The Memory Thief (37 page)

So here I am. I’ve come to say
Thank you
. And if you ever wonder why I say it, if you ever wonder why I tell you that you made the right choice, just remember this
story. Remember all the sweet things. All the funny things. And then you’ll know, then you’ll understand,
This is why.

H
ANNAH

Hannah sat in the rocking chair, tired from a night with stronger-than-usual drugs. Legion was silent, content to watch her
doze. Content to believe the drugs were working and Hannah’s mind was calm. But Hannah’s face lied. Thoughts tumbled inside
her, like water off a mountain.

She thought of Bethie, and how much she had changed since she was a girl. With her swingy hair and her bright colors. With
her babies. Oh yes, Hannah had noticed it all. And she wondered, who was that pretty sister that came to see her? How did
she ever do it?

She thought about the look on Bethie’s face as the white door slammed closed. She thought about Bethie’s scream, loud enough
to pierce into her room.
What was it she said?
Hannah’s mind cried.
Why did her face pull tight with panic? Pull tight with hope?

Hannah struggled to name Bethie’s last words. To decide if what she heard was just Bethie repeating her earlier promise.
Your miracle.
That could mean anything. A waterfall that makes words slippery. A mother that loves in her old age like she didn’t when
she was young.

But the thing that made Hannah scream “Bring my sister back,” the thing that kept her mind fighting through the fog of Legion’s
drugs—was the possibility, the hope, that she had heard something more than
Your miracle
. Something different, and worthy of the panic across Bethie’s face. An extra word. The most important one. It sounded like
freedom, but felt so much better.

And maybe Bethie said it. Maybe Bethie screamed it. “
She’s
your miracle.”

Hannah could never know for certain. But she knew this much from the visit, from that secret swell inside her sister’s belly,
once again life had not stopped for her. People were growing, living, dying, outside her great white walls. Everything carried
on, just as it always did before. Without her.

She wished she were mud. It had been ages since she’d remembered mud. But the sight of Bethie’s colors, faded though they
were, couldn’t help but remind her. She wished she were mud so she could throw herself against the wall. Break herself into
pieces and
try again.
Make something better centered. Make something more useful and understandable. Paint a common picture. Paint herself like
a plate of ordinary flowers.

She wondered if anyone else would come. She wished she could see Mother. She’d ask her,
What’s right?
Even though the answers were so often lies. She wished Daniel would show up and make everything seem possible like he once
had, so long ago.

And Father—she wanted to ask him about the bridge. Bethie had obviously found it. Why couldn’t she?

“The first rule is
Believe
,” he once told her. “The second is
Love
.”

Oh but the Love part cut her. Shut her up inside those white walls. Drove her to madness. She looked at the empty chair in
the corner of the room and felt the truth sting the roof of her mouth.
She’s not there.
She shook her head with disgust for herself. Disgust for Legion.
She’s not there.

She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. But inside, she stepped into the workroom of her mind. A place she had closed years ago. A place she hadn’t visited since she’d arrived
at the Great White Room.

She looked around the room.
We’re all just mud
, she thought.

She saw Bethie, like a perfect vase, with her golden skin and soft smile. She was made to receive joy and beauty, to store
it within. She saw Daniel, like a tray. Made for holding things up. And then she saw herself. An old, cracked plate. All this
time, she thought she was the cradle. That perfect shrine to emptiness. But inside the mudroom of her mind, she saw the truth.
Pain is not special. I’m not that special. I need a new center.

It was late. Hannah should have been asleep, but she’d only pretended to swallow her drugs that evening. She lay down as the
nurse left, then spit the white pills onto her white pillow. Deep into the night she turned her head toward the camera. “Legion,”
she called, and waited.

It took a moment, but soon someone answered. “How are you feeling, Hannah? Aren’t you tired?”

“I want to speak to the woman who calls out the questions.”

Several minutes passed until the intercom buzzed. “I heard you wanted to speak to me. Can’t sleep?”

Hannah shook her head.

“Why not?”

“What should I do?” Hannah asked.

“About what?”

“To fix this.”

“This isn’t about fixing things. I’m here to learn about you. I love hearing your stories. About when you had me, and when
you were pregnant. Would you like to tell me one of those?”

Hannah sighed softly. She glanced back at that empty chair in the corner of the room. She stood up and walked to it. And though
it pained her, she lowered herself into that chair. Even though it hurt, it wasn’t the worst thing. She knew now, finally,
what the worst thing was.

“You are not her,” Hannah whispered. She closed her eyes. She ran her hands down the edge of her chair. “You are
not
her. Please, I know you. You come to me, here in the room. You sit on my bed and talk about memories and focusing. Tell me
what to do.”

No one spoke for several minutes. Hannah wondered if Legion was mad. She wondered if they’d take the chair away.

“Why now?” Dr. Vaughn asked, using her normal voice.

Hannah searched for the right answer. It wasn’t because her eyes suddenly
worked the way they were supposed to. She still knew that any moment she wanted, she could build her heart’s desire. It wasn’t
because she’d finally had enough of white. Or even that she missed Bethie and couldn’t go another year without her.

It was about that
thing
, that horrible thing that she did, that sent her to that room.

And how Hannah suddenly knew there was something even worse than remembering it. Even worse than speaking of it. It was the
possibility—however small, however misguided she was about Bethie’s words—of having a miracle occur,
her
miracle, just like everything else did.
Without her
.

“I’m just ready,” she whispered to the camera. “I’ll tell you now. I will. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

It started with dimples. Little crescent-moon creases. The kind you can only find in fat, running baby knees. Hannah was at
the market when she saw them. Down the aisle a mother’s mouth pulled tight, yelled the dreaded words
Time out.
A little boy ran to her, buried his body in his mother’s legs until the only baby skin Hannah could see was one knee peeking
out. Round and pink, a smudge of dirt across it. Hannah stared at those dimples, the truth swelling strong inside her like
high tide. Baby would have had those knees.

Hannah left the market and went to a party. It was for a three-year-old girl, the daughter of one of Daniel’s partners. The
girl stared, wide-eyed, at a pile of gifts set before her. Everybody cooed over her, whispered “how sweet,” except Hannah.
She hated that little girl. And loved her, too. Those eyes, that joy, all of it should have been Baby’s.

Hannah left the party and walked ahead of Daniel. She told him she needed fresh air. She glanced at an old woman, at least
eighty, leaning against a wall. She expected exhaustion, but when their eyes met she saw only Baby. She saw peace.

She was building something new. A patchwork baby. And every day that followed she searched out new, stranger scraps to build
with. It was the only thing she could do to distract herself from the truth that once Baby had been real. Even if she only
held her for a moment. Even if she abandoned her.

It was a hard word,
abandon
. One that her mind sometimes fought against.
Mother’s the one that did it
, she’d tell herself. But the truth always found her. And the truth was, she didn’t fight. She had broken every single one
of Mother’s rules. She was immodest. She was impure. And so she had no idea why, when it was finally
good
for her to break the rules, when it was finally the right thing to do, she didn’t. She wouldn’t fight anymore. She let Mother
take her daughter because she was afraid.
If that’s not abandonment,
she told herself,
nothing is.

One morning, not too long after the dimples, she dropped Daniel off at his office and returned to the market. She was supposed
to be working with him that day. He had insisted on it, told her he was desperately behind in client billing. She knew it
was a lie. But it was easier to agree with him than offer an excuse.

She was supposed to run a quick errand to pick up coffee filters for the break room. But she found herself in the produce
section. It would be the reason they said she planned it. They had the tape of her from the store security. It showed her
standing there by the oranges going over each one. Looking around slowly.
Baby shopping
, that was what the prosecutor said she was doing. And, oh, there were so many babies that day. It seemed every woman in the
world had one but her. They passed by in shiny carts. Babies with sippy cups of juice. Mothers singing, “Row Row Row,” and
counting out apples.

Hannah must have touched a hundred oranges that day. She held each one up to the light, pretending to inspect for flaws. “Watch
her eyes,” the prosecutor said. “She doesn’t even see the orange. She’s a predator. She’s on the hunt.” Around the aisle came
Baby. Hannah had waited so long for her. Wrapped in a soft blanket. Hannah could ignore the little ducks stitched around the
edge. She could ignore the pink stripe down the center. She blinked her eyes and saw everything she’d ever desired: Baby Girl, wrapped in soft green cotton.

Hannah followed her through the store. Always a safe distance behind. Baby started crying. And Hannah tried to name it.
Hungry? Sick?
The woman with her didn’t even look at Baby, just reached into her purse and popped a pacifier in her mouth. Baby Girl cried
more.

“Stop it,” Hannah whispered. “You’re not listening to her.” The pacifier fell, and the woman picked it up and sighed. Wiped
it off and put it back in Baby’s mouth. Still she cried.

“Listen to her,” Hannah whispered. “She doesn’t want a pacifier. She wants her mother.” The woman was sorting coupons. Searching
for something on the shelf. She was too busy to listen. Too busy to hear what Baby was screaming:
Mother! Mother!

Hannah looked around the store quickly. She stepped toward Baby Girl. Their eyes met. And Hannah told her, Hannah promised
her. She wasn’t too busy to listen. She wasn’t too afraid to fight anymore. She’d never abandon her. They belonged together.

Dr. Vaughn sat inside Hannah’s room, not writing but listening. When Hannah finished, Dr. Vaughn smiled. “You did good.”

Hannah sighed and dropped her head into her hands.

“I was just wondering about when they found you. The report says they found you at home later that day. Why did you go there?”

“I wanted to rock her. I wanted to feel what it would be like to have my nest full. To have a baby in my empty nursery.”

“You were arrested and the baby was returned unharmed.”

“Yes.”

“And then your husband began his fight. Do you know how hard he fought to have you placed here instead of in a state prison?”

“He asked me over and over to tell him what happened. To tell him why.” Hannah sighed. “I couldn’t look at him.”

“He made deal after deal, stacked favor upon favor, to get you to us.”

“I do remember one thing, his last words,” Hannah said. “He said he was going to find someone to fix me.” She looked up at
Dr. Vaughn. “So fix me.”

“I’ll do my best. But you’ve owned your crime tonight. Now you’ve got to find peace with it.”

Hannah shivered.
Peace.
Had she ever known it? Even as a girl, a baby girl with her nose pressed up against a false bridge, there was always
something
off. Tiny cracks in the plate.

“Hannah,” Doctor Vaughn said softly, “you had a baby when you were seventeen. She was adopted by another family. You do not
know her. You may never know her. And that may not be the best thing. It may not be your dream or your vision. But that is
your story. And when you own it, when you accept it, then you will begin to heal.”

Hannah nodded slowly.

From then on, doctors came to her room every day to ask hard questions. About growing up as a Holy Roller. About Sam and then
Daniel. About what it meant, what it felt like, to have a daughter. To never know her.

Hannah learned how to answer to the doctors’ satisfaction, even as she wondered what good it could do. To pretend that a life
like hers, an ache like hers, could be reduced to a few quick sentences. Say it dryly enough, fast enough, and the pain might
disappear.

Flowers were brought to her room. A simple spring mix of soft colors. Hannah restrained herself around them. Her first thought,
the one that worried her, the one that proved
crazy
, was to taste them.

It was because they were more than beautiful. They were excessive. So much color. So much perfume. It seemed wasteful to enjoy
them with only one or two senses and not more.
Taste them
, her mind demanded. She snapped her mouth shut and sat on her bed and watched them. When the petals fell as the flowers died,
she saw splashes of paint. Picked them up and arranged them into rainbow swirls across her white floor.

Next, came noise. The doctors turned the intercom on, even when they weren’t speaking to her. She heard them talk about the
coffee, how it tasted burnt. She heard them typing at their computers. She heard the radio playing in the background. The
phone ringing. People arguing. People laughing.