7

Jane’s Book of Memory, written in the
days and weeks following the crash

This is about my first night home in my old room. It was like sleeping in a hotel where you have never been, and the walls are weighted with pictures from someone else’s life. But it’s your life. So they tell you. But do they edit the story for you?

I remember there was a reporter named Vasquez, a young, geeky man from the Austin newspaper waiting for us outside the house, asking if I had remembered anything more about the accident that had killed my next-door neighbor, and Mom got out of the car and screeched at him that he was trespassing and she would file a restraining order, and my head hurt so bad suddenly, I thought I would have to crawl to the door. The pain was blinding. I’d just made a brief reentry into this world and now I was going to leave it. I went to my knees. Vasquez said to Mom, “Ma’am, your daughter is fainting,” so then she had to stop yelling at him and help me. She kept bellowing at Vasquez, although it felt like nails in my brain when she did that.

Vasquez asked her about the suicide note. That had become a story because they hadn’t found it right away, the police had only found it the next day. It was in police custody as evidence and not to be discussed, but then the story leaked. This crash had been all over the news. Lakehaven kids. Kids of parents prominent in the high-tech community, Austin’s business jewel. A famous so-called “mom blogger” who had once drawn hundreds of thousands of daily readers a few years ago. Next-door neighbors. Childhood friends. Vasquez ended up writing three articles about me, a newspaper series he would call “The Girl Who Doesn’t Remember.” This was when all these book titles with “girl” were big and I guess he was trying to ride the wave. Or score a book deal off my misery. I’m sure he’s nice, to the people who know him.

We went inside and Mom slammed the door. More nails in the brain. I didn’t recognize anything. It was terrifying. My memories of my early life had only just begun to return, rising like scant bubbles to the surface of my mind. I (sort of) knew my mother now, and she had told me my father had died—after I had remembered him and asked for him twice.

I stared at the stairs, and the walls. This was just a new place that wasn’t the hospital. Mom started babbling. “This is the window where you used to wait for your father and me to come home from our jobs. We had an au pair then; she was from Sweden. Do you know that there’s a country called Sweden?”

I probably nodded.

“And here was where you fell down the stairs and bumped your head…I wrote a very popular piece about that on the blog when it happened…oh, gosh, do you think you hurt your brain then, maybe that’s why your memories aren’t coming back now, oh, I need to tell that to the doctor, I completely forgot”—like she was the one with amnesia—“so does any of it seem familiar?” So much expectation in that last word.

“A little,” I said, because it seemed to mean so much to her. Dr. K warned me not to lie about memories, but she needed to try living with this “Mom” person, who was constantly demanding that I test my memory, which was like catching smoke. Mom went to the window and looked outside, peering past the curtain to see if the reporter was still there.

“I don’t like him. Not at all,” she said quietly.

I wanted to ask about the note. I decided to wait until we were settled.

I stood in the den. Looked around. Suddenly I could picture toys on the floor and a Christmas tree in the corner, a hazy image…but I didn’t know where my room was.

I wandered into the kitchen, to the breakfast nook. This seemed more familiar—the smells of food, me sitting at the dinner table while Mom typed in her office—yes, there it was, through the French doors, her antique table and her computer. I remembered her office. A little swell of joy opened in my chest.

“Do you still write the mommy blog?” I wasn’t asking from memory; she had talked about it while I lay in the hospital bed, working it into conversations with an odd pride.

“You always called it that. Never just ‘the blog’ or by its title, Blossoming Laurel.” An edge in her voice.

“Sorry. The blog.” I thought the title a bit too cutesy, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

“Not since the accident. Too many people felt I hadn’t been a good mother…” Then she stopped. “I’m tired of writing it. Of writing about you. You didn’t like it as you got older.”

I felt a vague unease when I thought of her blog, but I didn’t know why. That was for worrying about later. I went back to the front; the reporter was still out there, but standing away from our yard.

I took a step toward the stairs and Mom realized, maybe, that I should be the priority. I looked at her and wondered if she’d slept at all in the past week.

She enclosed me in a hug. “You remember your room, I’m sure. Let’s go see it.” I followed her up the stairs. I paused at the family photos on the wall. Me, as a baby, as a toddler, as an elementary school student. And a man.

“Is that Dad?” I asked. She hadn’t yet shown me a picture. She didn’t have one on her phone, hadn’t brought one to the hospital.

She nodded. “Do you remember him?”

“I knew it was him. Before I asked. But…I don’t see him, like in a movie of my memories, doing anything yet.”

My dad. He had a blondish beard in some and was clean shaven in others.

“Jane? Do you remember me yet, or do you call me Mom because I told you to?” Her voice was tense.

“I remember you, Mom,” I lied, because it seemed to matter, and she was all I had right now, and with time, little moments of the past with her were beginning to take shape, to clearly appear. Her office, the smells of dinner in the kitchen. But only scattered bits.

“Tell me something you remember.” She sounded insistent.

I grabbed at the smoke in my brain and came up with: “You sitting at your desk and writing Blossoming Laurel on your computer while I ate dinner.”

It was vague, but it was enough. And apparently accurate. Mom tried a bright smile, and then trudged ahead, determined to get me to my room.

You’d think the place I spent the most time would send a resounding boom of memory through my head. It didn’t mean much. The room was medium-sized, with a bed and movie posters. I remembered where the bookshelf was. The movie posters on the wall meant nothing to me.

“You like movies,” Mom said. “You said you might want to be a screenwriter one day. Or write for video games or television. You’re a very gifted writer, Jane, like me, and you will be again.” As if any gifts I had might be lost along with the memories.

“You mentioned that,” I said. It was weird that I felt like I had to keep her calm, when I was the one in crisis. There was a movie poster from Casablanca (a black-and-white movie, how odd), from The Piano (a musical, maybe?), from The Hours, with three women staring back at me. I knew none of these films. I wondered if I would like them now. Would my tastes change if I couldn’t remember what I liked?

I had not remembered the room’s location, but I immediately recognized my bedspread. The arrangement of books on one shelf, unchanged from when I was younger. I knelt and studied the titles. I recognized them all. I realized, with a jolt, that one was missing. My favorite: A Wrinkle in Time. How could I remember that book but not all my friends or my own father’s passing?

But the book was gone. Was I imagining that I thought it should be there? It was an odd thing to notice, but I was clinging to any recognizable sign that this was the home I knew. Why was it so important? Why?

“Where’s my copy of A Wrinkle in Time?” I asked.

“I don’t know, honey, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. You remember that’s your favorite book?” Hope sweetened her voice.

“Yes. Meg and Charles Wallace and Aunt Beast and Camazotz. I remember the whole story.”

I thought she was going to cry, maybe in relief. If I could remember fictional people and places, more memories of what was real would surely soon return.

Below the shelf of books was a line of video games: more of the puzzle-solving variety than first-person shooters. I pulled one out at random, with two cartoonish, big-eyed girls on the cover: SPYGIRLZ! I smiled.

“You and David used to play video games together,” she said, then bit her lip.

I stared at the game. Remember, I told myself. Remember. You played it with David. But nothing. I put it back and moved away from the games.

On the shelf were sketchbooks. I pulled one down. It was designed for drawing but I’d filled it with stories. Several pages were full of three-panel comic strips with sarcastic teddy bears. “You and David made comic strips just for fun, when you were little. He drew the pictures and you wrote the stories. I wanted to send them to the newspaper, they were so cute. He drew very well, he wanted to major in art, but Cal and Perri would hear none of that.” I studied the drawings: cutesy bears, confident superheroes. He was talented.

I moved to the other side of the room. Photos of me, with other kids, were stuck on a blue corkboard above my desk.

And a picture of my dad. Dead from a gun accident. Now Mom had to tell me twice that he was dead. She carried a heavy load, I was aware now. I wondered how she would get through this nightmare—and what I would do if she didn’t, if she couldn’t cope. Her strength seemed, well, as variable as the wind.

“You made me buy blue, although I wanted to get you pink,” Mom said, pointing at the corkboard. “You might like the pink better now.” As if my amnesia was a good way to enforce her decor choices.

“The blue is fine,” I said. I didn’t want her to alter anything in this room. This was a moment of my old life, untouched since the accident. This was a map to me and my past few years. The last time I’d been here I’d had no idea that my life was about to evaporate. I looked at the pictures on the shelf. The framed ones seemed to be reserved for adults. Me and Dad. Me and Mom. Not Mom and Dad together. I wondered, What was their marriage like? Did they love each other or did they have troubles? I have no idea. How odd not to know. Then to the blue corkboard. Most of these were with high school friends. Standing awkwardly in a group, the girls in pretty dresses, the boys in suits or ties, all of us by a pool.

“Homecoming,” Mom said. “Do you remember that?”

I knew the tall, broad-shouldered blond boy next to me was named Trevor Blinn, he’d come to see me once in the hospital after I woke up. He seemed quiet and slightly scared of me, like he didn’t know what to say, but he had brought flowers and I’d watched him give my mom an awkward hug. I didn’t want anyone hugging on me. I was still physically so sore from the accident. An old friend, although he’d certainly gotten taller and bigger since I remembered middle school.

But he made a memory tickle.

“Husky jeans.” I pointed at Trevor. “When we were little. A girl with a big red bow in her hair made fun of Trevor having to wear husky-sized jeans, and I was so mad at her, we got into a fight on the playground and I snatched that bow right out of her hair. I got sent to the principal’s office and the boys teased Trevor about me fighting for him. Fourth grade?”

“Yes,” Mom nodded. “You remember.”

“Well, I remember that one incident. Don’t get too excited. You picked me up at school.” The words came in a rush. “You took me home and talked to me about it and then wrote about it in your blog. But you got me pizza for lunch, and Trevor’s mom called to say she was sorry I’d gotten into trouble.” A memory, slick and clear and newly born. “And David and I did a comic strip about a girl who fights bullies and called it Bowsnatcher!” I thought I would faint. Memory, bright and clear and full. Overwhelming.

“And you still hate giant bows.” Mom pressed her hands to her mouth in happiness.

I didn’t recall my feelings on that important fashion issue. I looked closer at the homecoming picture. Adam was on the other side of the group, smirking; I knew his name from his hospital visit but remembered nothing about him. How could I forget that handsome smirk? He had announced, as if nothing was wrong with me, “I know you don’t remember me, but you will, I’m your friend who’s a bit of a jerk.”

The pretty dark-haired girl next to me was Kamala. Our heads were nearly together, our smiles matching. [Written in the margin in a different color of ink: In two more weeks many more childhood memories of Kamala and Trevor would start to rush back, but I didn’t know that then.]

And then the boy I’d killed. David. He was in two pictures. One, when we were young, maybe eight, smiling, his front teeth missing. We were both in matching blue-and-white football jerseys. He had a cowlick in his dark hair, I had on a thin matching ribbon in mine—decidedly not a bow—that went with my jersey. I looked real cute. I remembered this. It didn’t come like an electrical shock. The memory was just there, as if waiting for me.

“We played flag football together. The team was the Lions.”

“Yes! When you were little, for one season. You wanted to do it because David did it and you hated to stay on the sidelines.” Mom nearly clapped her hands together. Every new memory felt like a yard of land won in a battle.

“One of the other moms didn’t want me to play,” I said. “She wanted me to be a cheerleader instead.”

Mom nodded.

“You and Dad politely told her I would play and that was the end of that.”

Our smiles were huge. But then I thought of David, dead, and the smile faded.

“There don’t seem to be a lot of recent pictures of me.” The ones with me and Kamala smiling, being sisterly, were all when I was a few years younger.

“You stepped back from a lot of activities after your father died. You felt depressed.”

Depressed. Who had I been, what sort of young woman had I been before the crash? And who was I going to be now?

“Mom, what is this suicide note the reporter talked about?”

Her face went to stone. “Never you mind that, it’s a mistake.”

“Mom. Tell me.”

“Let’s look at your clothes. And your playlist. I bet those will jog your memories.”

“Mom, tell me.”

She sat on the bed and gestured me to sit next to her. I did. She took my hand. Her own was cold yet slicked with sweat. I wanted to pull mine away but I dared not. She put her fingers under my jaw and turned me to face her. “Baby, they found a note, so they say, in the grass down the hill. Like it came from the car, there were odds and ends in the back—you know, our reusable shopping bags, a canvas folding seat I take to the football games, a couple of books…and a bunch of it spilled out as the car rolled and the windows smashed, and this note was in it. Written by you, they say. I saw it and it sort of looks like your handwriting, but none of you kids use cursive anymore, you all print the same to me, so who’s to say.”

“What did the note say?”

She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket. “This is a copy they gave me. So, as they said, I can get you help if you need it. Not the original. The police have that. Or the investigator working for their lawyer, he’s all cozy with the cops, he’s the one jabbering about it.”

“Lawyer?” I was waiting for her to hand me the note.

“Never mind that.” I had noticed Mom had a habit of mentioning unpleasant subjects, nestling them in your brain, and then telling you not to worry about them. “I think this note could wait until you’re further along in your recovery. That damn reporter. I hate him for yelling that at you.”

I held out my hand, the one that wasn’t in a cast. “What does it say?”

She seemed to take my measure. She put her gaze to the note, and read aloud:

I can’t do this. I can’t. I wish I were dead. I wish we were dead together. Both of us.

She folded the note. “Obviously this is a fake.”

I stood because I wanted to get away from the words. Then I sat down again on the edge of the bed, my legs, my brain, my heart all like water. “So. I had that note with me and I crashed my own car…”

Mom’s hand closed hard around my upper arm. “You listen to me, Jane. It’s not a suicide note. It cannot be. It just isn’t.”

Was I supposed to sleep in this room with the photo of the boy I killed looking back at me? I ached, everywhere, my head, my guts. I got up and I took down the pictures of David.

“What does that mean?” Mom asked. “Jane?”

“I think I need to lie down,” I told Mom.

“Yes. Of course. I’ll go see about dinner. People brought food here while you were recovering…before they heard about the note…”

And then they stopped was the rest of the sentence, I guessed. “People think I killed David trying to commit suicide.” The words felt like ash in my mouth.

She nodded and I lay on the bed. I thought the phone might ring, friends or neighbors calling about us, but it was quiet. I looked at the picture of my friends and wondered if Kamala and Trevor would come see me again. If anyone ever would. Finally, I slept. When I woke up I felt no mad surge of memory. I wasn’t a cursed princess waking up from a dream, back into the life I knew. I could hear Mom’s voice outside, talking with a neighbor. Loudly. Later Mom would tell me it was Perri Hall, telling Mom to tell me to stay away from her family.