I Can't Remember

CHAPTER 1

Blood. There’s so much blood. Disoriented, I scan the area around me, but my gaze is magnetically drawn back to my hands, covered in what looks like dry, brick-colored paint. I scream when I see him. Phil. Lying face down, partially obscured by the bushes. I’d recognize those grey jeans and blue Chuck Taylor’s anywhere.

Maybe it’s best if I back up and introduce myself before we get into the blood and the dying. I don’t want to think about it, and I’m sure you don’t either.

We’ll get there, I promise, but for now, let’s start with this. My name is Mia, and after 9 pm, I can’t remember. I don’t mean I can’t remember like I am forgetful, I mean I literally can’t remember. Anything. At least from 9 pm until I wake up the next morning. And before you tell me that this isn’t possible, let me assure you, it is. I’ve been living in this reality my whole life.

Granted, we didn’t begin to suspect that there was a problem until I was eight years old. Before then, I was usually in bed by eight, so there was never an opportunity to discover my strange (and utterly inconvenient) memory loss. Every once-in-a-while, when I would stay up late for a celebration of some sort, my parents chalked up my obliviousness the next day to sleep deprivation. I, on the other hand, assumed they were making things up to be funny. Which, by the way, it wasn’t.

Anyway, as I got older, even I started to think there must be something wrong with me. When Sarah, my best friend in middle school—and high school...and kind of elementary school too, so basically just my best friend, ha!—asked me how my first kiss was, I legit snorted chocolate milk out my nose.

What first kiss? I asked, still sputtering slightly, attempting to wipe the milk from the table with those utterly useless paper towels they have sitting on each table in the cafeteria. Sarah laughed. In my face. And I honestly don’t blame her.

So you’re not acknowledging that it happened? she asked incredulously.

Sarah, I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about.

Last night! With Craig?

Craig would never kiss me, but I love your willingness to jump into my daily fantasy, I said, unamused.

Unbelievable, she muttered, picking up her tray and stomping less than gracefully away from the table.

It’s crazy because I can still see that scene in my mind—from up above, like I am an observer, even though that has to be a fake memory, right? It’s been five years, but the confusion and frustration come right back when I envision my mess-of-a-self sitting at that dirty, plastic table.

How dare she try to get my hopes up like that and then pretend that I was the one who had issues. I remember taking a bitter bite of my turkey sandwich and then looking up to see Craig staring at me from across the room. My mouth just froze. Stopped working completely. I was a deer in headlights as he waved at me. Craig Matthews waved at me, and I could’ve sworn there was a hint of a blush on his beautiful, beautiful cheeks.

That’s when I threw up. I mean, not right there in the cafeteria. I at least made it down the hall into the restroom by the office. The paper towels didn’t help with that either.

And that was the night I finally came to terms with the fact that something was definitely wrong. My parents had suggested that I see a psychologist, neurologist, and plenty of other ‘ologists’ for years, but I was fine! Right?

Hearing all this, I know what you’re thinking, but I promise I was really ordinary! Like, impressively average. Until I wasn’t.

Now that you’re all caught up, let’s start from the beginning: one week before Phil’s death.

Mia?

Hmm? I say, snapping back at the sound of my Aunt’s voice, almost falling off my stool.

Did you want any soup?

I strain my neck to see what’s in this new concoction. You can never be too careful with Aunt Nina’s cooking.

What’s the green stuff? I ask, wrinkling my nose.

Sorrel. From the garden, she answers, giving me an expectant look, her dreamcatcher earrings dangling furiously. That’s what I showed you yesterday, in the box by the window? she reminds, stirring and rolling her eyes at my lack of recognition. It has a lovely lemony flavor. You’ll like it.

I’ll try it, I hedge.

She laughs, stretching her sun-kissed, toned arms upward and pulling a hand-made ceramic dish from the shelf. She carefully ladles the quinoa, broth, and greens into it, catching a drip on the side of the bowl with her finger and quickly licking it off. Setting the steaming soup in front of me, she turns to ladle out her portion.

She looks like my mom most when she’s cooking. A tendril of curly, grey hair escapes from her twist and frames her face. I watch, waiting for her to tuck it behind her ear as I’ve seen so many times before. She does, and I grin. Ever since I was a kid, I wished I could have light hair like hers when she was younger, but at least I got the curls.

How are your classes? Nina asks, sitting on the stool next to me and leaning her elbows on the counter.

I blow on my soup, and the steam prickles the skin on my face. Good so far. I have midterms in a week, I think?

Wow, that came up fast.

You’re telling me, I grin, lifting a spoonful of soup and tentatively testing the temperature with my lips.

Nina raises her eyebrows, and they disappear under her bangs.

It’s not the worst, I say, taking another bite.

You’re welcome.

The next morning, I quickly toast a bagel, grab my backpack, and head out the front door. Droplets of moisture from the morning mist cool my face, and I shiver. Unlatching the gate next to the house, I push the weathered wood to the side and reach for my bike. Yanking on the handlebars, I curse under my breath. I don’t need my bike to be stuck this morning; I’m already late. Since it refuses to budge, I resign myself to sliding along the fence behind the bike to assess the problem. When I have significantly dirtied the backside of my pants, I crouch down and see that a branch somehow tangled in the back tire. Lifting the tire, I move it forward and then resume my fence shimmy.

Finally out on the street, I hop on my bike and begin to ride the twenty-five minutes to campus. Heading up Sacramento Street, I look longingly at the Homemade Cafe. This bagel may as well be a crust of stale bread compared to the heavenly smells wafting my direction. Maybe I can convince Aunt Nina to take me there on the weekend. I’ve got a major hankering for pecan waffles.

This street always reminds me of home. Even though my house in Sacramento is only about an hour north of here, it’s just far enough that I only saw my parents a few times last semester, and one of those times was over Christmas break (which doesn’t count). They were busy with work, and I was swamped with homework. A ridiculous amount of homework. Freshman year at UC Berkeley is no joke.

My legs burn by the time I’m halfway up University, but I don’t have the luxury of taking a break. Stupid branch. Finishing my bagel, I put both hands on the handlebars and that feels instantaneously more comfortable.

Wait, is this why the right side of my body is more toned than my left? I noticed that in the mirror last week—my left side has a much bigger love handle and that’s weird, right? Aren’t most people symmetrical? Mind blown. Can I even ride a bike one-handed with my left? Or, I guess an easier solution would be to get up earlier and eat before I get on my bike...but that seems unlikely, I muse as I turn along the path that leads to my building.

Though my comparative literature class is reasonably small, it’s not small enough that my late entrance will go unnoticed. I take a deep breath and pull the door open as quietly as possible and quickly take a seat in the nearest row. Plastering a wow, that’s so interesting look on my face, I keep my eyes trained on the white-board as I reach for my notebook and pen. After erroneously grabbing three pencils, I finally find my pen and write the date in the corner of my paper.

Copying the words from the board, The Pilgrim’s Progress, I finally tune in to what the Professor is saying.

...actually written in prison. So you can imagine the physical and mental condition Bunyan was in at the time.

Someone taps my shoulder and I turn in surprise. An adorable boy has leaned over three seats to get my attention. I stare at him.

That was smooth, he mouths, grinning. I continue to stare blankly, still in complete shock at seeing such an attractive human. How did he even reach that far? His arms must be long...is he tall? Does he look tall? When my cheeks begin to blush, I clear my throat and smile before turning back to my notes.

Smooth? Like coming in late? Was he watching? I didn’t hear anything else during the rest of the lecture. Though, looking down at my notes at the end of class, I am happily surprised to see that I at least wrote things down. Take that, Mom. Clearly, I can multitask.

Shoving my book and pen in my bag, I quickly exit, refusing to make more of a fool of myself in front of perfectly-tousled-hair guy in there. One down, three more classes to go.

CHAPTER 2

So, at this point, you may think you know where this is headed. And you’d be right. Gorgeous boy in my class is Phil, and yes, he’s dead now. Very, very dead. But I need you to pay attention because, if you remember, there’s one really important piece of information in all this. I don’t remember anything past 9 pm. And I woke with blood on my hands.

I know, I know, you probably have lots of questions about my neurological condition—how do I deal with it? Do I have any social life? Or maybe your questions are more about Phil’s death. I hate to disappoint, but you literally know as much as I do at this juncture. About the death part. Well, I guess that’s not totally true. I shouldn’t have used the word ‘literally,’ and I apologize. As for the personal stuff? Let me give you the basics.

I say ‘9 pm,’ but to be specific, the testing has actually found my memory begins to fail anytime between 9 pm and 11 pm each night. Since it’s not exact, I take precautions based on the earliest potential lapse. It’s annoying but doable. I’ve found that sharing information with a third-party is the safest way to go. I learned the hard way that taking notes on my phone isn’t fool-proof (don’t ask).

As you’ve probably guessed, my condition is extremely rare. Most doctors have never heard of it, but it does have a pretty impressive name: Circadian Synaptic Plasticity Disorder. Fancy, right? I won’t inundate you with medical terminology, but here’s a visual. Imagine that your hippocampus is a notepad and your synapses fire to write memories on it like a ball-point pen. The ink is wet initially, but it eventually dries, and your brain stores it either for the short-term or, if that same message is written intensely or regularly, it can be stored much longer. My brain after approximately 9 pm is more like...tissue paper. With disappearing ink.

The experts think it has something to do with hormone levels that fluctuate abnormally in my body, but they haven’t found a solution. Yet. Whenever I explain this to people, they inevitably ask, Have you tried ___, and yes. I’ve tried it all. I’ve attempted over-sleeping, sleep-deprivation, dietary restrictions, stimulants, you name it, but nothing has changed the fact that once it starts, I’m out of memory luck for a minimum of seven hours.

And...I’m sorry to bore you. Enough about that.

After arriving home, I talk with Nina, sleep, wake up and go to class again, cautiously look for Phil (who isn’t there and it kind of ruins my concentration yet again. Pilgrim, what?), come home, talk with Mom on the phone this time, sleep, and...okay. Right here is where my story starts for real.

You’re not going to bike today? Nina asks, slipping through the patio door with a handful of fresh-cut herbs.

Why do you say that? I ask, leaning on the counter, my mouth full of bagel.

She eyes me, a smirk on her face. Well, let’s see, she says, setting the herbs next to the sink and placing a hand on her hip. "You’ve straightened your hair—and we both know that if you cover it with a helmet, those waves are going to come right back out—and you’re eating breakfast a full thirty minutes before you normally do—which is why we’re crossing paths at all this morning. And you’re wearing a skirt. Shall I go on?"

Okay, okay, Sherlock, I laugh. I wanted to...not look like a slob today.

Any particular reason? she asks, grabbing a colander and turning on the faucet to rinse the herbs.

No, I lie, taking another bite of breakfast.

Well, you look nice, she says.

I finish my food and set my plate on the counter by the sink. See you later, I say, then walk to the door and sling my bag over my shoulder.

I wave to the Fish House as I walk past. If you’ve never seen this particular Berkeley installment, you’re missing out. As a little girl, I imagined the nautical wonderfulness that must have existed behind the front door. Now, I’m pretty sure it’s just an ordinary house with portholes.

Walking sounded like a good idea, but now that I’ve been pounding the pavement for over ten minutes and I’m still a million blocks away from campus (exact measurement), I’m regretting it slightly. It will be worth it, I remind myself. Because today is the day.

Today is the day I muster up enough courage to say ‘hi’ to Phil. And I didn’t want to do that with sweaty bike hair. So, wearing my favorite Madewell skirt and flats, I will march into that lecture hall and sit next to him. Maybe near him, not right next to him. My hands start to sweat. That would be a little presumptuous. But he already made contact, so it wouldn’t be that weird, right? I stretch my arms in front of me, butterflies swirling in my stomach. I’ll sit next to him. Just with a seat between us, so it doesn’t feel crowded. We all like our personal space.

I finally reach the building with minutes to spare and rush up the stairs. Flinging the door wide, I scan the seats and see Phil sitting in his usual spot. Another guy—black hair, kind of gangly—sits next to him, but I don’t let it faze me. I walk purposefully to his row and sit down without making eye contact. He’s definitely looking at me. I didn’t think about what came next in this plan, and now I’m panicking.

You’re on time today, he teases.

With my body bent over my bag, I look up. So are you, I say. So are you? That didn’t even make sense.

He laughs. I’m Phil. This is Max, he says, gesturing to his left.

Hey, I say, finding my pen and sitting up. I’m Mia.

They smile and nod politely. Nice to meet you, Max says.

Class starts before I can embarrass myself further, thankfully. Though it’s distracting sitting so close to Phil, I try to give my attention to the subject matter at hand. This time, I’m mostly successful.

Then the dreaded moment arrives. Class is ending, and a light panic hits my stomach because I didn’t know what to do next. What kind of person makes up a plan with only one step!? Do I strike up a conversation? Wait for him to do it? What would I even say?

Looking at the floor, I notice them. Baby blue Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers on Phil’s feet. Panic retreat! I can do this all day as long as unique footwear is involved. I grin, writing down the due-date of our next assignment and closing my book. Shoving it in my bag, I turn to him.

Okay. Tell me about the shoes, I say, motioning to the floor.

These? he asks. I don’t know, they’re just regular shoes.

No way, those are not ‘regular,’ I insist. I happen to have a brother who is a massive connoisseur of Converse, and he’s never found this color.

Never found it, or never looked? Phil asks, amused.

Oh, he’s looked. His goal is to own every Chuck. If I were a truly great sister, I’d steal those off your feet right now and take them to him, I say. What size are you?

I’m not telling you now, he laughs, hiding his feet under the seat.

He’s an eleven, Max says, then moves out of the way to avoid being punched.

Owen could work with that, I nod.

Owen. That’s your brother? Phil asks, standing.

I follow suit, picking up my bag. Yep.

Does he go here? I mean, should I watch out for him? Phil teases as we make our way up the ramp to exit the lecture hall.

You’re safe. He still lives at home in Sac.

That’s where you’re from?

Mmm-hmm—hey, you’re asking all of these questions, and you still haven’t answered mine, I accuse as Max waves goodbye and jogs out the back of the building.

About the shoes?

Yes, about the shoes! I laugh.

Max and I ran track in High School, he says, turning down the hall. Even though my next class is in the opposite direction, I follow him.

For Berkeley?

El Cerrito.

I nod.

Anyway, our coach said if we won State in the relay, he’d buy us all a pair of limited-edition Converse.

Nice, I say, folding my arms. So you didn’t just ‘run track’. You guys were really good.

He shrugs. We did alright.

I smile. I like modesty. So, you grew up in El Cerrito? I ask as we walk out the doors and down the steps.

Yep. Max and I lived just down the street from each other. You grew up in Sac?

"Kind of. A smaller