Page 51 of That's Not My Name

“What’s on the TV agenda tonight?” Wayne asks a few minuteslater, setting a black ceramic mug on the coffee table. Wisps of chocolate-scented steam remind me of the hot chocolate at the precinct, with a wave of relief. Hot chocolate is safe to drink, and he didn’t add marshmallows. “Something more interesting than last time, I hope?”

His expression is open and happy, and I tell myself this is becauseheis open and happy. “What do you mean? I thought that one about the lady who wins the bed-and-breakfast in New Zealand was fun. Especially the goat.”

He laughs and sits in the rocking chair by his bedroom. “The goat was theonlygood part of that movie.”

“Agree to disagree.”

I hit the down arrow, skimming movie descriptions, and linger on the classics section. The covers for most of these movies are in black and white, with the occasional rom-com from the eighties or nineties. Vague hints of plot sift through my mind at a couple of them, and I can almost remember what happens at the end of a few, which is fractionally comforting.

Ever Afterpops up and a tingle of emotion rolls through me. Happiness? Nostalgia?

I turn in my seat. “Have I seen this one before?”

Wayne leans forward and squints at the screen. “Is that the Cinderella one? With the butterfly wings and the books?”

“I think so?” I click on the summary and we read it.

He smiles. “That was one of your mother’s favorites.”

That explains the emotion, I guess. “I think I remember this.”

“It won’t be long now. You’ll remember it all.”

“Can’t come soon enough.” I press play. This movie feels like the kind of comfort I’m desperate for today.

The room darkens around us as the movie plays. The poor girl onthe screen shifts from a child to a mistreated adult who has killer aim with an apple, and I’m lost in it. I start mouthing every single word, and by the halfway point, tears sting my eyes because this finally feels like me. I know this. This movie belongs—in some small part—to me.

I don’t realize I’m openly crying until I get to the end. The music swells, the girl on the screen is crying too, and suddenly I’m not onthiscouch anymore. I’m in the middle of a big red sofa with about ten fluffy blankets on my lap, a giant bowl of buttery popcorn wedged between me and someone else. The room is dark except for the light cast from a TV on an antique stand.Ever Afterplays on the screen. A woman with long dark hair sits beside me, shaking a familiar fist at the prince as he turns his back on the girl he loves. The woman with the dark hair yells, “I hate this part!”

It doesn’t sound like she hates it at all.

I look over at her and say, “You’ve seen this ten thousand times, how can you still get so mad at this movie?”

“I’ll stop being mad when he stops making her cry. Drew Barrymore is a gem.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

She throws popcorn at me. I throw some back and she looks at me with all the outrage of a kitten. “You’re a brat, you know? Quit making a mess or you’ll have to clean the whole couch.”

“You started it!”

“Lies.”

And it’s done. I’m back on the couch in the cabin. I clutch at the arm of the sofa so hard my fingernails dig into the stuffing. That was definitely a memory. And Iknowknow her.

I can see her facesoclearly now. The warm eyes, freckles across her nose, hair up in a bun for the third day in a row. I can hear hervoice in hundreds of conversations about school and boys and friends. Yelling at me for sneaking out of the house. Picking me up at the pool. Hiding the cold brew from me so I don’t vibrate right out of U.S. history. Reminding me about dentist appointments and teaching me to drive—squealing that I’m too close to the curb.

Everything, all wrapped up inher.

Now the tears are really falling. I sit there, dissecting every sliver of her face for so long, I don’t realize the movie’s over until Wayne clears his throat.

“You okay?” he asks, turning on the lamp beside the rocking chair. It bathes the room in warm light. He comes to sit next to me. “What happened? Did the movie upset you?”

I put the remote on the arm of the couch so I can wipe the tears from my face, but I can’t get the words out. “No…I think…I might rememberMom.”

His whole body stills. “You do?”

I nod, and heave in a bone-rattling breath. Is it all finally coming back to me?

---