Page 8 of Remember Me

I moved slowly, taking the time to study their features one at a time, hoping for some flare of recognition to surface, or a memory. I recognized Dad. The dog, Lucky, in a photo of twelve-year-old me hugging him. But most may as well have been the flimsy paper photos that come with the frames for all of the familiarity they evoked.I guessed that meant I hadn’t seen these people very often. I’d have to get Mom to tell me who my family was.

With one last glance at the picture of my father, I continued into my bedroom.

Here, I felt at ease. While I was still struggling to process that I’d awakened in a hospital bed several days ago with amnesia, I had this room. It was a testament to the fact that I existed, that I’d had a life at one time, that I was loved. One wall was covered in scraps of paper with poems and quotations, photographs of more people I didn’t remember, medals and certificates for everything from sportsmanship to perfect attendance, all of the memorabilia of my teenage years on display. A soft, faded quilt made of tee shirts was on my bed, logos of track meets and vacation spots nudging at my ability to recall.

There were little clues everywhere, hints of the person I’d been before the accident had wiped that person clean away.

I stretched out on top of the quilt and clicked off the lamp beside the bed. Hands folded across my belly, I stared up at the dark ceiling and released my breath in a sigh.

The accident.

It was shrouded in the same blankness as every other essential bit of information. I had been told it was a car accident, that I’d hydroplaned on a wet, twisty road and careened into a tree. I’d been driving fast, though, a fact which I cringed away from, feeling instinctively that it was out of character.

My fingers moved reflexively on my stomach. A baby. Had I even known? He said it was early days yet, maybe five weeks.

I couldn’t tell someone my phone number, but I was going to have a baby. Unbidden, the lines of a song pop into my head.

Every little thing gonna be alright.

Singing don’t worry, don’t worry bout a thing...

Marley. I liked Bob Marley. I couldn’t be all bad if I liked Marley, right? A smile bloomed on my face and I closed my eyes. I had remembered something.

Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow I would call him, and I would talk to the one person who could tell me what the hell had happened. Until then I would sleep, the lilting melody in my mind singing me to slumber.

“I love you,

in ways

you’ve never been

loved,

for reasons you’ve never been

told.”

Tyler Knott Gregson

November 16¦Hayes

IROSE EARLY TO MAKE THE HALF-HOUR DRIVE FROM THE FARM TOBIRDIE’S MOM’S HOUSE.We’d picked this place together just two months ago for our first and hopefully forever home, a fixer-upper that was just far enough away from everything to be private, but close enough to suit our need for convenience.

Just out of Tennessee’s grad program last May, and working on my doctorate, I’d lucked out with an adjunct professorship that paid decently and provided the basis of hope for my career. This kind of position wasn’t tenured, but it also wasn’t easy to come by, and I’d snagged one before even completing my doctorate. It was a good sign.

Of course, I had little doubt that the biggest reason I’d gotten the position was because I’d also agreed to serve as the university’s pitching coach.

I hadn’t wasted any time proposing to Birdie. We’d known each other since January, but I’d never understood until now, how sometimes you just knew. Birdie was my lightning strike, as my parents would say. I knew it the moment I saw her.

Now I gritted my molars as I crunched down the gravel driveway, wondering if everything we’d planned for would ever come to be. Fate was throwing some fickle freaking curveballs our way.

I was still having trouble figuring out how it had all gone to hell so swiftly. One minute Birdie had been leaving paint and wallpaper swatches scattered in every room for me to help her choose; the next, she’d been in a medically induced coma for four days in nearby Knoxville’s trauma center.

Now, she was Birdie but not. She had watched me with wary eyes when I stayed with her in the hospital, trusting I was who her mother had told her but with half-hearted conviction. I could tell she understood the theory of being mine but repelled the truth in action. Until she reclaimed her memories, she belonged to no one but herself.

Which is why I was headed toward her mom’s house now with a bag of her personal items in the backseat of my truck. Her laptop, her shea butter lotion and vitamin E night cream. Her favorite fuzzy crocs and the book she’d left on the nightstand. Packing them up for her had been a Herculean task, sapping every molecule of strength I had. It felt final, like I was giving up.

I was doing anything but.