More Happy Than Not (31 page)

“Are you following, Aaron?” Evangeline asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “You think that's what's happening to me? That I'm not remembering stuff that's going on now?”

“Can you recall any other issues with your memories recently?” she presses.

“You're asking me to remember something I probably forgot?”

“Yes. Something that may have confused you since your attack, but stuck out to you like earlier tonight?”

Thinking is hard. No, remembering is hard. I'm proud of myself when I remember how odd it felt when I couldn't remember drinking my first cup of coffee at the diner with Collin, and how Genevieve told me I was repeating myself at Leteo. I only told her Thomas didn't like her once—or I thought I only said it once. And when I blanked out at Good Food's. Who knows what else?

“Yes,” I answer, my heart pounding. “I can remember forgetting stuff.” I just can't remember what I'm forgetting. “I feel like I should be crying or having a panic attack.”

My mother buries her face in her hands, racked with silent sobs. Evangeline takes a deep breath before telling me, “You already did.”

“What does this mean? How do you fix me? Another procedure?”

She sounds like a robot when she speaks. There are a bunch of options, though nothing sounds promising. The condition is still a mystery even to top neurologists because no one's locked down the exact science of storing memories. She says something about neurons and synapses and medial temporal lobes and the hippocampus, and even though it's all doctor-speak, I do my best committing it to memory because I can already feel the words slipping away. The treatments used for those suffering from anterograde amnesia aren't all that different from
the ones used for Alzheimer's patients. Medication can enhance the
cholinergic brain functions. Psychotherapy is not necessary; this is about brain function. Probably for the best, because I would punch someone if they tried using hypnosis on me; the last thing I need is someone else playing with my mind.

What I want to forget is when she says, “Unfortunately, in some cases it's irreversible.”

I can't help but notice she sounds tired, and not because it's in the middle of the night or because she's bored, but possibly because she's exhausted of repeating herself in the event she's told me this several times already.

“Has this happened to any of your patients before?”

Evangeline nods. “Yes.”

“So? What happened?”

She meets my gaze. “The amnesia takes hold quickly, sometimes within a few days.”

“So I have less than a fucking week?” No one scolds me for my language.

“Maybe more,” Evangeline says in that clinical and robotic tone.

My heart pounds harder and I'm scared I'm forgetting how to breathe, a basic instinct. I feel like I'll faint, and then I'll probably forget how to wake up. “What the hell will my life look like?”

“Challenging, but not impossible. This was all in the literature, Aaron. For the most part, you might be limited to the knowledge you had before the procedure. I know of a musician who writes his own songs and forgets them soon after, but he still plays guitar beautifully because it's a skill he learned before the trauma he wished to erase.”

I understand what she's saying. Before. Before is all I will have left, and Before destroyed me before.

“Why bother living?”

I'm thinking out loud and my mom cries harder. Shitty of me because the smiling scar on my wrist speaks for itself, but right now, like Before: dying seems easiest.

Evangeline leans toward me. “You have so much to live for,” she whispers.

“Like what?” I ask, and either she told me and I already forgot or she has nothing convincing to say. This is going to be a long night. Well, a long night for them anyway. It'll fly by for me.

“What's anterograde amnesia?” I ask Evangeline at 4:21
a.m.

13

ONLY YESTERDAYS

I
sort of, kind of, definitely always took yesterdays for granted—and now yesterdays are all I have left. Some of them, at least.

Yesterday.

A lot of people will remember a hug with a friend, but will have forgotten what time they woke up and ate for lunch. Others will share the crazy dreams they had last night, but the clothes they wore or books they read on the subway will slip away. And some will keep their stories to themselves, a secret left in the past only they can revisit.

I will do none of those things.

Tomorrow I might not remember hugging anyone, if there's anyone even left to hug. I won't know what I ate for lunch and will only know if I ate at all depending on whether or not my stomach is growling. What time I wake up won't matter because I'll always be waking up. And I'll probably wear the same shirt and pants over and over while endlessly recommending
Scorpius Hawthorne
because new words will have zero weight in my head.

The only way I can see myself getting through this is by saying goodbye. Even if I never change, everything and everyone around me will. No one's going to hang with the guy who doesn't know what day it is or can't keep up with their lives. I'll always be lost and lonely or surrounded by strangers constantly repeating themselves.

Lose-lose.

When I try the
door; the chain is on. We never used to use it. We weren't even using it in case any of my friends tried breaking in to finish the job Me-Crazy started. This can only mean that they're locking me in so I don't get lost outside.

I feel sick but they're right; I could forget where I am in the middle of a street or even in the middle of the air after a car sends me flying. On the other hand, I can't just wait here while my mind withers away. I quickly unchain the door, but Eric is fast and catches me before I can run out.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demands, holding my arm tight.

“I have shit to do.”

Mom appears from her room, but stays silent.

“What's that?” Eric asks.

“Something I need to do for myself.”

“That's not a surprise—” He stops himself and takes a deep breath. “I'm going to shut up and be a good brother and not talk to you until I'm sure you won't remember.”

Low blow. “Fuck you. Say it now and don't hide behind my amnesia. You owe me that.”

“Okay. I'm game,” Eric says, his grip on my arm tightening, his eyes ablaze. “You're selfish, Aaron. You used a cheat code to make life easier without thinking about how it would affect us. We've had to watch you walk around like a zombie. You did this to yourself, okay?”

I stare back at him. “Maybe I wouldn't have raced to forget myself if you made me feel more comfortable with who I am instead of giving me shit for choosing girl characters in video games.”

“I never gave a flying fuck about any of that. They were just jokes. I thought you were tough enough to handle them. I'm sorry!” His words, his
apology
, take us all back, himself included. The last time I saw him this red was when we told him what happened to our father. So it's no surprise he adds: “You stopped being your own man to please someone who abandoned us.”

“He committed suicide because of
me
. Not you.”

“Baby, he didn't kill himself because of you,” Mom finally jumps in. “Your father had it rough and—”

“Stop it! When he was arrested, I thought we were finally safe from him. And then he came home and
. . .
” I'm crying, but I'm happy that I can remember when the tears started falling: it was when I admitted his absence was a good thing.

That shuts them up.

Shuts me up too because I now understand why they threw away all his stuff. They always knew better.

“You messed up,” Eric says. But his voice softens, and there's something different in his eyes. It's sympathy. He turns to Mom, rapping his knuckles against the wall with his free hand, his other hand still gripping me. Our father rapped his knuckles against the wall like that once when he was pissed we wouldn't go downstairs to get him a slice of pizza from Yolanda's. Then he punched a hole in it. I feel something like hope, just because of the fact I remembered. “You should've never signed off on that procedure,” he says to Mom.

Mom looks back and forth between us, like she's just been outed for a crime. “I was trying to save your brother—”

“No,” Eric snaps. “This is about you and losing control of your family. You treated Aaron like he would've been helpless without this procedure and look where that's landed him!”

I wrench myself free of Eric's grasp. Maybe he has cracked. Maybe he had some things he wanted to forget too. Maybe he wasn't quite right in the head either after our father committed suicide in the same bathtub where he bathed us.

In this moment, I know Eric is not going to grow up to be like our father. He loves us. He should've been paid the same attention from not only our mom, but from me, too. I never asked him how he was doing.

Mom catches herself in the grimy hallway mirror. Maybe she's really seeing herself now. She's lost so much weight these past few months, maybe twenty or thirty pounds. Eric leans back against the wall and slides down, “This isn't about me being jealous of you, Aaron. Maybe I am a little bit. But I agree that we're better off without him.”

I'm tempted to reach down and take his hand, but I don't.

He looks up at me.

“Remember when we had trouble beating the last few levels of Zelda? We pooled our allowances and bought the walk-through guide to help us out.” He softly adds, “You should've asked for help before cheating.”

Sometimes pain is so unmanageable that the idea of spending another day with it seems impossible. Other times pain acts as a compass to help you get through the messier tunnels of growing up. But the pain can only help you find happiness if you can remember it.

“Do we still have anything that belonged to Dad?” I ask. And then the box is in my hand. It's not even half full, just a couple of old sweaters and track sneakers. Eric opens the door for me without a fight, and he and Mom both follow me to the garbage chute down the hall. I cling to every detail. This will make for a memory. And despite everything, I can't help but hesitate when I think back to the days where my father wasn't a monster. Then I turn the box over and everything thumps down the chute until it's quiet.

In school I once
read about gypsies and how they grieved for loved ones by covering all the mirrors in their caravan for as long as they needed. Sometimes days, sometimes weeks, sometimes months, and in rare cases, years. As of now, we're done covering the mirrors. Together we've searched the apartment for any last scrap of him we don't want.

Eric puts on his sneakers after we get back inside the apartment. Without looking at me, he says, “If it's worth anything to you, I'm sorry for everything I ever said.” I want to thank him for swallowing his pride, but he quickly adds, “So where are we going?”

“What?”

“You said you have shit to do, right? Mom's not going to let you go alone.”

I don't remember saying that, but I do have shit to do. I have four people to see, four goodbyes to make. I keep my head low and let my brother follow me out so I can strike names off this bucket list of mine.