I wake up early the next morning, and the house is quiet. I sneak down to the basement, connect the camera to the computer and download the selfie the Girl took seconds before everything changed. The Girl’s face, my face, is calm on the screen, youthful and innocent. Seeing her there, I feel a little sad but hopeful too. I lift my phone and take a new selfie, then email it to myself.
Once I have both selfies in the photo-editing program, I manipulate their colors—bright orange, some lime green in the backdrop. I place them side by side and surround them with a thick black frame. It’s perfect. Me and the Girl. Not entirely different, but not exactly the same either.
I save the image as Us, and then write a text to Tarin.
Please don’t be mad. I want to be your friend, but I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt.
The next one is for Megan.
Hello BFF. I know I haven’t been easy to be around. Can I have another chance? No cupcakes, I promise.
There’s Ogre, too, to answer eventually. And also the email from the tbi support group that might be worth checking out. But more urgent, there is someone else I need to talk to before I can truly start again.
Downstairs, I throw on my plaid coat and step outside into the chilly morning air. Ginger follows as I make my way to the bison pen. The herd is partway out to the field, but when I call, a few cows gallop over toward the fence. Behind them, the obvious king of the herd emerges. It’s Ramses, and he makes his way more slowly, his head down. He doesn’t get as close to the fence as the cows, but he’s looking toward me, waiting.
“I came to make peace,” I say. “I don’t hate you for what happened. I was in your space, I know. You’re the boss, and you were probably doing what you felt was right to protect your family. I can’t blame you for that.”
He lets out a snort and paws at the ground.
“So how about it?” I say. “Do you think there’s room for both of us out here?”
Another snort, and he turns and gallops off into the herd, sending a few young bulls trotting away from the bales. I lean on the fence and watch them for a few minutes, and the tiniest bit of warmth rises up inside of me. Jessica loved them, and maybe I can learn to, at least a little.
In the house, everyone is still sleeping, so I go back up to my room. The Girl is waiting there for me.
“Good morning,” I say, “my friend.”
She looks worn out, but there is a glint of hope in her tired eyes.
“Stop beating yourself up over it,” I say. “You’re only human.” She leans in closer, and I know she is listening. Finally.
“We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?” I say. “I know I’ve been a nightmare to deal with. But whether we like it or not, we’ve built this life together.”
And then I take a deep breath and work up the guts to do something I can no longer put off: ask her to step aside. “Do you think I can do it, make it all work, on my own? I’m ready to try. The big question is, are you willing to let me?”
Her lips curl up into a gentle smile that spreads slowly to the rest of her face. For the first time outside of photos from before the Very Bad Day, I see that got-my-whole-life-ahead-of-me grin. At the same time, the Girl seems to be fading somehow, the image in the glass growing fainter.
Now, when I look at her, I see a little bit of myself too.
I might never get all my past back, I know. The memories may stay stubbornly stuck in the shadows of my mind forever. Or they may come back to me in bits and pieces, or in one huge wave when I least expect it. Whatever the future brings, I owe it to both of us to give this life of ours a real shot.
Because I do remember. I remember everything that’s happened to me since I came out of the Big Sleep, and how wrong it felt to be away from home. Most of all, I remember how, when Mom, Dad and Stephen wrapped their arms tightly around me, a feeling of warmth, of what must be love, flooded over me and filled me up.
And maybe this is the only memory that matters.