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“Mimi,” Dad says, trying to coax me, “I need you to calm down. Mom can’t be here right now.”
“Liar!” I shout. I may have forgotten whatever happened that gave me this freakish headache and turned me into a person I don’t even know anymore, but I certainly haven’t forgotten my mother. And nothing would keep her from being here with me. Nothing at all.
“Calm down, baby.” Dad’s smothering me. I kick and fling my body. I may not remember my senior trip, but I know that he wouldn’t really hurt me. So I fight back. He can’t subdue me this easily.
“Mimi, please.” He’s begging. Pleading. But I don’t care. He owes me answers. He owes me an explanation. And if he thinks that I’m going to calm myself down before he tells me what happened ...
The doorbell rings. We both stop struggling. Straighten ourselves up as if it’s written out for us on some script. I tidy up the couch cushions that fell askew in our skirmish. Dad goes to the door.
“Detective Drisklay.” I can tell from Dad’s voice he isn’t happy for the intrusion. The name Drisklay does nothing to jog my defective memory, but my brain latches onto the word detective.
“Who’s here?” I call out, afraid that Dad might send this stranger on his way. I want this detective to know I’m here. “Who is it?” I call out again.
I hear a mumbled response from the foyer, then the sound of the door clicking shut. I strain. Two sets of footsteps are coming toward the living room.
“Mia,” Dad says, his face taut, his expression set, “this is Detective Drisklay. He’s got some questions for you if you feel up to it.”
Do I feel up to it? Absolutely. Because I’ve got questions of my own.
“Can I get you a drink, Detective?” Dad’s voice isn’t warm and hospitable like Mom’s would be. In fact, there’s a hint of cold irony in his tone.
Detective Drisklay holds up a Styrofoam cup. “Brought my own.” He sits down in Dad’s recliner. I’m surprised that Dad doesn’t ask him to move but instead remains standing, his arms crossed.
The detective doesn’t even glance over at him but fixes his eyes on me. “How are you feeling today?”
There’s a familiarity to his tone that makes me wonder if he’s met me before.
“We’ve had a little bit of a rough morning,” Dad interjects, but the detective doesn’t take his eyes off mine.
Drisklay sets his Styrofoam cup on our coffee table and pulls out a little notebook from his breast pocket. “Mind if I ask you a couple questions? It’d really help us with our investigation.”
Dad takes a step forward. “I haven’t had the chance to tell her yet. She still doesn’t know.”
Drisklay continues to frown. Continues to ignore my dad. I look to my father. A minute ago, I was literally beating against his chest, pleading for answers. Now I just want him to swoop in and carry me to my bed and tuck me in with the promise that this is all some sort of terrible dream. I don’t like this Drisklay guy, don’t like his hardened scowl or his gravelly voice. Everything about him is harsh. Like a sharpened tack or a rusty nail.
I don’t know who he is or what he’s doing here, but I want him out of my house.
Now.
Drisklay scribbles something in his notebook then glances up at me like I’m some sort of test rat or science experiment gone wrong. If he knows about my story, if he knows what I’ve been through, I’d expect at least some slight hint of compassion in his expression, but his face is made of granite, and I hate him.
Dad takes a step closer to me. Instinctively I reach out and grab his hand. I’m trembling, even though I don’t know why.
“I told you,” Dad tells the detective tersely, “this isn’t going to get you anywhere. She doesn’t remember.”
Drisklay clears his throat. I’ve never seen anyone ignore my dad the way the detective does.
“I’m sorry you’ve had a rough morning, Miss Blanca.” There’s something about the way he says my name. Something slimy. When this detective guy goes away, I want to take a shower. I feel exposed. Filthy. Maybe after he leaves, I’ll forget him entirely. Worse things could happen, right?
The detective leans forward. Stares right at me. “So. What can you tell me about the night of May 24?”
He repeats the question once more before I’m crying again. I feel like a baby, but I can’t help it. “I don’t remember anything. Why do you keep asking me?”
The detective’s only been here a few minutes, but long enough that I feel even more confused and terrified than before. In a childish fit, I want to yell at Dad and tell him to kick this guy out of our home. My memory’s broken. That’s what Dad told me. Something happened at the cabin. Something that stole so much of what I took for granted. The detective wants me to remember, but Dad hasn’t told me anything. I just want to know where Mom is. That’s the only thing that could even begin to fix this. Seeing Mom, falling into her arms, hearing her promise me that everything’s going to be all right.
“The night of May 24,” Drisklay repeats, only increasing my hatred toward him. “What can you tell me?”
“Nothing. I don’t remember anything.”
Dad’s sitting next to me on the couch, and I cling to him. My breath comes in short, choppy bursts. How can I tell these two men that the only thing I want in the world is my mother?
Finally, Drisklay lets out a long sigh. “I want to help you, Miss Blanca.” I wish he’d stop calling me that. I want to scream every time he says it. “But I can’t help you until you tell me the truth. The doctors said your memory should have recovered by now ...”
“Well, obviously it didn’t,” Dad interrupts, taking a step toward the detective.
Drisklay finally takes the hint and stands up. “Well, call me when that changes,” he says. “Our investigation depends on it.”
Dad gives him another one of those sarcastic sneers. “Trust me, when Mia recovers, you’ll be the first to know.”