The Forgetting (4 page)

But the flashlight wasn't there.

Pain seized my chest. My hand collided with the ornate lamp on the nightstand and I clicked it on. A soft circle of light pooled on the wall. I blinked. I was in my own room, with its plush carpeted floors and large bay window and lamps on each side of the bed. Why would I think I was in a room barely bigger than a closet, sleeping on a cot that was too small for me? Where had that memory come from? I closed my eyes and let the picture form. Clear and vivid, I saw that room. I knew every nook and cranny of that room. But as far as
I
could remember, I had never been there. How could I remember someplace I had never been?

The middle-of-the-night hush closed in on me and the only sound was the Catch, breathing in between my heartbeats like it was its own being. I moved my hand in slow circles over my heart but there was no sweetness to be found. In the stillness of the sleeping house, I let myself think the unthinkable. The memory of that room didn't belong to me, and neither did the memory of that strawberry shortcake.

Those memories belonged to the previous owner of my heart.

I eased back on my pillow and stared at the ceiling. Slivers of moonlight slit the dark, illuminating things in pieces. A shard of my closet door, a fragment of the dollhouse in the corner that I hadn't played with in years. It was crazy. How could I have memories that didn't belong to me? But they were there, as crystal clear as other memories I knew were mine. My heart donor had slept in that room. I
knew
it. Just as I knew she had loved strawberries and hated pink.

I rolled onto my side and stared at the shadow the lamplight made on the wall. This was insane. Was it, though? Reports I'd found online often said that transplant recipients retained something from their donor, like a sudden sweet tooth. Was it that far of a leap from a sugar craving to a memory?

Well, yes. It was a pretty big freaking leap. I stared at the old-fashioned alarm clock on my nightstand. The hands pointed to four thirty-three. Now fully awake, I could easily think that it had been a dream.

But it wasn't. I knew the difference between a dream and a memory. And I hadn't taken a Vicodin since the strawberry incident. Despite the whir from the heating vents, cold swept over my bare arms. I pulled the covers up to my chin but I was wide awake now and there was no way I could get back to sleep. Even under the heavy comforter I was cold, cold down into my bones.

I leaned over and opened my nightstand drawer. The scent of lavender wafted into the air from the potpourri sachet Mom had given me for all my drawers for Christmas. I pulled out scarves and trinkets and funny cards that Ella had given me over the years and laid them all in a careful semi-circle on my bed.

Each item represented something special: a birthday, making the National Honor Society, the summers I spent at Interlochen. This was who I was, not some stupid memory of a bedroom belonging to a girl I'd never met. What mattered was where I went from here, and where I was going was Juilliard.

I picked up the music-note pin I'd worn to my very first recital. What mattered was the future—
my
future—and no one could take that away from me.

• • •

When I turned up in the kitchen the next morning for breakfast, Grandma handed me a bowl of oatmeal. “Heart-healthy and delicious,” she told me after I made a face at the mush.

“I guess I have to learn to like it, huh?”

“I put brown sugar in it to sweeten it up.” She sat down across the table from me, a steaming mug of coffee wrapped in her hands. “How are you feeling today, sweetheart?”

I dug my spoon into the thick oatmeal, not meeting her eyes. “Okay, I guess. My chest still hurts a lot.”

Grandma grimaced. “Didn't they give you something for that?”

“Yeah, but I hate taking it. It makes my head feel weird.” That was true. But I knew the drugs weren't to blame for the memories.

“Well, better that than being in pain, right?”

I shrugged and swallowed a spoonful of oatmeal. It was actually pretty good, and I couldn't really remember why I hated it so much. Great. Another thing I couldn't remember.

Grandma took a sip of her coffee, looking at me over the rim of her mug. “What's wrong, sweetie? You don't seem like yourself.”

“I'm not.” I stared down into the bowl, swirling the brown sugar into an endless spiral. “I have someone else's heart inside me. I'm not me anymore.”

“Oh, Georgie.” Grandma put her cup down and came around the table. She cupped my cheek. “Of course you are.”

I leaned my face into her palm and looked up at her. “But what makes a person? Isn't it their heart? If mine is gone, who am I now?”

Grandma pulled one of the other chairs next to mine and sat in front of me, our knees touching. “You are still the same person, Georgie. The heart is just an organ. It's what you do with it that matters. Your thoughts and dreams and memories make you who you are.”

Memories
. I took a deep breath. “But what if—I'm remembering things that aren't my memories?”

Grandma pulled back a little, her hand dropping to her lap. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

I chewed at my lip. “I forgot I was allergic to strawberries.”

“Your mom told me about that.” Grandma tilted her head and smiled. “You'd just had major surgery, sweetie. You were still groggy. That's all it was.” She reached out and took my hand in hers. “I know you're scared, Georgie. You just went through a trauma. But you survived and you are going to be
just
fine
.”

She sounded like she was saying it to reassure herself more than me. I stared into her overbright eyes and tried to imagine what it must've been like, waiting by the phone to get updates from my mom while I was in the hospital. They were all so worried about me. I couldn't tell her about this. I'd just have to figure it out on my own.

I squeezed her hand. “I'm so glad you're here,” I whispered and picked up my spoon again. It took a few swallows of oatmeal to get the lump out of my throat.

Grandma pushed back from her chair and stood up. “I have something for you, actually.” She bustled out to the hall and came back a minute later with something wrapped in tissue paper. “I thought this might help you heal. Give you sweet dreams.”

“You didn't have to get me anything.” I unwrapped the tissue paper to reveal a dream catcher. Spidery threads stretched across the hoop, and long, fluffy feathers hung down the sides. “It's beautiful. Did you get it at that store we love in Santa Fe?”

Grandma blinked at me. “No, sweetie. It's from your bedroom at my house. You always said you sleep better there than anywhere else, so I wanted to bring a bit of that room to you here.”

I traced the intricate web with a shaking forefinger. “It's from my…bedroom?”

“Don't you recognize it?”

No, I didn't recognize it. Not only that, but I had no memory of my room or her house at all. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting to pull up a picture, an image, even just a fragment of her New Mexico house. I knew it existed, I knew I'd been there, but I could not see it in my mind. It had disappeared.

I sucked in a hard breath and opened my eyes. “Of course I do,” I told her. “It was so sweet of you to bring it here to me.”

Grandma examined my face. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“Yes. I'm just…tired. I think I'll go lie down.” I stood and cradled the dream catcher in my hands. “Maybe this will help me rest,” I added with a forced smile. “Thanks for the oatmeal.”

Once in my room, I closed the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. The dream catcher fell to the floor and sat there, mocking me with its gentle swoops and curves. How could I not remember my grandmother's house? I'd been there dozens of times since I was a little girl. I could even remember riding horses through craggy valleys along desert trails. But the memory of the house was gone, like a puzzle missing that last important piece.

And in its place was the memory of a dank basement room where I had never been.

• • •

If she was going to hijack my memories, I
had
to know who she was. That thought permeated my brain as I sunk myself into my music all that day and the next, practicing the Poulenc Sonata—my audition piece—over and over. There was one phrase that I just couldn't get in the Scherzo section, that my fingers just couldn't grasp, and I attacked it like a war general, battering at it until Mom knocked on my door. “Georgie, we have to leave for your checkup.”

I sighed and put my oboe away. I was barely out of the hospital and yet I had to go back for a follow-up. All the way to the hospital I heard the Catch, drowning out the notes of the Poulenc. What else was Jane Doe going to take away? And what about the memories I didn't yet know I'd forgotten? My heart started to pound. I could've forgotten a whole lifetime already and not even know it.

As Mom checked us in, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and counted off the memories I'd lost. My allergy. Grandma's house. Then I counted the ones I'd gained. Strawberries. A dank, dark basement bedroom. I'd lost two…and gained two. I froze in mid-shift, balanced on my right foot. I was losing a memory for each one I gained.

I set my foot down and stared at the Van Gogh print over the Admissions desk. The colors swirled. I dragged my mind back over the last several days. Yes, two whole complete memories had been placed into my brain and two had been taken out. A fair trade. Maybe the brain could only hold so much information, and when Jane Doe forced herself in, she forced something out.

In a daze, I followed Mom to the waiting chairs and sat down. I picked up a magazine and pretended to read an interview with a plastic surgeon to the stars. Had it happened the moment they removed my own heart from my body and put Jane Doe's in? But what did the heart have to do with memory? Were memories contained in the human heart? If that was true, then what Grandma and Maureen had said was a lie. It wasn't just an organ. It made me who I was, like my soul.

I pressed my fingers to my forehead. I wasn't a philosopher, for crap's sake. These were big questions; how was I supposed to know the answers? All I knew was that I now had two memories in my head that weren't my own, and I wanted to know whose they were.

Mom nudged me. I looked up. The nurse was calling me into the office. I dropped the magazine on the empty chair next to me. As Mom stood, her phone buzzed. “Shoot… It's my editor. Do you mind if I take this, honey? I'll meet you in there.”

“Okay.” I followed the nurse into a small beige room with an oversized chair. I sat in the chair and she hooked me up to the same kind of heart monitor I'd been on in the hospital.

“Dr. Harrison will be in soon,” she said and whisked out the door.

The machine beeped, bringing me back to the moment when I'd first woken up in the hospital. Everything had felt different the instant I'd become conscious. I'd known that something was
off
. The machine's beeps grew distant as I turned inward and listened hard to the Catch. Was Jane Doe trying to tell me something?

The door opened and Dr. Harrison bustled in, Mom on her heels. “Hi, Georgie. How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Good, good.” She went straight to the machine and checked it without looking at me. Mom hovered over me, alternately sitting on the arm of the chair and pacing in front of it. I wished her editor would call her again.

Dr. Harrison marked something off on the machine's printout and finally looked up. “So how is it being home? You taking it easy?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She peered over my head at Mom. “I don't want her to start with her tutor for at least a few more days. Absolutely no stress.” She perched herself on the arm of the chair and arranged her features into her “bedside manner” expression. “I know we spoke a little bit about rejection but I want to be sure you understand the symptoms.”

“Fever, chills, flu-like symptoms,” I recited.

She nodded approvingly. “That's right.” She switched the machine off and removed the pads from my chest.

As she turned to go, I reached out and touched the sleeve of her crisp white coat, just enough to make her pause. “Does it really have to be anonymous?” I said, so low that if the machine had still been on, she wouldn't have been able to hear me. “Why can't I know who she was?”

Her head turned so sharply I thought it would snap. She raised an eyebrow at me. “You shouldn't even know that she's a she.”

“Oh. No…” I shrank into the chair. That nurse, Maureen, had been so nice to me and I didn't want to get her in trouble. “I just guessed. I mean, can you give a male heart to a female recipient?”

“Yes, you can.” Dr. Harrison folded her arms across her chest. “Your curiosity is only natural, Georgie. But donors have to be kept anonymous to respect their family's privacy. It's the law. After a length of time, you can contact the United Network for Organ Sharing, and it's up to the family to release any information about the donor. Now,” she said with forced casualness, “I need to run some lab work. Just wait here and a nurse will be in to take some blood.”

But I couldn't wait for that; I was losing my memories
now
. Besides, if she was a Jane Doe, then she didn't have any family. UNOS wouldn't have any information to release. I squirmed in the chair, trying not to let my desperation show on my face.

The door opened and the front-desk nurse peeked her head in. “I'm sorry, but I have a question about your insurance, Mrs. Kendrick.”

Mom sighed and went out into the hall, muttering, “They never get it right,” under her breath. Dr. Harrison followed her out, leaving me alone again. I squirmed against the chair. I understood why they had to keep organ donors anonymous. But my case was different. I mean, I was remembering things from her life, for crap's sake. Didn't that entitle me to some information?

Several minutes later, the nurse still hadn't come to take my blood, and Mom was still MIA. I slid off the chair and poked my head into the hall. “Hello?” No answer. Voices murmured from a couple of doors down. I tiptoed to the open door and was about to reach around to knock when the conversation inside stopped me.

“…said nothing to her. It must've been one of the other nurses.”

“Well, I'd like to find out who. That's a serious lapse.” It was Dr. Harrison's voice.

“It doesn't seem like she knows any more than the gender of the donor. That's not so bad.”

A loud sigh. “I suppose not. As long as she doesn't find out more. Do
not
tell her anything if she asks.”

“Of course I won't. Can you imagine if she knew?”

Knew what? I inched as close to the door as I dared.
Say
it, say it, say it…