Stephen and I spend Sunday running around outside, throwing Nerf balls at each other. I’m grateful he is there to take my mind off my chat with Dad and the questions it left me with.
After dinner, though, when Stephen is working on his homework at the kitchen table, they creep into my mind. Why did Jessica go into the pen? How will I ever figure it out when my brain refuses to cough up the memories?
I decide to watch TV, then remember that tomorrow is my next appointment with Dr. K. and I still haven’t done my homework. I sit at the desk in my room and take out some paper and a pen.
I am too strong for self-pity, Dr. K. said. I’m not sure what she meant exactly, but I am going to give this positivity thing a try.
10 Things I Am Grateful For
The first five come easily.
1. I am grateful that I can walk. And talk. And I don’t drool or have to wear diapers like some of the people I saw in the hospital.
2. I am grateful that my family has not given up on me.
3. I am grateful that my little brother pretends not to notice that he is smarter than me now.
4. I am grateful that Ginger doesn’t seem to notice that anything has changed.
5. I am grateful that Mother lets me eat all the cereal I want.
Then I am stuck. All that comes to mind is the negative: I’ve lost my past, I make my friends squirm, I watch too much TV, I sleep too much, my brain doesn’t work properly. But I know Dr. K. will not let me get away with doing half the work, so I try to fake one.
6. I am grateful for my frog collection.
I eye the pathetic little creatures with their cracks and missing body parts, and I can’t lie. I cross it out.
A new number six:
6. I am grateful that I don’t smell bad. Not that I know of anyway.
I’m totally scraping the bottom of the barrel.
7. I am grateful for Felonia and Sam and Dr. DiCaprio on Through the Hourglass. They give me something to look forward to every day.
8. I am grateful for the trees and sky and squirrels.
9. I am grateful for naps.
The last one is only mostly true, but it’s the best I can do.
10. I am grateful that, on that Very Bad Day, Ramses was not pissed off enough to kill me.
I take stock of the page, doubting this is what Dr. K. is after. But it’s all I’ve got. I open my desk drawer and dig around for an envelope to put it in, but I don’t find one, so I head to Stephen’s room. His desk is piled high with books and papers and a bunch of magnets, and in the corner there’s a framed photo of the Girl and him, hiking sticks in hand. In the top drawer, there are pencil crayons and some LEGO pieces. The next drawer holds construction paper and a plastic bin. I try to pull the bin out, but something is wedged behind it, so I reach in and feel something soft—maybe a sock. A good yank, and the bin slides out of the drawer.
Even though it’s partly balled up, I recognize the soft thing from the Girl’s weird selfies: it’s the bright red scarf she draped over her face and wrapped around her neck. An odd feeling, like I’m holding something the Girl cared about, something private, comes over me. Stephen must have been playing with it or using it to tie up some contraption. As much as I hated those photos, the scarf was hers, and maybe it meant something to her.
I give up on the envelope and shove the scarf in my pocket. Back in my room, I put the scarf where it belongs: in the Girl’s shoebox, with all the other mementos of her lost life.