The Lost Days (15 page)

Losing my will to write regular entries. What’s the point? The shrink says he will have me cured of amnesia in three days, tops. Waste of time to keep writing…it’s just a habit that I’ll soon be over.

A lot later

Not over the habit quite yet. In fact I feel like dwelling on my memories of Blackrock. It’s such a novelty for me to have MEMORIES of anything. I’ve been thinking about the day I came back to the El Dungeon with Schneider after Wichita, and both Attikol and Ümlaut tried to take credit for bringing me back, and Raven had already forgotten she ever missed me. Ahahahha hah ahha. And the time Schneider was asking my parents why I hadn’t been reported missing. “Well, this was the eighth time, and she always came back on her own…” Weirdos. And that time Attikol asked Raven if she would let him romp through her hair some moonlit night, and Raven was all, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…no?” HAHAHA! And that especially rowdy game of Calamity Poker when Attikol challenged Ümlaut to recite Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18…in Morse Code. “Deeet
de deeet deeet deeet de de deeet de de de de deeet…” And most of all: finding the cat collars and learning Miles’, NeeChee’s, and Sabbath’s real names. McFreely’s real name will probably remain a mystery forever now. Belgium!

Oh, that reminds me. I never did go see Schneider’s grandmother, the town vet, to ask if she had stitched up Sabbath’s ear. Probably my only lead on the cats’ real owner. Had a moment of sadness for whoever that person might be, because let me tell you, they are missing some goooooood cats.

Then had an hour of sadness for myself, because I am also missing some gooooooood cats.

Much later

It’s late, late, late. I snuck out and walked around downtown Zigzag for a long time looking for something familiar. If you can believe it, and this is kind of embarrassing, I almost had myself convinced that me being here was all a big mistake, and these nice people were just complete idiots who were mistaking me for their daughter. And then this kid on the opposite corner called my name, and I thought about how even I recognized myself in all those pictures, and I should just give it up and figure out how to be Molly. Anyway, I let the kid do the talking. Not that it made any sense. Something about a comic he was knitting? About this girl who made the ultimate sacrifice—for beets! Or something like that. And he asked me if I’d be meeting up with the others later
and I said yeah but then I bailed on actually going. Maybe tomorrow. Not sure if I am actually interested in rejoining my extensive circle of well-dressed, chipper friends.

Not sure if I am actually interested in ANYTHING related to being Molly Merriweather.

Ehhhhhhhhhh.

Friday

Saw the shrink again today, but nothing about my former life is getting clearer. Shrink-man says to just give it time, and until I get my memory back, he will keep telling my parents I shouldn’t go back to school yet. (Doesn’t he realize that’s really not good motivation?) He also says writing in this journal is counterproductive to my goal of regaining my identity, so this will probably be my last entry.

So I guess this is it. Bye, Dear Diary.

Whatever.

Later

There are doubts! There are serious doubts!

I hate to say it…

BUT

I may not be Molly Merriweather after all.

(!)

Things fell apart after dinner tonight when Sharon asked me what I wanted to drink with dessert, and I said black cherry soda,
and she laughed and said, “There’s orange pop in the fridge.” POP!!! I am not from this household, I tell you. And if I had ever actually lived here, those ponies would know me.

ALSO: I don’t recognize the taste of the air, the smell of the water, the kind of towels in the bathroom, the mac’n’cheese, the night sounds, “my” stuff, or “my” name.

Am feeling VERY confused. Not sure what to do. Am going to start with some straight talk with Sharon and George.

Later

Evidence pointing to me being Molly:

1. My old friend Curls thinks I’m Molly.
   
2. Sharon and George think I’m Molly.
   
3. Ditto our housekeeper, that kid I saw downtown, and the neighbors.
   
4. Lots of photographic evidence.
   
5. Leaving this boring place seems like something I’d do.
   
6. Ditto taking on fictional identities.
   
7. Molly is/was an animal lover. I can relate.
   
8. I am having a hard time beating any of the high scores on the video games in the house.
   
9. Molly has won 3 science fair trophies. Sounds like something I could do.
   
10. As for the popularity thing, Shrink-man says a change
    in personality could happen after head trauma.
    
11. Sharon and George say we have no relatives my age at all, let alone any that look like me.
    
12. Extreme unlikeliness of ANYONE (relative or not) looking so much like me.
    
13. I SOMEHOW ended up in the same town as Curls. What are the odds?
    

Evidence that I’m not Molly:

1. Sharon and George agree that I seem different than normal.
   
2. They say I used to be a day person.
   
3. Pop vs. Soda.
   
4. Ponies do not know me.
   
5. I don’t know how to ride the ponies. To be specific, my BODY doesn’t know how to ride the ponies. My bum is still yelling at me about the pain.
   
6. Am horrified by thought of being popular. No desire to see my former friends.
   
7. Formerly candidate for winning Best Dressed; now I prefer to wear the same thing every day.
   
8. Though a winner of science fairs, Molly was not known as mechanical genius. Stereo still in dire need of
   modifications. Toaster oven in kitchen needs a tune-up. Etc.
   
9. Sports lover. Ewwww.
   
10. Hoopy Jankers and the Goodtime Belly Bouncers. Ewwwwwwwwww.
    
11. My hair is in a different style in all those photos.
    
12. Bedroom seems way too tidy.
    
13. I just don’t feel like Molly.
    

Still, I don’t know if I can really BELIEVE that I’m not Molly Merriweather without further evidence.

For example…meeting Molly Merriweather face-to-face.

Will just have to go find her.

Much later

Waited until Sharon and George were asleep, then snuck out and walked around until I found that kid again who knew me, or thought he did. I asked him where everyone was and he said at the usual spot. I said let’s go and I let him lead.

We got to this overpass where a bunch of scruffy-looking kids were hanging out and as we walked up, sure enough, they were all like “MOLLY!” and “Where have you been?” and stuff, but then, when I got into the light from the trash-can fires, they kind of got silent and were all staring at me, maybe because I still hadn’t said a word, and then this one girl was like, “Hey, Molly—you seem…
different?” and I told them I was Molly’s cousin and I was trying to find her, and then everyone had their story to tell:

1. Molly had, like, MAJOR problems with how boring her parents were.
   
2. Molly ran away, like, all the time.
   
3. Her parents never even freaked out when she left, as long as her grades were good.
   
4. Molly and I look SOOOOOOO much alike omigod!!!!! 5. Molly was, like, the BEST at making up her own funny lyrics to popular songs.
   
5. Everyone had an AKA that Molly gave them, but she would never let anyone give her a nickname.
   
6. But she would always invent a new, like, identity for herself whenever she bailed town.
   
7. Molly often handed out the big wads of cash her parents gave her.
   
8. Molly had these awesome ponies that she trained herself.
   
9. Molly (and everyone else in Zigzag) would say “pop” not “soda.”
   
10. Molly was tight friends with this kid Ripper who had been running away since he was, like, six months old or something, and was a total pro at it, and the two of them knew runaways in just about every town in the country by now.
    
11. Molly was pretty much the most popular girl anyone knew.
    
12. No one knew where Molly was this time around, but this one girl said Molly always used to bust a gut over towns with funny names, so if SHE were looking for Molly, that’s where she’d look.
    

It appears as though I was a rich, popular, well-dressed girl who kept a neat bedroom and hung out under the overpass at night with a bunch of runaways. Oh. Except I WASN’T.