Page 7 of Remember Me

I couldn’t reply.

The doctor murmured something and left the room, and Hayes came to sit on the edge of my bed. “God, Birdie. A baby?”

I burst into tears. It was too much. “I-I’m a virgin! I c-can’t be p-pregnant!”

Without hesitation, Hayes scooped me up into his lap, turning and resituating us on the bed. “Well, you were a virgin. Until several months ago. Before graduation, to be exact.”

I cried harder, my head beginning to pound. How could I not remember losing my virginity? From the time I knew what sex was, I’d been saving it for someone special.

“It’s going to be okay, Birdie. I know it’s scary, but I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I d-don’t even know if I wanted kids.”

“You did. A house full of them. We both did. Granted, this is a little sooner than we anticipated, but we can adjust.”

Mom poured herself a glass of milk and sat down across from me at the table and the memory drifted away like morning fog. “You always did like your nighttime snack,” she mused. “I guess some kind of memory drew you in here.”

“I don’t think so. I was hungry.”

Her face tightened. It was infinitesimal, and if I hadn’t been looking closely at her, I’d have missed it.

Standing, I carried my dishes to the sink. Behind me, her manicured nails tapped on her glass.

I was rinsing my dishes when the nausea hit. I stilled as I felt that crawly sensation creeping over my skin, trying to will it away. I hated puking more than anything. Give me a head cold or bronchitis for a month, but I could do without the vomiting.

It came, anyway. I leaned over the sink, water running, and retched. I emptied the contents of my stomach until my eyes streamed and my nose burned. When I finished, Mom led me to the table and pressed a cool washrag into my hand and set a glass of fizzing ginger ale down in front of me. Quickly and efficiently, she rinsed and sanitized the sink.

“Thanks,” I said, only a bit grudgingly. Maybe she’d changed during the years I couldn’t remember. Maybe me being pregnant had raised her dormant maternal instincts.

“This too shall pass,” she murmured in an uncharacteristic show of compassion as I sat and sipped. “I was sick with you a good six months. And none of that morning crap, either. I was sick twenty-four-seven.”

Please, no.I wanted to lower my head to the table and cry, but I’d learned that position tended to exacerbate the nausea. I contented myself with a groan.

“God, Mom. What am I going to do?”

She turned and leaned against the sink. “Right now, you’re going to go to bed and get some rest.”

“You know that’s not what I mean. I’m having a baby.” I pressed my hands to my stomach, still flat and giving no suggestion of the secret it concealed. “And I don’t remember the father. I don’t remember conceiving this baby, or anything that came before. How am I supposed to —”

“You stop stressing about it, that’s what you do. Hayes is the daddy. Don’t doubt that.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Don’t sass me, Birdie Mae. You may be a grown woman, but I’m still your Mom.”

“Sorry, Mom.” My reply was automatic, as if it was a common exchange for the two of us. Part of me rejoiced that some small part of my brain still held those memories.

After a moment she continued. “So, you’re going to take each day as it comes. Trust your gut when it comes to things and people you don’t remember. And concentrate on giving that baby a peaceful spot to grow for these next few months.”

Ever practical, my mother.

Mom walked behind me and squeezed my shoulder. “Get to bed now. I’ll put some saltines on your dresser. When you wake up tomorrow, do not move until you eat a few of them to settle your tummy.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

She left the kitchen and the sounds of her slippered feet retreated down the hall.

Tired all at once, I rose and left the kitchen, making my way with ease into the foyer and then up the stairs toward my room. I could walk through this house blindfolded and never stub my toe. Despite that awareness, most of the people in the photos that lined the wall on one side of the steps were strangers to me.

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