AFTER I DISCOVERED THE STONE, I gave myself ten days. Long enough to get some money together but not so long that I’d get comfortable in this borrowed life on borrowed time. I could be released from the hospital any day now, but it’s a risk I had to take.
My days form a rhythm. Breakfast with Ma from seven to eight, teleconferences with the pro bono lawyers Mr. Sato got me from the ACLU until nine. He didn’t ask too many questions about why I needed to talk to them, and I didn’t give him any answers. Lunch, gaming, then dinner alone so I can research until lights-out, and then poker. Tamar doesn’t remember anything else, and I don’t reveal that I know any more than she does about the stone. I try to bring up more about the past memories I’ve had. No, that’s a lie—I don’t try; I think about trying to say something, but I never do. Maybe I really did lose my mind, and if that’s true, I’m going to keep this to myself. But that doesn’t stop me from looking up names, dates, birth and death certificates, and census data on ancestry sites. I remember everyone, all of my mothers, every best friend, every slight, every injustice.
I sleep maybe four hours at night; the rest of the time I’m hustling. Dr. Swafford still nips at my heels, but the online pots he suggested I look into are larger and anonymous. A week later I’ve got ten thousand dollars in bitcoin and other currency in my account and a very contrite burn doctor clipping away at my bandages.
“We’ve talked about expectations, but I want you to be ready for the changes. Okay?” he says, patiently.
I nod. The face in the pictures is some other kid. Some kid who was blown up in an airport explosion. That kid is dead. Whoever I see in the mirror is me now.
“Don’t be nervous.” Tamar’s voice is steady and clear. It’s a statement. Maybe a bit of a command. It’s comforting. It helps.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Tamar,” Ma says, but she doesn’t mean it. Of course, she knew Tamar before the accident, but she says she’s totally different than she used to be. She says the old Tamar was submissive, almost to a fault, and more feminine, though I can’t make out much of what that must mean. It worries Ma that a personality can change so much and that she may have lost her cupcake-competition baking partner. Ma’s hopeful for me, I think, but anytime Tamar is around, her smile gets just a bit tighter.
The air feels cool against my skin as layers of warmth are peeled away. I work my jaw left and right, opening my mouth, sticking out my tongue, loosening what has been stiff, experiencing for the first time what it’s like to sit without a mask.
Dr. Swafford’s face, which was set in a schooled, concentrated glare, breaks into a smile. “Now, there’s a handsome guy,” he says before handing me a mirror. “You’ve got a bit of scarring, and we had the plastic surgeon do a rhinoplasty, so your nose won’t look exactly the same, but I’m happy. Very happy.”
I can hear Ma draw in a shaky breath as I turn around and then blow it out quickly. She looks sad, shoulders drawn in as she stares. I flick my eyes to Tamar, who’s wearing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.
“You look so… good… but different,” Ma says on a breath. “So, so, so different.”
Dr. Swafford takes her by the hand as the tears that were just swimming in her eyes a second ago begin to fall in earnest.
“Let’s take a walk,” Dr. Swafford offers, rubbing his thumb across the top of her hand affectionately.
As soon as the door closes, Tamar relaxes and leans forward as much as she can in her wheelchair. “You almost look as good as me,” she says, and smirks.
“Now I’m really scared to look. I might be blinded by my own beauty.”
“I have to wonder if all that charm is a personality quirk or if you really mean the things you say when you’re flirting,” she adds.
“Is it flirting if it’s true? My mother says her psychic told her I’d die young. I don’t think she really believes I cheated death, not just yet,” I say.
“Quit stalling and look,” she urges.
She’s right. I’ve been stalling, even if it’s just a few seconds. “Right.”
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I blow it all out at once as I raise the hand mirror.
“Disappointed?” she asks.
“No… just, I thought that maybe—”
“You would recognize yourself?” she interjects. “I could have told you not to dream that big. I still see a stranger in the mirror. It doesn’t change anything,” she says, and frowns.
“It does for her.” I point my chin to the door. I can still see my mother’s back retreating down the hallway.
I leave a note for my mother on my bed and at Leo’s request get chili dogs delivered to the game room for a Sandy’s versus Rush’s restaurant showdown. The competition delights everyone on the floor and ignites a debate that leaves no one the winner. It’s excitement and distraction—exactly what I need. Once the last votes are in, I ask the night nurse for a little fresh air alone. He doesn’t so much as blink an eye, just nods and keeps staring at whatever charts he’s scouring. I don’t have to explain the duffel bag across my shoulder, which irritates me just a little bit because I came up with a really good story. It’s shift change and the NBA finals are tonight. Everyone with a screen is glued to it, and even the suits are caught up in the hysteria. Basketball. It’s the universal language.
As nervous and as prepared with excuses as I am, it’s all unnecessary. The ride-share is already idling when I walk out of the employee exit of the hospice wing and I’m barely in the car when Tamar rolls out a minute later from the opposite building.
“You look good!” I shout from the passenger window before getting out to help her into the back seat. The driver, a sunburned Carolina fan, as evidenced by his well-worn baseball cap, folds her chair and slides it into the trunk carefully, along with her crutches.
“Thanks. You do too,” she says. I feel the excitement floating off her skin in invisible waves. Our feelings are mutual.
I’m nervous, too nervous to chat during the ride, and now that we’re at the train station waiting to board, I still can’t find much to say.
I know what happens when she and I are alone. I remember every look, kiss, and touch. But she doesn’t, which means I have to keep my mouth shut and my hands to myself.
I’m just happy she’s coming with me. That has to count for something.
And right now, it’s damn near all I’ve got.