Forgotten

>When she composes herself, she pulls back, hands on my shoulders.

“I wasn’t trying to deceive you, London, you have to know that,” she says, looking right into me. “You lost your memory of the past, and I saw that as the one bright spot in all the darkness. You wouldn’t have to know the pain of loss. I could protect you from it. That’s what I’ve tried to do all these years.”

When she says it like that, though I may not agree, I can understand. A little.

I break free from my mother’s grasp and move to one of the cushiony chairs opposite the TV. I fold my legs up under me, even though I’m still wearing the shoes that carried me through the cemetery.

The notes told me that my mom has been keeping secrets, but I’ve been keeping them, too. It’s time to come clean.

To ask for help.

“Mom?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“I want to know all about Jonas. I know it’s hard for you, but I want you to tell me everything. It’s important.”

I grab the tops of my shoes and pull my feet closer to my body.

“I know it is, London. I know you want to understand your life.”

Taking a deep breath, I look into my mom’s dark eyes. For the first time, I understand the tinge of anguish that will always be there, even during happy occasions.

I don’t remember him. I don’t remember anything. But she remembers all of it.

“Mom, it’s more than wanting to understand. I think I need to hear about him. I think it might help me.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, confused.

Finally, I share with my mom what’s been building, what I know from notes that I’ve kept from the one person I should have opened up to long ago.

“I want you to tell me everything, because I think it might help me remember my past,” I say.

My mother sighs and rubs her eyes.

“London, you’ve been to doctors who have tried to jog your memory. I even took you to a hypnotist once. Why do you think that my telling you the story of your brother’s death will change things now?”

And here it is: the moment of truth. I check the clock on the wall for no particular reason. Then I shift in my seat, and pull myself tighter into a knot. I take a deep breath, and, finally, I tell my mother what she needs to hear.

“Mom, I remember Jonas’s funeral.”

Written 2/19; include in notes every night.

This morning I woke up remembering a memory I’m sure will stay with me forever. It’s a funeral… it was my brother Jonas’s. It’s the one past memory I have.

Mom kept it from me for years. She wanted to protect me. It’s hard not to be mad at her, but I try not to be. She didn’t think I needed the pain on top of the stress of the memory thing. She has to live with it every day and didn’t want me to have to, too.

Mom wasn’t there when it happened but told me the story. Jonas and I were with Dad. I was six and Jonas was two. We were at the grocery store and Dad went over to get a cart. He left us in the car alone for two minutes. He just walked across the parking lot, and when he came back, Jonas was gone.

I guess Dad told Mom I was screaming about a van and pointing at one leaving the parking lot, so Dad jumped in the car and chased it. She said it’s all he could do. But after a couple of blocks, the van made a light that turned red as Dad and I approached. He tried to floor it. There was an accident. Mom says our car was demolished; I was hurt pretty badly. I was in a coma, and early one morning, at 4:33 a.m., I died. Obviously, they brought me back, but Mom thinks that’s why my brain resets then.

After that, apparently my normal memory was gone. I didn’t remember the accident. I didn’t remember Jonas.

Mom kicked Dad out. She blamed him for losing Jonas and seriously hurting me. He probably blamed himself, too.

I asked Mom about the birthday cards from Dad in the manila folder in the desk drawer. I found them in her closet last fall. She was a little mad about the snooping, but she said that Dad tried to get in touch three times, but each time she told him to leave us alone. She explained that she was very bitter then. She just seems sad now. Maybe Mom and Dad should talk. I might need to talk to Dad, too.

Two years after he was kidnapped, police found a few of Jonas’s bones and his clothes in the mountains west of town. We buried him then. That’s the funeral I remember.