More Happy Than Not

“I didn’t get the procedure,” I tell him.

He looks at me for a second. The circles under his eyes are darker than when I last saw him at Good Food’s. He opens the staircase door and rolls out a dark blue mountain bike. It’s either a new bike or something he waxed and fixed up until it looked new. I’m not sure which it is because he’s capable of both. He presses down on the kickstand and walks over to me. I’m scared he’s going to walk past without saying anything but instead he hugs me hard, and I hug him back—also hard because there’s something that feels very final about this hug.

When he lets go, I do too, which feels insanely stupid. Then he starts walking toward the door.

“Thomas, I fell . . .”

Not once does he stop or even hesitate. He walks straight out and leaves me. And now I’m alone with the bike he once promised to teach me how to ride since no one else ever did, both of us unaware at that time that it was a lie: Collin tried and I sucked.

I eventually find the strength to go upstairs, gripping the handles of my shiny new blue bike tightly. I collapse onto my bed with the bike at my feet. Seeing him was what I wanted, no, needed for this day to even feel somewhat right. But now I’m just staring at the clock as the hours run by, wondering if I’ll hear from Genevieve before it hits midnight.

And then the weirdest shit happens: it’s already 1:16 a.m.

Eric is sleeping. There’s a dinner plate at the foot of my bed where I always leave it, except I don’t remember eating whatever it was or even being hungry. On my phone there’s a message from Genevieve wishing me a happy birthday at 11:59 p.m. I should respond to her and say thank you, but she’s probably asleep, too.

The last thing I remember is throwing myself on my bed. Nothing after that. Total blackout. I’m so scared I’m crying, except I don’t really know if I can pinpoint the moment when I started crying. I turn to the clock that’s jumped from 1:16 to 1:27, and I cry harder because something impossible is happening to me.

I shake Eric awake, and he curses at me before his face registers something is off. I don’t even know what to tell him at first, still not even convinced that this isn’t a nightmare, but finally I say, “What the fuck? What the fuck is going on?”

He asks me what I’m talking about, but the words sound far away.

I’m suddenly disoriented again. I find myself in the middle of my mom’s bed, crying so hard my throat aches. As a kid, I would pray at the edge of the bed for new action figures or my own bedroom. Then I would crawl into the space left open for me between my brother and mom because I couldn’t sleep without holding her hair. But as my mind continues steering itself, going this way and that, I find myself praying only to wake up.

12

NO MORE TOMORROWS

“Anterograde amnesia,” Evangeline tells my mother and me.

We’re in her office. It’s 4:09 a.m. I’ve been keeping my eyes pinned to the clock for my own sanity, though I can’t really tell if there has been any other crazy skip in time like a few hours ago.

“It’s an inability to form new memories,” she adds.

The clock reads 4:13 a.m.

“What’s anterograde amnesia?” I ask. It sounds familiar. I think she mentioned it before my procedure, but I can’t remember what it is.

“It’s an inability to form new memories,” Evangeline replies, exchanging looks with my mother, who’s crying. She’s pretty much been crying since I ran into her bed. When she called Evangeline, she was crying. On the cab ride over, she was crying. I can’t remember her not crying.

“Are you following, Aaron?” Evangeline asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “You think that’s what’s happening to me? That I’m not remembering stuff that’s going on now?”

“Can you recall any other issues with your memories recently?” she presses.

“You’re asking me to remember something I probably forgot?”

“Yes. Something that may have confused you since your attack, but stuck out to you like earlier tonight?”

Thinking is hard. No, remembering is hard. I’m proud of myself when I remember how odd it felt when I couldn’t remember drinking my first cup of coffee at the diner with Collin, and how Genevieve told me I was repeating myself at Leteo. I only told her Thomas didn’t like her once—or I thought I only said it once. And when I blanked out at Good Food’s. Who knows what else?

“Yes,” I answer, my heart pounding. “I can remember forgetting stuff.” I just can’t remember what I’m forgetting. “I feel like I should be crying or having a panic attack.”

My mother buries her face in her hands, racked with silent sobs. Evangeline takes a deep breath before telling me, “You already did.”

“What does this mean? How do you fix me? Another procedure?”

She sounds like a robot when she speaks. There are a bunch of options, though nothing sounds promising. The condition is still a mystery even to top neurologists because no one’s locked down the exact science of storing memories. She says something about neurons and synapses and medial temporal lobes and the hippocampus, and even though it’s all doctor-speak, I do my best committing it to memory because I can already feel the words slipping away. The treatments used for those suffering from anterograde amnesia aren’t all that different from the ones used for Alzheimer’s patients. Medication can enhance the cholinergic brain functions. Psychotherapy is not necessary; this is about brain function. Probably for the best, because I would punch someone if they tried using hypnosis on me; the last thing I need is someone else playing with my mind.