. Held my breath and waited for someone to grab me and haul me down to the police. When it didn’t happen, I took a step. Then another. Until I was standin’ in front of the fridge. I grabbed the egg and ran. Let the door slam behind me and didn’t stop runnin’ till I was back to Daddy.

  “He took that egg and then he did the funniest thing. He uncapped the radiator, cracked the egg, and poured it in. People that saw him thought he lost his mind. They pointed and laughed, and hollered out jokes at him. Momma joined in with ’em. ‘This ain’t no picnic. It’s a race!’ Daddy didn’t pay them no mind, though. He hopped in that car and he drove it with all his might. That car never so much as sputtered on him. Can you guess why?”

  The old woman shook her head.

  “The egg.” I laughed. “Daddy said that when the car heated up, it scrambled. The chunks plugged up the radiator leak. He won. And from then on folks at the track called his car the Eggmobile.”

  The old woman smiled.

  “So yeah,” I whispered, still smiling, “I guess I did laugh sometimes. Yeah, some things were funny. Like that egg.”

  “Good,” she said, staring at the floor in concentration. “Yes. I think we can work with that. Perhaps we could say your family had been grocery shopping. Your car broke down on the highway. Your father used an egg to fix it. Nothing about stealing or gambling, of course. Nothing about T-shirts with the collars ripped out.” She looked up and smiled victory. “I’m glad you have the egg memory. I’m glad that everything wasn’t always bad. Sometimes you laughed.”

  I nodded. But I knew there was a deeper truth for people like me. For people like you, too. A truth that the old woman would never admit. Would certainly never allow me to tell you. Laughter isn’t free. Neither are smiles. Sure, funny things happen. Good things occur every once in a while. But behind my smile, fear was waiting. Behind my laughter was a ready cry. Growing up, I could not escape hurt. And I knew this, I thought of it, even when I laughed.

  “Okay,” the old woman said, as she glanced at her watch. “That’s it for the day. I’ll call the nurse now. Oh, and Lily, I have something else for you. Another gift.”

  The nurse came in holding the shot that would make it all—the lies, the story, the old woman—go away. But behind her was something even more important. The old woman walked in, her hands filled with the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. A birthday cake. Eighteen candles in a perfect row. Little pink rosebuds mounded on the corners.

  “Happy birthday.” She saw the look on my face. “Did you forget?” she asked. “You forgot it was your birthday?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve never,” she whispered. “I’ve never forgotten.” She pulled a knife out of her apron and reached for the cake.

  “Don’t,” I cried. “Don’t cut it. I just wanna look at it.”

  She looked at me in surprise. I sighed. “I’ve never had one before.”

  “Very well,” the old woman said, and slipped the knife back in her apron. She nodded to the nurse, and sweet dreams soon poured into my vein. “Just think, now you’ll be able to tell your mother all about it. You’ll be able to say you have a special birthday memory. And it won’t be a lie.”

  I nodded.

  “Happy birthday, dear Lily,” she said, as she left the room. “The best is yet to come.”

  VI

  It took us a month to craft our story. Each day, and into the night, the old woman sat across from me as I rehearsed. She twisted the details. Took my truth and tied it up in little happy knots. Until she was sure the story would bring you joy. Until she was sure the story would bring you back to her, wherever you were.

  “Did you know,” she asked me at the end of the month, “you haven’t had morphine in three days? I told you the nurse was reducing your dose, but in fact I’ve had her only pretend to be giving you morphine injections. And you’ve slept. I’ve watched, I’ve made certain. Child, you are no longer an addict. You are healed.”

  I turned my face and stared at the wall.

  “Whatever it was that made you drink before, this is your chance to escape it. Embrace your new story. Embrace your new life. You know, after you visit Hannah I still have plans for you. You will stay here as Lily—good, sober, happy Lily. You can see Hannah whenever she chooses to visit. The two of you will bloom again.”

  I nodded.

  “I have to go away for a day or two. The nurse will be here to care for you. I’ve given her orders to allow you ibuprofen as needed. And a mild sedative if you can’t sleep. I also want her to increase your exercise. I want you up and walking five times a day. You need to regain your strength. You’ll be making a trip soon, and I want you looking healt
hy for it.” She stood and leaned down to hug me.

  “Where is she?” I asked. “If she died but is still alive, where is she?”

  “You’re right,” she said. “You deserve to know her story. I’ll tell you today. But first…”

  She walked and picked up the hand mirror. She gave it to me, and I held it up to my face. The bandages were gone. Pink crooked lines, shiny and smooth, were stamped across my skin.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “The scars will fade, and we’ll use a bit of makeup. Hannah will want you to be pretty. You see, I didn’t understand this when I was raising her, but Hannah is a true artist. For some reason that I’ll never understand, pretty is important to people like that. Shall we begin?”

  I sighed as I remembered the words. The beginning to my new story. It sounded like a sweet book, like one I’d steal from the library as a girl and hide out in the bacca to read. I imagined, as I rehearsed it, that I was back in school. I pretended, as I stared in her mirror and practiced happiness, that I was giving another class report. It went like this:

  My Story

  by Lily Adams

  I wish memories were like pockets. I wish I didn’t have to choose what to tell you. I wish you could reach inside me and pull out everything I’ve saved. Then I could be quiet. You would know everything, and I could just sit here with you and nod in agreement.

  But memories aren’t like pockets. And it’s up to me to show you what happened after I left your arms. To give you a piece of all the things that I saw and felt.

  I could start by telling you about the music classes Momma sent me to. I learned how to dance pretty there. How to sing old, classic songs. Or I could tell you about Christmases. About trees so grand, so beautiful, they proved that goodness was real. Goodness could sit in our front-room window.

  But the story I really want you to hear is about my birthday. The time when I turned five years old and Momma surprised me with the prettiest cake. She put a whole box of candles across the top, instead of just five, because she knew that’s how I liked it best. Pink roses covered it, because she knew my favorite color was pink. I wouldn’t let her cut it. It was too pretty. I took it to bed with me that night. Set it on my night-stand. More than any other present, all I wanted was to go to sleep staring at that cake. To close my eyes to darkness and remember the picture of something so perfect, so pretty inside my mind. That cake was like special treasure. Unlike anything a person could find in a field. Unlike anything a person could ever steal.

  Not that I would, though. I would never steal. I had no need. Momma and Daddy were rich. I wore jeans from a mail-order catalog, not the back of a candy barrel store. I wore dresses to church, too. And I learned a whole list of prayers to say there. One of them was Bless you, and sometimes when I said it, I thought of you. I thought of me, too.

  One time we all went to Gatlinburg for the day. I got to feed the black bears. I rode in this little bench that was hooked to a wire. It carried me up the side of the mountain. I went to the fudge shop. They had more kinds of fudge in there than any place in the world. Daddy bought me a slice of each one, too. On the way home, our car, a brand new Oldsmobile, sprung a leak in the radiator. Momma cried because she was worried about all the good groceries we had just stopped to buy from the fancy new grocery store. She was worried they’d spoil before the car was fixed. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” Daddy said. “I’m gonna fix this car for you. I’ll save our groceries.”

  He did the funniest thing. He took an egg from the groceries in the trunk. Popped the hood, cracked the egg, and poured it down into the radiator. We drove home no problem except for the smell of egg in the car. Daddy said it had scrambled, and the chunks had plugged the leak. We laughed the whole way home. And to this day, I can’t eat eggs without smiling.

  I bet you wonder where I grew up. It was inside a big farmhouse. We had so many rooms I could get lost if I wasn’t paying attention. But my favorite was always outside. I loved to carry lemonade out to all our helpers waiting in the hot sun. Momma always said it was good to be helpful to folks that got less.

  So here I am. I’ve come to say Thank you. And if you ever wonder why I say it, if you ever wonder why I tell you that you made the right choice, just remember this story. Remember all the sweet things. All the funny things. And then you’ll know, then you’ll understand, This is why.

  HANNAH

  I

  Hannah sat in the rocking chair, tired from a night with stronger-than-usual drugs. Legion was silent, content to watch her doze. Content to believe the drugs were working and Hannah’s mind was calm. But Hannah’s face lied. Thoughts tumbled inside her, like water off a mountain.

  She thought of Bethie, and how much she had changed since she was a girl. With her swingy hair and her bright colors. With her babies. Oh yes, Hannah had noticed it all. And she wondered, who was that pretty sister that came to see her? How did she ever do it?

  She thought about the look on Bethie’s face as the white door slammed closed. She thought about Bethie’s scream, loud enough to pierce into her room. What was it she said? Hannah’s mind cried. Why did her face pull tight with panic? Pull tight with hope?

  Hannah struggled to name Bethie’s last words. To decide if what she heard was just Bethie repeating her earlier promise. Your miracle. That could mean anything. A waterfall that makes words slippery. A mother that loves in her old age like she didn’t when she was young.

  But the thing that made Hannah scream “Bring my sister back,” the thing that kept her mind fighting through the fog of Legion’s drugs—was the possibility, the hope, that she had heard something more than Your miracle. Something different, and worthy of the panic across Bethie’s face. An extra word. The most important one. It sounded like freedom, but felt so much better.

  And maybe Bethie said it. Maybe Bethie screamed it. “She’s your miracle.”

  Hannah could never know for certain. But she knew this much from the visit, from that secret swell inside her sister’s belly, once again life had not stopped for her. People were growing, living, dying, outside her great white walls. Everything carried on, just as it always did before. Without her.

  She wished she were mud. It had been ages since she’d remembered mud. But the sight of Bethie’s colors, faded though they were, couldn’t help but remind her. She wished she were mud so she could throw herself against the wall. Break herself into pieces and try again. Make something better centered. Make something more useful and understandable. Paint a common picture. Paint herself like a plate of ordinary flowers.

  She wondered if anyone else would come. She wished she could see Mother. She’d ask her, What’s right? Even though the answers were so often lies. She wished Daniel would show up and make everything seem possible like he once had, so long ago.

  And Father—she wanted to ask him about the bridge. Bethie had obviously found it. Why couldn’t she?

  “The first rule is Believe,” he once told her. “The second is Love.”

  Oh but the Love part cut her. Shut her up inside those white walls. Drove her to madness. She looked at the empty chair in the corner of the room and felt the truth sting the roof of her mouth. She’s not there. She shook her head with disgust for herself. Disgust for Legion. She’s not there.

  She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. But inside, she stepped into the workroom of her mind. A place she had closed years ago. A place she hadn’t visited since she’d arrived at the Great White Room.

  She looked around the room. We’re all just mud, she thought.

  She saw Bethie, like a perfect vase, with her golden skin and soft smile. She was made to receive joy and beauty, to store it within. She saw Daniel, like a tray. Made for holding things up. And then she saw herself. An old, cracked plate. All this time, she thought she was the cradle. That perfect shrine to emptiness. But inside the mudroom of her mind, she saw the truth. Pain is not special. I’m not that special. I need a new center.

  II

  It was
late. Hannah should have been asleep, but she’d only pretended to swallow her drugs that evening. She lay down as the nurse left, then spit the white pills onto her white pillow. Deep into the night she turned her head toward the camera. “Legion,” she called, and waited.

  It took a moment, but soon someone answered. “How are you feeling, Hannah? Aren’t you tired?”

  “I want to speak to the woman who calls out the questions.”

  Several minutes passed until the intercom buzzed. “I heard you wanted to speak to me. Can’t sleep?”

  Hannah shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “What should I do?” Hannah asked.

  “About what?”

  “To fix this.”

  “This isn’t about fixing things. I’m here to learn about you. I love hearing your stories. About when you had me, and when you were pregnant. Would you like to tell me one of those?”

  Hannah sighed softly. She glanced back at that empty chair in the corner of the room. She stood up and walked to it. And though it pained her, she lowered herself into that chair. Even though it hurt, it wasn’t the worst thing. She knew now, finally, what the worst thing was.

  “You are not her,” Hannah whispered. She closed her eyes. She ran her hands down the edge of her chair. “You are not her. Please, I know you. You come to me, here in the room. You sit on my bed and talk about memories and focusing. Tell me what to do.”

  No one spoke for several minutes. Hannah wondered if Legion was mad. She wondered if they’d take the chair away.

  “Why now?” Dr. Vaughn asked, using her normal voice.

  Hannah searched for the right answer. It wasn’t because her eyes suddenly worked the way they were supposed to. She still knew that any moment she wanted, she could build her heart’s desire. It wasn’t because she’d finally had enough of white. Or even that she missed Bethie and couldn’t go another year without her.