HE LOOKED HORRIFIED. THE SONG was unfinished, but I didn’t think it was that bad. Leo liked it, but I’m not sure if Leo’s opinion really matters. Leo likes peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches, so there really is no accounting for taste. For the second time in a week, Fay has left me in a room with Leo, forcing me to wonder if I’ve done something wrong. I’m over it.
“The school band sent those flowers over there as a graduation present,” Auntie O says as I roll into my room. “You should thank them. Peonies are expensive, my dear. Lord knows where they got them from this time of year.”
They are beautiful and they smell even better. Nurse Lesli walks in as I’m admiring the flowers and joins me.
“They’re going to let you out of here soon, girlie,” she says with a smile.
“I know.”
“You don’t sound too excited.”
“I am. I guess I’ve just gotten used to the place,” I reply, which is true. The hospital has clearly defined roles. Tamar is a patient. But when I get out in the world, who am I? There are no easy definitions, no plan.
She beckons me over to the bed so she can check all my vitals. Again.
“Oooh, honey, don’t say that. This place is just a holding cell. Life is outside these doors. Don’t ever mix up the two. You think you might want to try to attend your graduation ceremony? It’s a rite of passage,” she says with pride.
“I don’t remember passing through anything, so I think I’ll skip it,” I say.
“Auntie, what do you say to all this?” the nurse asks, directing her attention to Auntie O.
“I say it’s good to start putting energy into making new memories, preferably with a wig on,” she says with all the snark she can muster.
The nurse bursts into a fit of giggles, though when she sees the look on my face, she kind of apologizes. “I like the cut. I do. Really,” she adds.
I just smile, because I don’t care whether she does or not.
“Oh! I almost forgot,” she says, now excited. “We found your personal items from the day you came in. As you can imagine, the ER was a madhouse that day, but we were able to dig through and gather your things. The clothes were a mess and tossed, but everything in the bag you were holding is in there.”
“Uh… okay.”
She rushes out, and I catch a glimpse of a man in a dark suit standing just outside the door, but when it swings back open again, he’s gone. My nerves, already on edge, sharpen just that much more when the nurse comes back with an oversized plastic bag. I immediately dump it onto the bed to see what secrets the old Tamar wants to share. There’s a binder with sheet music that looks like original compositions in pencil, ruined lip balm and three lonely earrings without matches, cloth sanitary pads in jewel-toned fabric, and an oval metal ring wrapped in a piece of muslin. I swallow hard and finger the delicate thing through the cloth. Recognition grips me. I’ve seen this before.
“We can call between rooms, right?” I ask.
“Sure. You just need to know their room number,” she says.
I consider it, and then I’m releasing the brake on my wheelchair and out the door.
“We need to talk,” I announce.
Nurse Matthew, Dr. Taylor, and Miss Cynthia, who sometimes reads stories to the younger kids, all look up at me like I’ve grown another head. Fay chews his bottom lip and nods.
“Yeah, uh… game over.”
“But I need a chance to win back that last fifty,” Miss Cynthia groans.
“I’ll make it up to you guys tomorrow. We’ll switch to high Chicago instead of five-card stud,” he replies.
The adults grumble, but they get up to leave, some with more sheepish looks on their faces than others as they pass by me.
“I was hoping you would come to it on your own,” he says hesitantly as soon as I close the door. “I didn’t know how to tell you or even if I should tell you. It’s not really something that makes sense, you know?” Fay drops down into a chair and props his leg up on a stool. He blows out a big breath of air before both hands slide down his face. Then he smiles, bright and sharp as a squeeze of lemon. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“So you’re a thief?” I ask.
“What?” he exclaims.
“Or we’re both thieves.” I roll over to him and hand him the silver ring. “They just returned my items from the blast. This was in it. I remember seeing it on the internet. Right before you stormed out of Leo’s room. This is why you’ve been acting so strange, isn’t it? You remember.”
The smile on his face is gone, replaced by confusion in his eyes and other emotions I can’t really name because his face is still partially bandaged. He opens his mouth and then closes it. Stands and then sits back down.
“Do you remember us stealing this ring?” he asks. “The stone?”
“You have the stone?” I reply.
He nods. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Well, no. But we’ve got to tell someone,” I say.
“We can’t. We can’t explain what we did. We don’t remember if we did anything. Who’s to say we aren’t unwitting members of some criminal conspiracy? And… and ignorance of the law does not absolve you of its consequences. I looked it up. This stays between us. We fix it ourselves.”
“How?”
“I’ve got a plan, but are you sure you don’t remember anything?” he pleads.
His eyes bore into mine, looking for something, any recognition at all. But there’s nothing. I feel exposed in a way that even the sponge baths the nurses give me don’t make me feel. I wheel a few inches back.
“You’re right. The Crayola men aren’t letting up, and I don’t want to give them any more reasons to ask me any more questions,” I say.
“Crayola men?”
“Mr. White and Mr. Green. The men in suits who’ve been watching us. They showed me pictures of you. Tried to make it seem like you were up to something.”
“Do you think I’m up to something?” he says.
I pause. Whatever I’m about to say next will determine which way our relationship will go. It’s an ask for trust. For all intents and purposes, he is a stranger, but I’m a stranger to myself. I know as much about him as anyone else on Earth right now. Trusting him is a leap of faith, and in the end, faith has to do with the heart, not logic. If I ask myself who feels more like family, like safety, like someone I… love, then he’s the answer.
“No. I trust you,” I say, and I hope he can tell that I mean it.
“Good, because this only works if we’re in it together. All the way.”
Music therapy is much more enjoyable than therapy therapy. The former, I’m in control, and the latter is like a car flying in reverse with a blindfolded driver at the wheel, or at least that’s how I picture it in my head. I’m visualizing it right now: Dr. Gupta in the front seat, calmly taking notes, a silk bandanna covering the driver’s eyes as we hurtle down a crowded city street; she’s completely unaware of or indifferent to what’s coming next, while I grip the leather beneath my legs and pray for the ride to end.
“You don’t know him,” Dr. Gupta says flatly.
She’s a good therapist. There’s no judgment in her tone. It’s just a fact, one that’s true and not true at the same time.
“But I trust him,” I say, just as simply.
“More than you trust your doctors or your aunt,” she adds. It feels like she’s trying to bait me.
“I feel like I’ve known him longer,” I reply.
“Yes, but feelings are not facts. Our bodies store memories. There is research that emotions can live in muscles and bones. There are people in my yoga classes who’ve told me that they’ve had past trauma revisit them as they come to master poses.” She pauses. “What I am trying to say is that your body is healing, and as it mends, old emotions may arise unprompted. Feelings like love, devotion.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I say, unsure of where she’s going with this.
“Because those emotions can be confusing. And with your current medication regimen, there is no way to rule out the delusions.” Before I can even open my mouth, she adds, “I know. I know you don’t like that word, and I have respected your request not to include your neurologist in these discussions yet… but I am concerned that these… dreams are getting worse despite your course of sedatives.”
“You’re trying to say that how I feel about Fayard isn’t real?” I ask, my body going stiff, not with betrayal, but with something that feels too vulnerable, a feeling that makes me wonder whose side Dr. Gupta is on, the side of logic and data, or mine.
“I’m saying intense feelings can seem real, which makes them destructive.” She looks down at her notepad. “Have you taken another look at accepting your place at Spelman? Your aunt says that you’re a legacy. Generations of your family have attended the school. Being there may help you connect to other parts of yourself that are still closed off. You are part of a family with a rich history.”
I shake my head. She wants me to choose between the known and the unknown.
“There’s a new music therapy program at Florida A&M University,” I reply. She’s now flipping through my dream journal but still holds the thread of the conversation.
“I’ve heard of FAMU. You’d have to wait until spring to attend. Spelman would have you on your feet in the fall.”
“Have you been talking to Mr. Green?” I ask, my eyes narrowing. I wonder, if I look hard enough, will I be able to see the physical manifestation of her duplicity, like some kind of traitor’s mark?
“Who is that? Does he work for the hospital?” she asks, no hint of recognition on her face.
“He’s not a doctor, if that’s what you mean. He comes and asks questions. Sometimes it’s a Mr. Green; other times it’s his partner, Mr. White. It doesn’t matter; they’re both the same person, really. I think they work for the airline or maybe the government? Police?”
Her face is blank, and I realize just how paranoid and ridiculous I sound. I roll my right wrist, getting used to how it feels without a wrap. It’s healed, finally. I’m getting better, feeling more like a real person and not a shell. I just want to leave, to be done with all of this.
“Your birthday wasn’t that long ago,” she says, changing the topic.
“And?” I say, glad that I spent said birthday with Auntie O and a dinner plate from Lizard’s Thicket instead of a big to-do.
“Turning eighteen is a big milestone. Many people have anxiety around that. Some people even dread it.”
“Why?” Of all the things to fear in this new life, turning eighteen isn’t one of them.
“Transitioning from childhood to adulthood can be extremely difficult for some people, especially those who’ve experienced past trauma. There are also some very interesting studies in epigenetics, which has to do with genetically inherited trauma. Have you considered that the dreams may have something to do with that?”
I’ve reached my limit. Talking isn’t going to make her get to know me better, and nothing she’s said has offered me one shred of peace or understanding. I am still the same confused girl I was when I woke up without a memory over a month ago. I pluck my journal from her hands, as politely as I know how, and slide it back into my side table. Dreams aren’t real, I know that. But they feel real, and sometimes they feel more real than what I wake up to every morning. Sharing them with her feels like I’m opening my brain up for exploration.
“Tamar, I thought we were past this,” she says sadly.
“Dr. Gupta, I’m not being aggressive or combative. I’ve just decided to end our session early. As per our agreement, I have that right, yes?”
She nods, though I can sense her disappointment.
“Just think about what I said, please, and take a good look at Spelman’s program online. The Children’s Foundation just donated three gaming PCs. You can use them in the game room if you can avoid War Dogs or whatever you call it. You have a future, tend to it. Record how you’re feeling. Writing can be extremely therapeutic, as you well know,” she says.
“Thank you, Dr. Gupta!” I say brightly, as Auntie O breezes in with an aromatic takeout container. Thank God.