Page 61 of That's Not My Name

As I say the words, the kitchen gets darker. Clouded. Plunged into grayscale.

The cake curls in on itself, molding, sprouting little black mushrooms and decay that spreads across the counter. It touches her hands, turning her skin to mold. She smiles, and her eyes sink back into her head.

“Where are you, baby girl?”

I scream and her head splits open, peeling away like a costume to reveal Wayne.

Staring.

Always staring.

I sit straight up in bed, gasping for air. My fists tangle in my comforter, and I almost rip the fabric, exposing the feathers. No matter how tightly I shut my eyes, she’s still there. The woman from my dream.

I see her mixed into countless memories. Yelling at me for breaking curfew. Cheering at my softball games. Doing my hair for homecoming. Fighting with me about driving, or the two phones I lost in the same month. Trashing the kitchen and filling the house with the smell of burning butter and chicken before ordering Thai that we eat on the living room floor. I see my whole life with her, blurry at the edges as it connects with other people and places I can’t quite reach yet, butsheis clear as day. And the sight of her, so perfectly clear in my mind, brings tears to my eyes. Fat, hot tears that feel like they’re coming from the deepest reaches of me.

Painful, persistent tears that are half grief, half fear. Because I now know two exceedingly significant things.

My mother is not dead.

And Wayne lied to me.

Why would he tell me she’s dead if she’s not? Who is the blonde from Wayne’s photo? Why would he tell me she’s my mother when he knows she isn’t? I think of the joy on his face when I pretended to remember her. I told him I remembered alie, and he reacted withjoy. Why? Why does he want me to misremember my life?

And maybe the most concerning question of all: If he’s lying about my mom, what else is he lying about?

I picture the assembly from my dream. Am I really homeschooled? Was that a freshman memory, and I simply imagined myself on the wrong side of the gym? Or am I actually an in-person high school senior, and Wayne doesn’t want me to know?

Again, why would it matter if I went to public school or not?

A lightning bolt of an idea makes me stare wide-eyed at the Don’t Worry poster. What if this is a custody situation? No other parent, homeschooled, renovations that require us to stay in the middle of nowhere—all of these details keep me away from other people. Did Wayne lose a court battle and…take me? Did he take me away from my mom?

And how the fuck does any of this relate to me waking up in a ditch? To losing my memory?

All the bad feelings from the last four-and-a-half days are like living breathing monsters, looming over me, whispering, “I told you so” and “you should have listened.” A throbbing pain pulses through my temples. I don’t know if it’s from the tears or the panic or the adrenaline, but it hurts.

I sit up, swiping tears from my face, and force air in and out of my lungs. I fight against the panic, so I can sort this out. I need to focus on the facts. I start with the easiest one.

Fact: Wayne lied about my mom.

There’s no sugarcoating it, no way around it. He straight-up lied. She’s a nurse. He said she was a stay-at-home mom. Wrong career to go with the wrong face. He told me she was dead, and I can feel it in my bones that this isn’t true. So why did he lie? So I wouldn’t ask to see her?

Fact: He forgot about my strawberry allergy.

Simple mistake, except when I add in that he’s also forgotten what his own wife looks like, which throws everything he’s said into question. Is he a distant dad? Has he been out of the picture for a while? Did he snatch me to punish her and didn’t know I’d developed an allergy in the interim?

Fact: He said I was a homeschooled homebody who hates leaving the house.

I think I’m an athlete. Not only that, I think I’m a damn competitive athlete who thrives on attention. I’m a lover of pep rallies and school spirit. The gaps in my memory are filling with school, friends, laughter, and fun. Not Netflix on the couch and classes at the kitchen table. Is homeschooling a cover for why I can’t go back to a real school? So my mom can’t find me?

Fact: He has documented proof of who I am.

He had my birth certificate. My Social Security card. My old ID. Photos from when I was little all the way to now. Losing custody might explain why all the photos of him and I together seem to be older, while the newer ones are just of me. But the rest holds up.

I drop my head to my hands. I’m guessing, and none of it is getting me closer to any real answers. Other images come to mind too. Wayne’s panicked expression in the police station. The clean clothes on the back of the bathroom door that first night. The massive bag of first aid supplies he bought to make sure I had everything I needed to recover.The patient way he let me shop, and the smile on his face as he ordered me that cinnamon roll. The teasing about my movie choices. Bringing me blankets. Running full speed to the pharmacy when he saw I was having another reaction. The love in his eyes every time he assured me that I’d get my memory back.

He hasn’t raised his voice to me. Not once. In fact, he’s been downright gentle, and he’s given me every single thing I’ve asked for and then some. He’s gone out of his way to make sure I’m comfortable. Worried too much at times, but worried nonetheless. Like a parent who cares.

I can’t make the attentive father of the last few days fit with the kind of man who would kidnap me and pump my head full of lies. Good people don’t kidnap teenagers—not even their own kids. Sowhatis going on?

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