Remember (15 page)

“What do you do after waking up?”

I look at her, asking if she seriously asked that question
. “They told me about a breathing technique to calm myself down. I’ve actually gotten excellent at it. Just in around six breaths, I’m calm enough to go back to sleep.”

“That is superb. What’s the problem?”

My voice comes out whiny. “The memory of the dream doesn’t just vanish after it starts to mean something.”

Claire raises her hands between us, surrendering. “I don’t know what else to say. The only thing you can do is stop the therapy. Other than that you just have to follow their directions.”

I straighten up from unnoticed slouching and suck in a huge breath. The words tumble out of my mouth breaking for nothing and speeding up at the end. “Getting out isn’t something I want to do. I just need my memories back, so I can return to my life.”

“How much longer is that going to be?”

“The dates are getting closer to today. I’m guessing around a couple more weeks.”
My answer to her question makes me feel already back to normal.

“I can’t wait for your therapy to get over. Then you can move on from this mess for good.”

A flash of happiness sprouts up from nowhere.
“Me, too. How’s everything at the Stephens Institute?”

Claire runs through the news like a grocery list. “Things are good. After Irena stepped down, Gary became an invaluable person. The head techie is moving on to bigger and better things. The Institute is considering me to take his place.” She finishes with a proud smile.

“I’m surprised that Gary finally got the promotion he was hunting. I hope you get it.”
My wishes feel empty with the everyday isolation.

“My chances are good. How is everyone treating you here?” Claire asks for courtesy, not wanting to.

“Everyone is great. It feels like a benevolent group. Sarah is great at getting my memories back. The dreams are the prob.”

Claire looks around the room, searching for something to say. “It’s good seeing you, Conor.”

I smile weakly. “Thanks for visiting, Claire.”

“Keep up the good work.” Claire squeezes my hand reassuringly.

“I’ll do my best.”

Claire leaves me with a barely audible sniffle.

I just sit there. It always comforts me, talking to her. My disadvantages reduce to ghosts. It feels different than with anyone else. I have no clue what it all means, just meeting her, but she knows so much about me. It should feel creepy and invasive but just doesn’t. I don’t know anything about us. It is still just comfortable talking to her.

What to do about my parents? They look a little too different from what I’m remembering. They falter, nervous about being in the same room with me. I can verify their identities with some test, asking them a question no one else knows. If they pass, they are my parents.

I move the chairs around to make them feel more comfortable. They can sit
all the way
across the table. I settle into my chair and pass the time by looking outside. In a couple of minutes, they come in.

Henry says, “Hi, son,” and shakes my hand.

Margaret says, “I’m here too, dear.” She hugs me.

“It’s good to see both of you.”
The words sound hollow to me.

“How’s everything going, son,” Henry asks.

My head affixes sneers to their faces and voices.
“I’m doing good,
dad
. The memory therapy is working. Almost everything has come back except the last few months.”
Labels don’t reduce suspicions, but just add more.

“That’s nice, dear. Do you have any questions for us?”
Margaret's sweet voice of a child annoys like the sound of scratching a chalkboard.

“How are you two doing?”
I feel like I’m yelling at them from across a field.

“Everything is good, son,” Henry replies.

I just pass the time with the formalities.
“Has anything changed back home?”

“After our vacation, we went back home for a little while. Once we heard about your condition, we decided to move closer, my dear. Everything is just like you left it. All your stuff from home is back at our place.” Margaret enunciates everything a little too much.

My hands under the table relax with something familiar, an experiment.
“I just want to check what I’m remembering. Where did you first meet?”

Henry says, “We’re not here to play Question Quandary. If you want to know something specific, just ask us.” He lights up incandescent red.

Margaret tries to reason with him, “Henry it’s just an innocent question. Give the boy his answer.”

“I was sitting in a park reading. Your mom just ran into me.,” Henry quickly glances at her before staring me down

“Actually it was more like your dad tripped me. I was jogging by when his offending foot blocked my path,” Margaret corrects him. Her earnest gaze at Henry's head makes her side of the story believable. Her hand moves up to Henry's shoulder, so he looks back to her.

Henry starts laughing. “You always felt cheated by what I did.” They almost forget me for memories of the past.

“It was a bad hit. We both got hurt. I rested next to him, and that’s how we met,” Margaret finishes. For the first time ever, Henry looks happy.

“I just have one more. What time was I born?”
The test continues but maybe not.

“That was 2 in the afternoon, right?” Henry says.

“Yes, your father is right. Do you have any other questions?” She adjusts her glasses further up her nose.

“No, that’s it.”

“It was good seeing you, son.” Henry notices me, again.

Margaret says, “Get better soon, dear.”

“Thanks for coming.”

They leave me. I almost don’t believe it. Everything they said matched my memories. They look uncharacteristic for just after 5 years, but it must be them. Why don’t I believe it? I have to keep looking for other clues to their real identities. I can just test them every week, proving it one way or another.

Wed 6/7/17 7:47 a.m.

T
hrown papers fly at me through a slammed open door. Each one impacts with a great puff of smoke, forcing me back with each incoming blow. Eventually, I trip into a pool of paper at the end of a test wallpapered hall, flailing in the ruddy pool, and slowly sinking into black ink swirling beneath the surface. All I can see is failing grades while I drown.

The scene and the all too real sensation of paper cutting my throat vanish with a fade to dark, velvety blackness. The scene around me returns to familiar black glass under my hands, the swivel chair supporting me, and my space in the Research Department, Stephens Institute, Mountain Overlook, "That was overly dramatic," I say to myself.

Gary’s voice emanates from the doorway behind me. "We have to remember in dreams everything is fully believed."

"I didn't see you come in, Gary. Anyway, I would say it was
horrifying.
"

"You're so engrossed. You wouldn't even know if the AI apocalypse happened. Anyway, let's see what the dreamer remembered."

I grab the mouse protrusion from under my hand and check. "It says drowning. It's definitely negative."

"It looks like I said the same. You must have a real interest in this study. Every time, you're here early."

I admit true.

"Let's move on to the next one." Gary slides his chair alongside me.

"Ready to start?"

"Yes."

"Here it is." I tap a red button on the desk.

The tech plays it in first person, right in our eyeballs and other senses.
I run upstairs chased by an unknown foe, into my bedroom, and try to escape. A huge dream creation of a dog confronts me with a bark, actually waiting for me to climb onto his back. We emerge through the door, land on the enemy, descend the stairs, and spot an evil accomplice. Racing back into the bedroom avoids the unsurprised wrongdoer. The dog and I jump off a diving board outside the open window, through a horizontal mullioned greenhouse roof, land on the thick palm fronds growing from the ground unscathed, and make our escape.
Then, it ends.

I regain my awareness.
"What do you think of that one?"

"A little difficult. It starts out negative. The end is obviously positive." Gary offers his usual wishy-washy opinion.

"As always, we can just record what we think."

"I put down positive. What about you?" He wants support, either way.

"Positive, also. The dreamer doesn't remember the chase up the stairs."
Which got my blood pumping.

"Yes, yes."

Dr. Mekova runs down the stairs and stands there, looking around and talking about someone whom broke into her office in a hushed voice (lip reading from tech). She inhales a few deep breaths. I have to see if she is okay, which isn't possible from across the office.

I turn to Gary. "Are you good, here?"

"Sure, I'll try to catch up with the dreams." Gary takes my place at the computer and shuffles through the stack of recorded dreams, eating away at my head start.

Why is everyone just sitting around? The office isn't broken into everyday. I slowly walk to her office. The flurry of activity from Mekova started with some discovery. The reality must have set in shortly after. Just help, silently. I move quickly with purpose. Entering the office loudly (a heavy step and quick turning of the knob) announces me as I start helping pick up the half-dozen pads littered across the floor.

Dr. Mekova stays at her desk almost frozen with messed up hair, and a tear dried face. These observations tell me more than she would ever say.

I move closer picking up more.

"Oh, Conor I didn't see you come in. How are you doing?" She always tries being nice no matter what is going on with her.

"Don't worry about me. How are you?"

"I'm just a little shaken." Her skills for understatement.

I reply to the blaring warning on my tech instead —
emotionally unstable with elevated fear and anger.
"That is understandable."

Dr. Mekova stands with a stack of pads in her lap. She attempts to help, but her hands quake from the recent events. She dumps the stack of pads on the table, sits, and pauses there, paralyzed.

I quickly finish and my uncertainty returns, how to comfort her or if I should. We have a professional relationship, nothing more. I slowly approach, take a seat at the table, and try arranging the scattered glass sheets.

Dr. Mekova just sits there, looking at her jittery hands, tearfully. She is a strong person, dealing with any situation calmly. Today adds an exception. We sit at the table for a while, just like that. She tries to speak a few times, but can’t utter much of anything.

Finally, she says, "We have to get the techie to check my computer."

"I'll get her. Be right back."
Good to be out of there. The whole time I was dumbfounded. How to deal with her like that? The possibility of relating to what happened scares me. I don't know where to begin.

Her office, her second home was just violated. It may take a long time, if ever, before she is comfortable there again.

As I approach Claire's office, someone comes out. His straight black hair extending into a braid over his left shoulder, smooth square face, and deeply dark eyes stop in front of me. Despite his height, I have a few pounds on him.

"Hi, I'm Zhou Chen. Neurosci. and Biochem. major."

"Nice to meet…"

He leaves before I finish and rushes to his desk.

That was quick. I head into the office.

Claire is at the desk. "Hi, Conor."

"Hi, Dr. Mekova wants you to check her computer. That makes sense, right?"
Who knows what's going through Mekova's head right now?

"Yes it does, actually. All the work computers have an onboard memory backup if we ever lose our connections. I will be right there to check it."

"Okay, I'll let the good doctor know."
I head upstairs, hoping she's doing better. It is going to take some time. Where is security? I have to check on Dr. Mekova, first.

"Claire is coming right up."

She blows her nose on tissue paper and returns it to the tissue receptacle where it recycles and sprouts back out. "Good. I can finally get back to work." She smiles weakly.

"Are you okay, otherwise?"

"Yeah,
I am fine
." She turns me around and almost out the door.

"If you're sure, I'll also get back to work."

"Yes, I’ll see you
later
."

Just as I leave with a grimace, Claire practicality runs into me on the landing. We exchange excuses and appreciations. I have one more dream to look at. Gary is a little behind.

I need to think of a new focus for my next study after helping Gary finish his. What are the options? I can choose to do drug testing. It's a small stretch with a lot of research before getting started. Medicines end up more for biochemistry, which means a biochemistry specialist. I have a few days to think about it. Gary goes through the videos, recording his impressions, and doesn’t notice me as I sit down with a sim blinding his eyes.