Remember (10 page)

I do just that and try to call my parents. "Can I speak the Mr. and Mrs. Abby?"

"Please be more specific."

"I would like to talk to Henry and Margaret Abby."
The mention of their names brings their faces to my thoughts. My father in his graying beard stubble, wide forehead, flat nose, and expressive brow. My mom looks beautiful to this day. Her golden hair as it was always. Her face, round with a steep nose.

"No current contact info available. Please try to reach someone else."

"Tech support.

"Hello, Mr. Abby. What can I help you with today?" A bright cheery voice answers back.

"How do I use the computer in my apartment?"

"I see here, you are in a S7.
Unfortunately
, that's one of the few models without a standard setup. I can send you the instructions for
your
model apartment. You will have to figure out which computer setup you have and call me back." She stays on the line.

"Can you explain what S7 means?"

"
Well
, everyone starts as an S2. You know in the education based privilege system, which says the apartment size you have, how much you are paid, and other stuff. You are an S7, so that means you have a Bachelors, Masters, and a Doctorate or something like that."

I hang up (after exchanging pleasantries) with at least one question answered, but my puzzlement remains, how to use the tech space. I decide to call them back and see what else I can do. They can walk me through it. After all, they could look up all the other information, just like that.

"Tech Support."

"How can I help you?"

"I can't figure it out."

"I can send someone down, but it will take at least a week for someone to get there. In the meantime, you should try to figure it out."

I throw my head around, looking with a determination at the conundrum of tech.

10/30/17 10:45 a.m.

E
verything changes, my apartment gone. I find myself in a strange office. Someone grabs my arm. I — almost instinctively — pull away.

She says, “Just give it a moment. Allow time to get oriented.”

“I’m at a center, the memory recovery center, right?”

“Yes,” Charlotte says, “We had a good session. We can continue tomorrow. Is there anything you want to share?” She looks at me in anticipation.

I push myself to say something.
“I found my name. It’s Conor Abby.”

“Good, we have something to call you then.”

“Sure.”

“You are getting some visitors this afternoon. It's an important part of the Process. Do you have any questions?”

“What do the others do for down time?”

She pauses, rummaging through her head for ideas. “It varies from person to person. What do you like doing?”

“I don’t remember.”

“How about this, you can try some stuff and see what you like.”

“What are my choices?”

“You can try reading or actives. Both are found in the library. I’ll get you access.”

“Is outside an option?”
I wait with apprehension for some reason.

“Yes, I’ll get that set for you. Anything else you can think of?”

“No.”

“Your first group session is next week. Let’s get you back to your room.”

While we walk back, I think through everything I now remember. Who could want to visit me? Kristen (who in the world is that…) would never come here. What about my parents? Sure.

“Here we are. Let me just use your computer for a sec. Here it is! These are your access privileges. I’ll turn on library, room, and grounds. You have everything you wanted. That’s it, for today. See you tomorrow, Conor.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

Thurs 10/30/17 1:52 p.m.

A
n unknown alarm assaults my hearing. The sound ends up as my critical fuel alarm. Two percent remains. That gives me 10 kilometers range. The strip floats 15 kilometers away. I’ll burn through the fuel under powered flight. Ditching over the water comes to me. I could glide there with some fuel left, just for a second attempt. I start climbing, using half the remaining to gain altitude.

“Radar-niner-two-five to base, requesting permission to climb to 15-thousand.”

“Request approved, Radar-niner-two five.”

“Radar-niner-two-five fuel is short for landing. Requesting permission to enter controlled glide.”

“Go ahead Radar-niner-two-five. Be advised the runway is short. Air brake required.” I level off. The plane enters a glide. Someone opens my room door.
How to handle the active? I can’t save now, better ditch, so I start an inverted roll, then eject, descending to meet the water.
My plane spirals into the water before my chute opens. I exit the active.

“I’m here to take you to the visiting lounge. Are you ready to go now?”

“Yes.”

“Then, come along.” We leave the room and cross the hall to a small meeting room.

Two people come in from the other door. They sit opposing me, inseparable and seeking comfort in each other’s presence.

“I’m Rayburn and this is Esmeralda.”

“Do you remember us, Conor?” Esmeralda asks, shuddering at the idea of her question.

“It is just on the tip of my tongue. Something about you is too familiar. I just can’t figure out what.”

“That’s okay, you’ll remember in time,” Rayburn says as he grips her hand tighter.

“How are you two doing?”

“We are doing well. We just keep worrying about you, Conor,” Esmeralda replies.

“I’m doing good, if you don’t consider the memory loss.”

“Do you have any questions for us?” Rayburn asks with a furrowed brow of deep thought.

I test their allegiance to the rules.
“How long have you two known me?”

“You know we can’t answer that,” Rayburn answers.

“Are you going to visit again?”

“We are going to come every week, dear,” Esmeralda says.

They come over to say goodbye. Rayburn shakes my hand. To my astonishment, Esmeralda gives me a hug. They leave together. Who are those people? Rayburn is stoic as always. Esmeralda reveals her feelings with ease. They know me inside out. Their emotionally worn faces tell me of a relationship long established. They must be family. What’s the connection? I should look at this, another way. In my memory session, what family did I contact? I wanted to talk with my parents. Really, my parents or is it? They are, Rayburn is Henry Abby, and Esmeralda is Margaret. Now that makes the most sense out of everything here. That leaves Kristen or maybe someone else.

Someone enters the room. I notice everything about her in an instant, though nothing comes back identifying her. We have some connection, too intangible to describe.

‘Hi, Conor, I’m Karina.”

“Hello.”

“How are you doing, Conor?”

“I’m doing well. There is this funny thing that happened today. When I woke up, I tried everything possible to escape my room. I was even tempted to break the window. Let’s just say I’m lucky someone found me, when they did.”

Karina puts her hands on to the table and interlaces her fingers.
Something about it rings eerily familiar.
“You will surely get better with time.”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m doing well. I miss seeing you more often. They are only allowing me to visit
once
a week.” Karina reluctantly breathes out almost in a sigh.

This makes me feel confused more than anything.
“Like you said, it’ll get better with time.”

“Do you remember me, Conor?” Karina asks hesitantly.

“Are you Kristen?”

“You know I can’t answer.”

“I’m all out of guesses, then.” An air of resignation exudes from me.

“It was nice seeing you, Conor. I hope your memory comes back soon. Until then, we can’t talk about that much. Have fun in therapy. I’ll visit you again, next week.”

“Thanks for coming.” She leaves without coming to me.
I feel that so much remains unsaid.
She drops something on the way out. I collect it, a postcard. It says, “Conor, keep this to yourself. Look at it again, somewhere private.” I hide it in my shirt.

In my room, I look at it again. “Hi, Conor. I wanted a place to answer your questions privately. The Center monitors all visits. You asked, am I Kristen. I’ve never heard you mention Kristen. I’m definitely not Kristen, unless it is a secret nickname for me. That doesn’t make any sense. No, okay, it makes some sense. If you have any more questions, ask me during my next visit. You can also send it through this device. You’ll be stuck with finger painting. I can’t wait to see you next week. Bye.”

Who is she to me? Who is she?

Mon 11/20/17 4:27 a.m.

W
alking through a black forest shakes trepidation through this vessel. I just walk from some unknown location to the warm comfort of my home, each step concluding in pain, as branches thick and dense scratch up every square inch of open flesh. The continual movement through this underbrush offers a constant reminder of what hides just out of sight in the utter darkness all around. The unavoidable trip over an up-turned root or impact with a hearty low hanging branch adds punishment to my circuitous, wandering journey. I need some way to escape this blind torment — a slight reprieve from this suffering — just something, anything to change this sightless wandering.

A deep thumping moves through the forest floor and into my very bones. The need to brace myself to the strength of a behemoth tree possesses my deliberate action. My touch turns into a hug that becomes a death grip with another mighty, ground shaking vibration. A light reflecting back onto the trees — showing their full depth and complexity — grows with the intensity of a dozen suns in the utter darkness of this endless night. A menacing, throaty, animalistic roar from the omnidirectional distant wood sends a shiver down my spine, raising hair as if preceding electromagnetic discharge. An unwitting glance in the general direction blinds and reveals. I will and force my body to unleash the hold upon this mighty protector, this sentinel of a tree. I reluctantly gaze at the source of bright emanations floating ahead of this feeble body. The illumination acts as a giant obfuscation of my true savior, whatever form of creature may yet it be? I approach with a heart halting terror and unbridled curiosity, unhindered by neither. This encroachment continues until the ultimate conclusion of facing this thing.

The light fades to a faint glimmer of the once magnificent beacon, facing me with the stuff of nightmares — a monstrous feline form waiting to tear meat from bone. The shiny salivating mouth, at the ready, takes no action except to show itself. I feel this undeniable need to touch the top of its slick, black hair covered head, so much so that I just do it. Combing my fingers through the thick, luxurious fur that encompasses this unearthly beast coaxes purrs of the cat’s pleasure. The agape mouth recedes to that of a happy kitten with no interest in ingesting my delicate flesh. Another one of pure white enters the clearing, looking for some unknown treasure. The newcomer requests the same tender moment by displaying its gentle face near that of the other. I indulge the arrival with the same strokes to receive the much needed safety and security. With each stroke, the wild and feral nature of these beasts transforms into the kinder, gentler forms of pet cats with diminutive size.

The two cats pull back as if something calls their attention away from this. They move past me deeper into the overly dense growth. I follow as they are now my acolytes in the unfamiliar terrain, giving myself over to their animalistic instinct with no other recourse than belief in their prerogative. I trust them implicitly as sheep lend themselves to the whim of the herder. They move from branch to branch with a graceful ease, occasionally leaping to the ground without faltering. The white lioness, the feline is bombarded with distraction meant to disrupt — wandering thoughts of something unknown. She flees at some indiscernible input abandoning him and me. I follow the member of our party devoted to our mutual interest, getting me out of these accursed woods. We approach a house of black smoking chimney and yellow glow through window. He makes himself comfortable here, a sign for me to enter the hidden, secret chambers within. He swiftly climbs an overhanging tree, drops down upon the lowest eaves, and curls up onto a ball. A peaceful slumber is the lofty goal of this lowly, once majestic creature.