Authors: Stacey Lynn
Remembering Us
Copyright © 2014 Stacey Lynn
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permissions from the author, except for using small quotes for book review quotations. All characters and storylines are the property of the author. The characters, events and places portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of all products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks in not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing provided by:
Taylor K Editing Services
Cover design provided by:
Mae I Design and Photography
Internal formatting provided by:
Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
My steps are slow and my feet are uncertain.
The edges of the stairway I’m being pulled down are gray and cloudy from the smoke wafting up from the basement dance floor.
Kelsey is pulling me somewhere I don’t want to follow.
Why don’t I want to be here?
The answer niggles at the edges of my mind, but I can’t pull it to the front. It’s just out of my grasp, like always.
A sweaty shoulder bumps me into the wall and my hand is pulled from Kelsey’s. Cold, foamy beer splashes out of a red plastic cup and hits my shoulder. Kelsey doesn’t look back to see where I am, and the blonde guy who hit me doesn’t stop to ask if I’m okay.
I steady my feet and take another step down. The dance floor is packed with people and the music is so loud that the thumping bass rattles my teeth. My eyes scan the dark room - brightened only by the strobe light hanging in the center of the ceiling – looking for someone.
The lump in my throat disappears when I realize he isn’t here.
He’s not here.
A mixture of relief and disappointment swirls inside of me. I smile and reach Kelsey at the bar. The guy next to her fills two plastic cups, but I wave mine away. His name is Zander and he’s in my Statistics class and friends with Adam. I laugh at something he says as he and Kelsey leave for the dance floor. The nervousness returns when I’m by myself, and my eyes scan the room. I should leave now, before he comes.
But then I see him, and I can’t help but smile. He’s a head taller than everyone else, and as he hits the bottom stair, he has to duck his head to make it through the doorway. A small section of his black hair falls into his eyes and he flips it back. As if he knows I’m here, his eyes find me immediately and he smiles, walking toward me.
His smile lights up the room and I am no longer worried. Kelsey is gone, Zander is a distant memory, and I don’t know if there’s music still playing.
When Adam is around me, my brain flees and my heart flip-flops. His kisses make me lose my mind and remind me of dark chocolate, full of all those feel-good hormones.
He’s a few feet from me when he reaches his arm out like he wants to hug me. I take a step forward, but before my foot hits the ground, I’m bumped to the side. I blink and a tiny blonde is wrapped around Adam. Her legs are around his waist and her arms are around his shoulders. She’s completely latched onto him. He smiles at me. His eyes stay on mine as he kisses her forehead and sets her to her feet.
“Hi, Amy.” The little blonde scowls at me. Adam’s eyes are laughing at me.
This. This is why I didn’t want to be here.
“So who was the girl?”
I stare at the ceiling, ignoring my therapist’s question. I hate this room. The walls are yellow but not a happy yellow. More like what I imagine baby poop looks like. And the chairs haven’t been updated since at least the sixties. By the time my sessions are done, the only thing that’s changed is the imprint of the scratchy fabric on the backs of my thighs.
Instead of answering the question, I count the ceiling tiles and multiply the rows. Ironic that I use math at a time like this when it was a math class that got me into all this trouble in the first place.
Reliving all these dreams every week is almost as exhausting as having them in the first place. Talking about them doesn’t make anything better.
“Adam?” Dr. Jamison has lost interest in my silence, again, and turns to him. She’s about fifty years old and her faded blonde hair that hangs down to her waist is always braided. She wears flowy, multi-colored hippy skirts and mismatched tops every time I see her. Sometimes I want to ask her if she has a joint, just to see what she says.
“Tina,” he says softly. I stare out the window at the playground that sits empty at the park across the street. “It was just Tina.”
“Who’s Tina?”
“She was a friend from home. We grew up next door to each other. She was in town that weekend visiting friends from our high school that went to college with me. That’s all.”
That’s all. It’s only two words, but they sound so condescending every time I hear them. It tells me that everything I’m either dreaming or remembering is made up or a half-truth of what the real life events actually were. It tells me that I’m being an idiot for believing them over my boyfriend who loves me. Or so I’ve been told.
Maybe I’d believe them if I remembered Adam at all.
“Amy, does hearing this make you feel better?”
I shrug and cross my arms over my stomach, flinching as my muscles tighten along the gash on my right side that is slowly healing. Nothing makes me feel better anymore because I can’t remember anything that’s happened in the last two years. I have no idea if he’s lying or being honest. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” Adam’s voice carries a hint of anger. He flexes his fingers wide open and rubs them down the tops of his thighs. He drops his head, shakes it once, then two times, and releases a loud breath.
Kelsey keeps telling me that he’s so great and kind and patient and funny and smart and blah, blah, blah. I’ve been hearing it for weeks now and I’m so tired of it. All I see when I look at him is frustration and anger mixed with a little bit of pain.
“Are we done? I want to go home.” We have at least twenty minutes left in our session, but they’re
not
helping.
I’ve been told for the last several weeks that my memory could return at any moment. Before I left the hospital, my neurologist, Dr. Hassen, told me that my memories could return gradually over time.
Or, everything I’ve forgotten about the last two years could come rushing into my brain like an avalanche within a split second. When he said that, the only thing I could think was that I hoped I wasn’t driving at the time. Doesn’t really seem like a safe place to be when an avalanche hits my brain, and I think I’ve fulfilled my accident quota for my lifetime.
I think it’d be better if it happened while I was awake. Instead, they come to me at night as dreams and I have no idea what’s true and what isn’t until I have to sit here and talk about them with my new therapist, dissecting them over and over again.
How in the hell do I know if they’re true?
And how do I know if I’m supposed to trust the guy explaining everything to me? He may dress nice and we might live together, but every time I close my eyes I see a different version of him than the one everyone else sees during the day.
And what in the hell am I supposed to do with that?
“One more thing before you leave today, Amy.” Dr. Jamison is smiling. She always smiles, regardless of what is said. She
has
to get stoned. “I have an assignment for you this week.”
I raise an eyebrow and cradle my casted, broken arm with my free hand.
“I want you to ask Adam one question this week about something you guys did for the first time.”
Adam tilts his head to the side. “The first time?” His cheeks are pink, and I think he might be embarrassed.
Of course he would think about sex. That seems to be the only thing the guy in my dreams
does
think about.
Mrs. Jamison just smiles.
I frown.
“Any first time. First date. First phone call. Whatever. Just ask him to describe something you think you’d want to know about.”
