Forget Me Now

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

“It’s okay, Mimi. It’s okay.” Dad is running his hand over my hair, and I can’t remember the last time we’ve had any sort of physical contact like this. Usually it’s a half-second hug before bed. If he’s even home by the time I turn in for the night. I used to like to kiss the scratch of his cheek, but that was when I was younger. I can’t remember the last time I kissed him.

Can’t remember …

“What was I doing in the hospital?” I’m trying not to get hysterical, but I feel the panic welling up inside me. It’s like I’ve lost something but can’t even remember what it was so I can properly mourn.

“You had an accident, baby.” I hear the strain in his voice, the tension, and yet the words come out so rehearsed. Have I heard them before? “You lost some of your memory.”

I’m crying. Sniffling. Trying hard not to sob. Wiping snot on the sleeves of my pajamas. I don’t understand. This isn’t funny, Dad. That’s what I want to tell him. This isn’t funny, and I want to talk to Mom.

Now.

He points to the picture in the hot-pink album. “This was taken the day after graduation.”

I shake my head, forgetting that each time I move my brain feels like it’s getting slammed into ice picks the size of dinosaur claws. “That’s next week.” I’m desperate to make him understand. Make myself understand. “Graduation is next week,” I repeat. “Today’s the class trip. Chris is supposed to be here …”

And then I hear it. A sound I’ve never heard from my dad in the eighteen years I’ve been alive. A pained, tortured, tormented sob. “There was an accident,” he repeats. “Mimi, I’m so sorry.”

I can’t take my eyes off the photo. I remember my friends. I know all their names, how long we’ve known each other. I haven’t lost all of my memory. So why don’t I recognize the hospital room?

Dad’s trying hard to keep his composure. I might be mistaken, but I think I feel his body tremble once from the effort. “You were in the hospital for a week.”

“I don’t remember any of that,” I whisper, wishing my dad was lying, wishing he possessed the kind of sick and twisted sense of humor it would take to prank someone in such a grotesque way. But I know my dad. And I know he’s telling me the truth.

An accident? Took my memory? Why do I remember my own name? Why do I remember my room? Why do I remember that I was supposed to go on my senior class trip today?

“I need to call Chris,” I tell him, and immediately I realize I’ve once again said the wrong thing. The thing that makes Dad grimace, that makes the raw pain even more evident in his expression.

“You can’t,” he croaks. I’ve never heard him talk like this.

I wonder if someone my age can die of panic. My heart is racing so fast it’s making me even dizzier. I force each gulp of air in deliberately, fearing that if I stop, I’ll forget to breathe entirely.

“What do you mean I can’t?” Why is Dad telling me this? He may not be Chris’s biggest fan in the world, but he knows how much my boyfriend means to me. Knows how much I’d need to talk to him at a time like this. Need to hear his voice.

I have to know what happened. I know Dad’s probably worried about giving me too many details too fast and making me feel overwhelmed, but there’s no way to feel any more confused than I already do. The only thing that’s going to help me now is answers.

Lots of them.

“Tell me what happened,” I beg. My voice is whiny. I can’t mask my terror.

“I think you should get dressed. I’ll make you breakfast.” What’s Dad talking about? Does he seriously think I’d be worrying about my wardrobe or my appetite right now? At the mention of food, my stomach sloshes with nausea. I wonder how fast I can race to my bathroom in my condition if I have to throw up.

“I need to call Chris,” I tell him again, glancing around the room, desperate to locate my phone. Tears streak down my cheeks. I can hardly breathe. Is this what it feels like when your body goes into shock? Is the strain going to give me a heart attack? “Where’s my phone?”

Dad turns his face away. I can’t see his expression. Have no idea what he’s thinking, what he’s going to say next. A terrible question grips me. What if we’ve done this before? What if we’ve had this exact same conversation in the past, only I can’t remember it?

I touch Dad’s arm. We’re not used to being physical with each other. Not in years. But he has to understand what I’m going through. Has to realize that it’s the uncertainty that’s going to kill me, not the truth itself.

“Please,” I repeat, barely able to raise my voice beyond a whisper. “Please tell me what happened. I need to know everything.”