The Memory Thief (36 page)

I tried again. And again. And then again.

“No, no,
no
,” she said with frustration. “Hannah is so smart…. If we were dealing with Bethie, things would be different. But if you
don’t look believable, if you don’t look grateful, Hannah will never buy it. Try again. We’ll go all night if we must.”

I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes and thought only of the bacca. I didn’t think about the rest of it, about all the things
that happened to me, all the things I saw and felt, after you gave me away. I didn’t think about Black Snake trailer. Momma’s
couch. Daddy’s sweet tooth. Or even Janie. I just thought about the bacca. And pretended that was it. That was all that waited
for me on the day I was born.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “I found real goodness after you gave me away.”

The old woman clasped her hands to her chest, nodded, and smiled. She had me repeat it, over and over. Her effort to stamp
the words in black-and-white letters behind the lids of my eyes.

“It’s perfect,” she said. “What an excellent beginning. Now we must create a history to prove such goodness.”

“History?” I asked.

She nodded. “The details of your life. About your wonderful parents, your older sister that was always your best friend. About
family vacations, childhood Christmases, family pets. The day your parents threw you a surprise birthday party. About all
the funny times that still make you laugh.”

She was pacing the room, talking loudly, her hands waving as she yelled out new ideas. She looked up at me and smiled. “Don’t
look so worried. The challenging part will be introducing yourself and explaining why you’re there. But you’ve got that down
pat.” She threw her hands up in the air and nodded quickly. “I have an idea,” she said. “
Maybe
we can use a bit of your own stories after all.”

“My own stories?” I whispered, shaking my head.

“Yes. The good parts. You pick. Something from the list I just gave you. Perhaps a family vacation? Or a family pet? Did you
have a dog you loved?”

I shook my head again.

“There must be something you can use. A favorite holiday tradition?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “All of it couldn’t be bad. That’s impossible. There must be some good memories.”

“I had a good sister. But she done a lot of bad things. We did have this one vacation together, a weekend in Gatlinburg. It
ended awful, but while we were there… it was perfect.”

“What about laughter? Hannah would enjoy that. Did funny things ever happen? Did you ever laugh?”

Of all the questions I had prepared for during those nights out in the bacca, that one never crossed my mind.
Did I ever laugh?
I laid there for a moment, my mind searching. And then I remembered.

“Ever been to the races?” I asked her. “Not the big ones, but small local ones or anything?”

She shook her head.

“Daddy had this car, the coolest car. It was all power and when I was young, man that thing could move. We’d shine it up Friday
nights during the winter, take it to a track a few miles up the road. It was farmland come spring and summer, of course. But
during late fall an acre or so was turned into a dirt circle. People would come from miles around. They’d bring blankets and
lawn chairs, chicken and beer. We’d all sit and watch the muscle cars line up. Half of ’em dinged up, missin’ mufflers and
roarin’ so loud me and Janie would cover our ears and try and read each other’s lips when we wanted to talk. Man, we loved race night. Momma would get so pretty. She’d spend all day frayin’ the edges of her cutoffs
just so
. And she’d do this thing with her T-shirt, where she cut the collar out, not like it had been ripped out, but cut with purpose,
you know? And then she’d wear a tank top underneath, a real thin one that made her tan show through. That T-shirt would go
over top, but with the collar cut out it just sort of hung off her shoulders, the way those princess ball gowns do in all
the fairy tales. She was the sexiest woman there. Daddy was so proud back then. He had the coolest car, the hottest woman.

“He won a lot, too, at first. It was good winter money for us. One night, Daddy bet big on his car. He had to win, or we wouldn’t
have money for the rest of the month. But when it came time to line up the cars, his radiator sprang a bad leak. He worked
hard to fix it, but the race was gettin’ close to start. The man he bet against came over. ‘Looks like you need a new radiator,’
he said. ‘Good luck findin’ one in the middle of these fields.’ Daddy ran to me. ‘Angel, you run git me an egg.’ Momma cussed
big. ‘What in the hell you need an egg for? I fed you good ’fore we came. You just need to focus on fixin’ that bucket of
yours ’fore you lose all our money.’ Daddy didn’t have time to fight her then. He grabbed me by the shoulders. ‘Farmhouse
is over them hills. You can do it. Pretend it’s Momma’s treasure. Go git me an egg and I’ll win this race for you.’ I ran
as fast as I could. Even though I knew farmhouse rules were the same everywhere. Girls like me don’t belong in ’em. But I
had to git that egg. Not just ’cause Daddy sent me and nobody told Daddy no. But because of what he said when he sent me.
That he’d win the race
for me
. I walked around the house till I saw the door that led to the kitchen. I opened it. Held my breath and waited for someone
to grab me and haul me down to the police. When it didn’t happen, I took a step. Then another. Until I was standin’ in front
of the fridge. I grabbed the egg and ran. Let the door slam behind me and didn’t stop runnin’ till I was back to Daddy.

“He took that egg and then he did the funniest thing. He uncapped the radiator, cracked the egg, and poured it in. People
that saw him thought he lost his mind. They pointed and laughed, and hollered out jokes at him. Momma joined in with ’em.
‘This ain’t no picnic. It’s a race!’ Daddy didn’t pay them no mind, though. He hopped in that car and he drove it with all
his might. That car never so much as sputtered on him. Can you guess why?”

The old woman shook her head.

“The egg.” I laughed. “Daddy said that when the car heated up, it scrambled. The chunks plugged up the radiator leak. He won.
And from then on folks at the track called his car the Eggmobile.”

The old woman smiled.

“So yeah,” I whispered, still smiling, “I guess I did laugh sometimes. Yeah, some things were funny. Like that egg.”

“Good,” she said, staring at the floor in concentration. “Yes. I think we can work with that. Perhaps we could say your family
had been grocery shopping. Your car broke down on the highway. Your father used an egg to fix it. Nothing about stealing or
gambling, of course. Nothing about T-shirts with the collars ripped out.” She looked up and smiled victory. “I’m glad you
have the egg memory. I’m glad that everything wasn’t always bad. Sometimes you laughed.”

I nodded. But I knew there was a deeper truth for people like me. For people like you, too. A truth that the old woman would
never admit. Would certainly never allow me to tell you.
Laughter isn’t free. Neither are smiles.
Sure, funny things happen. Good things occur every once in a while. But behind my smile, fear was waiting. Behind my laughter
was a ready cry. Growing up, I could not escape hurt. And I knew this, I thought of it, even when I laughed.

“Okay,” the old woman said, as she glanced at her watch. “That’s it for the day. I’ll call the nurse now. Oh, and Lily, I
have something else for you. Another gift.”

The nurse came in holding the shot that would make it all—the lies, the story, the old woman—go away. But behind her was something
even more important. The old woman walked in, her hands filled with the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. A birthday cake.
Eighteen candles in a perfect row. Little pink rosebuds mounded on the corners.

“Happy birthday.” She saw the look on my face. “Did you forget?” she asked. “You forgot it was your birthday?”

I nodded.

“I’ve never,” she whispered. “I’ve never forgotten.” She pulled a knife out of her apron and reached for the cake.

“Don’t,” I cried. “Don’t cut it. I just wanna look at it.”

She looked at me in surprise. I sighed. “I’ve never had one before.”

“Very well,” the old woman said, and slipped the knife back in her apron. She nodded to the nurse, and sweet dreams soon poured
into my vein. “Just think, now you’ll be able to tell your mother all about it. You’ll be able to say you have a special birthday
memory. And it won’t be a lie.”

I nodded.

“Happy birthday, dear Lily,” she said, as she left the room. “The best is yet to come.”

It took us a month to craft our story. Each day, and into the night, the old woman sat across from me as I rehearsed. She
twisted the details. Took my truth and tied it up in little happy knots. Until she was sure the story would bring you joy.
Until she was sure the story would bring you back to her, wherever you were.

“Did you know,” she asked me at the end of the month, “you haven’t had morphine in three days? I told you the nurse was reducing
your dose, but in fact I’ve had her only pretend to be giving you morphine injections. And you’ve slept. I’ve watched, I’ve
made certain. Child, you are no longer an addict. You are healed.”

I turned my face and stared at the wall.

“Whatever it was that made you drink before, this is your chance to escape it. Embrace your new story. Embrace your new life.
You know, after you visit Hannah I still have plans for you. You will stay here as Lily—good, sober, happy Lily. You can see
Hannah whenever she chooses to visit. The two of you will bloom again.”

I nodded.

“I have to go away for a day or two. The nurse will be here to care for you. I’ve given her orders to allow you ibuprofen
as needed. And a mild sedative if you can’t sleep. I also want her to increase your exercise. I want you up and walking five
times a day. You need to regain your strength. You’ll be making a trip soon, and I want you looking healthy for it.” She stood
and leaned down to hug me.

“Where is she?” I asked. “If she died but is still alive, where is she?”

“You’re right,” she said. “You deserve to know her story. I’ll tell you today. But first…”

She walked and picked up the hand mirror. She gave it to me, and I held it up to my face. The bandages were gone. Pink crooked
lines, shiny and smooth, were stamped across my skin.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “The scars will fade, and we’ll use a bit of makeup. Hannah will want you to be pretty. You see,
I didn’t understand this when I was raising her, but Hannah is a true artist. For some reason that I’ll never understand,
pretty is important to people like that. Shall we begin?”

I sighed as I remembered the words. The beginning to my new story. It sounded like a sweet book, like one I’d steal from the
library as a girl and hide out in the bacca to read. I imagined, as I rehearsed it, that I was back in school. I pretended,
as I stared in her mirror and practiced happiness, that I was giving another class report. It went like this:

My Story

by Lily Adams

I wish memories were like pockets. I wish I didn’t have to choose what to tell you. I wish you could reach inside me and pull
out everything I’ve saved. Then I could be quiet. You would know everything, and I could just sit here with you and nod in
agreement.

But memories aren’t like pockets. And it’s up to me to show you what happened after I left your arms. To give you a piece
of all the things that I saw and felt.

I could start by telling you about the music classes Momma sent me to. I learned how to dance pretty there. How to sing old,
classic songs. Or I could tell you about Christmases. About trees so grand, so beautiful, they proved that goodness was real.
Goodness could sit in our front-room window.

But the story I really want you to hear is about my birthday. The time when I turned five years old and Momma surprised me
with the prettiest cake. She put a whole box of candles across the top, instead of just five, because she knew that’s how
I liked it best. Pink roses covered it, because she knew my favorite color was pink. I wouldn’t let her cut it. It was too
pretty. I took it to bed with me that night. Set it on my night-stand. More than any other present, all I wanted was to go
to sleep staring at that cake. To close my eyes to darkness and remember the picture of something so perfect, so pretty inside
my mind. That cake was like special treasure. Unlike anything a person could find in a field. Unlike anything a person could
ever steal.

Not that I would, though. I would
never
steal. I had no need. Momma and Daddy were rich. I wore jeans from a mail-order catalog, not the back of a candy barrel store.
I wore dresses to church, too. And I learned a whole list of prayers to say there. One of them was
Bless you
, and sometimes when I said it, I thought of you. I thought of me, too.

One time we all went to Gatlinburg for the day. I got to feed the black bears. I rode in this little bench that was hooked
to a wire. It carried me up the side of the mountain. I went to the fudge shop. They had more kinds of fudge in there than
any place in the world. Daddy bought me a slice of each one, too. On the way home, our car, a brand new Oldsmobile, sprung
a leak in the radiator. Momma cried because she was worried about all the good groceries we had just stopped to buy from the
fancy new grocery store. She was worried they’d spoil before the car was fixed. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” Daddy said.
“I’m gonna fix this car for you. I’ll save our groceries.”

He did the funniest thing. He took an egg from the groceries in the trunk. Popped the hood, cracked the egg, and poured it
down into the radiator. We drove home no problem except for the smell of egg in the car. Daddy said it had scrambled, and
the chunks had plugged the leak. We laughed the whole way home. And to this day, I can’t eat eggs without smiling.

I bet you wonder where I grew up. It was inside a big farmhouse. We had so many rooms I could get lost if I wasn’t paying
attention. But my favorite was always outside. I loved to carry lemonade out to all our helpers waiting in the hot sun. Momma
always said it was good to be helpful to folks that got less.