Page 56 of Remember Me

You

will always be

the rest of

me.”

My fingers traced the words on the page. They resonated. They lingered. They transcended.

“That’s Tyler Knott Gregson. He was — is — your favorite poet. You put a lot of his stuff on your signs.” Hayes was standing beside me, reading the words as I did, with a kind of quiet appreciation. I didn’t reply, lost in the utter perfection of those words for me right at this moment. I needed more.

I sensed Hayes turn to leave and pulled my attention away from the little book. “No, stay! This is exactly what I needed.”

There was an armchair in the corner of the room and Hayes sank down into it, his large frame swallowing its dainty contours wholly. “Are you happy, Birdie?”

I closed the book and set it aside. “Why would you ask that?”

He watched me with his hooded, too-observant eyes. “You snuck out of our bed yesterday. I feel like you’re constantly running — but to what? Is there something more you want, something I’m not giving you?”

“No.” He waited, while I dug for something that makes sense. “I’m happy. I promise. And it’s not you. I have so much, even without the memories. I have a handsome man who loves me.” I smile at him wistfully and am rewarded when his lips quirk. “I have a baby on the way. A house that feels like home — even if I don’t remember picking it. I feel…” I stopped and bit my lip, knowing my next thought might be difficult for him to understand. “I feel blessed, if not exactly whole.”

His hands, resting on his knees, tightened a fraction before relaxing. I expected him to comment on my statement, but instead he asked another question. “What, besides your memory, do you think would help you feel whole?”

I stared into middle distance, thinking. Instead of a direct answer, I offered him a question of my own. “Who are we, when everything that formed, and shaped, and defined us, is gone? What remains?” I’d meant the question to be musing, thought provoking. Instead, longing and frustration crept unbidden into my words.

“You have your essence, still. Your soul, spirit, whatever you want to call it,” Hayes replied. His confidence in his belief was plain. And yet…

“Do I? Is the soul something distinct from nurture? I don’t think so. Not entirely, anyway. I think nurture — or those defining circumstances — are what makes us who we are.” Warming to my topic, I sat in the desk chair. “Think about all the research on sociopaths and serial killers. What makes them do the things they do? Most profiles identify specific instances or circumstances in childhood, particularly early childhood. If you took those experiences away, maybe replaced them altogether with a different experience, who is the person that remains? Is he still a sociopath? I don’t think it likely.”

“To an extent. There’s actually a great deal of research on nature versus nurture in psychopathy. The consensus is that it’s both.”

“So, the genetics that influence my soul remain, even if the experiences don’t?”

Hayes shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know. All I know is that you’re still you, even if you don’t feel like it. Why or how that is…I can’t explain that.”

I was silent, considering his statement. “All right. I’ll take your word for that,” I finally responded. “And I guess, to answer your original question — I am happy. I promise. I think I just need time to feel whole. Time to settle into who I am. Because, you know. I’m kind of just meeting me.”

Hayes nodded. “Fair enough.” Standing, he cupped the back of my neck and leaned down for a quick, hard kiss. “In the meantime, no more sneaking out of the bed when you feel overwhelmed. We talk, instead.”

I nodded. “Deal.”

“Part those sheets

like holy waters

and I

will worship your skin

like a born-again

believer.”

Tyler Knott Gregson

April¦Birdie-Before

IWAS LEAVING IN A FEW MINUTES TO MAKE THE SHORT WALK FROM MY DORM TO THE BASEBALL HOUSE, WHERE HE’D PROMISED ME CHEF SERVICE AND A COZY EVENING.He’d never cooked for me before but claimed to be an expert at all things Mexican.

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