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Dad hands me a cup of coffee in one of his masculine travel mugs. Coffee in bed? Is this my dad or has he been taken over by space aliens?
I glance around for my phone on my nightstand. It’s reflex, really. Wake up. Sit up in bed. Check for text messages. Because I’m certain that sometime between now and last night when Chris and I got off the phone, my boyfriend texted me. He always does.
“Don’t worry about your cell right now,” Dad says. Apparently he’s become a mind reader all of a sudden. “Drink your coffee,” he tells me, and his voice sounds more like him. Controlled. In charge.
I obey but wince. Dad always makes my coffee too sweet. Probably because he’s so used to drinking his black. Except I only drink coffee on special occasions, and he’s never once brought me a drink in bed.
“Too much sugar?” he asks, glancing slightly away.
“It’s perfect.” I give him a smile. At least I try to, but it makes my head hurt even more, and now Dad’s the one to wince.
“Had enough?” he asks. He takes the mug and places it on my end table, picking up a hot-pink zebra print binder I’ve never seen before. “Do you know what this is?”
I shake my head. It looks like something I would have begged Mom for when I was back in second grade. The folder is so over-the-top frilly I’m surprised it doesn’t have unicorns and glitter.
Dad opens up to the first page and shows me a photograph taped to the inside cover. “Do you know who this is?”
I roll my eyes. At least I start to, but a splintering headache makes me stop.
“That’s Chris,” I tell him. What in the world is going on?
Dad nods then turns the page.
“And this?”
“It’s last Christmas,” I answer mechanically. “Mom wanted us to finally get a picture with all four of us in it, except she couldn’t figure out how to use that selfie stick you got her.” It’s a funny memory... except I’m not laughing.
Neither is my dad.
He points to another photo. “Do you know her?”
I blink at the girl with bouncy brown curls. Then blink again. Dad’s pointer finger is covering the bottom corner of the picture. I reach out for my glasses, the pair I keep on the end table, but they only make my headache worse.
“Do you know her?” he asks again.
And again I blink. “Kelsie?” I hear the uncertainty in my own voice. It isn’t because I’ve forgotten my best friend. Kelsie and I have been inseparable since middle school. We do everything together, but that still doesn’t explain this picture. Still doesn’t explain why I’m lying in a strange bed wearing a flowery hospital gown, taking a selfie with Kelsie.
A selfie I don’t remember.
What’s going on?
Dad leans in a little closer. “Do you know when this picture was taken?”
“No,” I whisper. For a minute I wonder if this is some strange photoshop joke. But then I remember that my dad never jokes. Never does anything unexpected.
If this were Mom, she’d be busting a gut laughing by now. Telling me how she paid some graphic design student a few bucks to interpose me and Kelsie into someone else’s hospital photo just to see how confused I’d get. Then she’d tell me breakfast was ready, and she’d laugh about it some more while we ate.
But this isn’t Mom. This is Dad, and Dad never laughs.
He lets out a cough and turns the page. “Do you recognize any of the other people in this picture?” He’s leaning closer to me now. So intent. I feel like I did a few weeks ago when he watched me open my acceptance letter to NYU, his alma mater. I was nervous, not because I have my heart set on going to NYU, but because I knew how disappointed Dad would be if I didn’t get that scholarship I applied for.
“It’s my friends from school,” I answer. And there we are. Me and Kelsie. About a dozen others, some holding balloons, get-well posters, all of us posing for the camera. We’re in the same hospital room. I’m wearing that same ugly gown, trying to smile.
“Do you remember taking this picture?”
There’s an answer Dad’s expecting from me, except I can’t give it to him. I shake my head.
“No,” I tell him, realizing without understanding why that I’m letting him down. But I can’t lie. Not about something like this. My heart is racing faster than normal. Just how strong was that coffee?
“Are you sure?” There’s a squeeze in Dad’s voice, a tension. Which again makes me wonder what all this means or how it is that my answer is hurting him so deeply.
I stare again at the picture. I know these faces. Happy, smiling teens. My friends for years.
But why are we in a hospital room? And why am I dressed in that hideous gown?
Something isn’t right. The lump in my throat, the racing of my pulse, they’re all telling me the same thing. It’s like this is the most important test I’ve ever taken, and I’m failing miserably. But I can’t make up the answers. I shake my head again, look at my dad through these tears I’m trying to blink away, and tell him honestly, “I don’t know when that picture was taken. I don’t remember a thing.”