Forget Me Not: Chapters 6–14

"Stevie, you’ve suffered a cranial fracture and significant bruising to the brain.”

However, we did perform a ventriculostomy, which is a big word for saying that we inserted a temporary catheter into your skull to drain some of the fluid buildup and relieve some of the pressure on your brain.

You’ll find a very small incision on your scalp, but the stitches should dissolve in about two weeks.

She continues, “Unfortunately, with these injuries, we sometimes see cognitive effects in the form of retrograde amnesia, which is the loss of ability to recall events that happened prior to the onset of injury, like you seem to be experiencing now. Sometimes these memories can come back in the days or weeks following the injury, but I do want you to know that it is also possible the memory loss could be permanent.”

I hold my breath and reach my hand up to search for the tangible evidence that this is all real.

Bile rises in the back of my throat.

“Okay, well, don’t give up hope. Like I said, it could just take some time. These things manifest differently in each individual, but it never hurts to ask questions or talk about things. You never know what might trigger a memory.”

I close my eyes and raise my chin to the sun, so warm against my skin. It should be comforting, a natural boost in serotonin, but instead it unsettles me, because it feels to me that just yesterday we had snow, half a foot deep, icicles hanging from the roof on the other side of my classroom windows.

“Bower?” I ask again, incredulous.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, and the question elicits a sad sort of smile.

I turn my back to the mirror before I get too weirded out and make my way over to the closet, pulling the handle to reveal a line of hanging T-shirts, both plain and graphic in mostly muted tones. The girly tank tops and bright colors I remember are nowhere in sight.

I get dressed, picking out some blue jean shorts and a faded yellow T-shirt with a bundle of wildflowers embroidered onto the chest pocket.

Dr. Reicher went over my recovery and upcoming appointments pretty thoroughly, but I know I should probably read it for myself.

I step forward and pluck the carabiner with a car key attached off my desk.

“You really think Mrs. O’Doyle could keep a leadership position after that? You know how the congregation can be, Stevie.”
“Judgmental?” I ask.
“Straitlaced,” she corrects, looking away from me.

“Anyway, Mrs. O’Doyle technically stepped down of her own volition.”

I watch her for a minute, waiting for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t.

Mrs. Martin looks skeptically between the bag and my mom.

“Why is it you’ve brought my daughter a sandwich?” she says with a suspicious drawl.

“It’s okay, Mom.” I pat her leg, stifling another laugh.

“It’ll be okay,” she says unconvincingly. Normally she’d know exactly what to say, a plausible solution to make me feel a bit better, but instead she’s chosen the most generic statement on earth.

I always thought her curls were so beautiful, so her. They were an entity entirely on their own.

I flick my eyes to the hospital bills that my mom has tactfully hidden behind a fruit basket on the counter.

The three of us would huddle together in his tiny back office, before he would take me through the garage to show me all the cars he was working on at the time. I was never particularly interested in how to replace brake pads, but it was always nice to see him in his element, wanting to teach me a thing or two.

I have no idea why I call him that since he’s not really my uncle, but immediately the sound of the ratchet stops and he rolls into view on a mechanic’s creeper.

“Glad you’re not like these other yahoo kids who think they deserve everything fed to them on a silver spoon.”

But even with the TV turned off now, things just…aren’t feeling right between us, like we’re operating on different wavelengths.

I care that my own dad and I can’t even manage to hold a conversation now and I have no recollection of why. No memory of what has changed about me or him, or between the two of us.

Kendra, my manager, appears out of the back during a lull.

“What is going on here?” Kendra’s voice booms from the back doorway, hands planted on her hips. She’s not accusatory, I think she’s more just genuinely shocked to see her shop in such disarray.

Short, dirty-blond hair and freckles under piercing hazel eyes that take me right back to the hospital.

“Easygoing? Tenderhearted? Charismatic?”

“Wait, don’t you want a drink?”
“I think your concoction just about did me in. I’m glad you’re okay, Stevie,” she says over her shoulder, then walks quickly around the front of the building.

“Well, clearly he’s just as timid as you are about expressing his feelings, so you’re going to have to step up if you want this to happen,” she replies bluntly.

“What are you going to wear? Ryan strikes me as the type of guy to like something a little more casual, you know?”