One-Eighty (Westover Prep 1)

My bedroom, where I’ve spent most of the last five days since being discharged from the hospital, is familiar in that the window and closet and bathroom doors are in the same place.

Gone are the Matchbox cars and Legos. In their place are sports trophies and textbooks.

I don’t have the mind of a five-year-old. I don’t even feel that young, but all the experiences I’ve had since I was that age seem to be gone. My speech and vocabulary seem to have been maintained, but I don’t have a single recollection of elementary school or junior high.

Although the strangers who call themselves my parents told me it’s the summer before my senior year, I don’t recall my first three years of high school. Other than clues in my room, I don’t have any idea who I am—or was.

I’m athletic according to the accolades overflowing the shelves on the far wall, but at the same time, I must be intelligent due to the textbooks on the desk in the far corner. I feel smart like I know things, but it’s impossible to just pull facts from thin air when there are a million other things to worry about right now.

I was ashamed but still a little thrilled when I accessed the search history on my phone. I discovered a slew of things about myself. I like fast cars, facts about outer space, and apparently, I have a thing for nerdy girls who do porn. My cheeks were on fire by the time I cleared my history and deleted saved screenshots of all of the half—and sometimes completely—naked women in plaid skirts and glasses.

One thing I do know from that discovery is that I still like nerdy girls who do porn, but my head was throbbing after looking at my phone for so long, so I just put it away.

I’m lying on my bed just staring at the wall, mentally willing all of my memories to come back when there’s a gentle tap on my door. I’m sure the old me would know just by the sound which person in the household is there, but the Dalton I am now doesn’t have a clue.

Mostly, my parents and siblings leave me alone, and I don’t know how to tell them that I’m lonely and want company. Our interactions so far are stilted and filled with awkward silences, but at least I’m not isolated in my room with strict instructions to rest. Each time I see my mom or dad, I can feel the pain they’re suffering from at my lack of recognition.

“Come in,” I say loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear.

“Were you sleeping?”

“No,” I answer. “Come on in… Mom.”

She smiles at the moniker, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. She’s an intelligent woman, an attorney I’m told, just like my dad. She’s well aware that I’m calling her that just to ease some of the tension between us. I’m not certain it helps. Hell, it may be making things weirder, but I can’t bring myself to call her by her first name.

She stands stiff just over the threshold in my room, and it makes me wonder, not for the first time, what kind of relationship I had with my family members before the accident. They all seem happy that I didn’t die, so I guess that’s a good thing.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the thick leather-bound book she’s clutching to her chest when it doesn’t seem like she remembers what she came in here for.

“This,” she says with a quick smile as she begins to move toward me, “is the family photo album. I’ll be honest. I haven’t been the best at keeping up with the day-to-day memories, but I figured this would be a good start for you. Most everything we have from the last seven or so years are all in digital form, but your father is getting those printed so you can look at them.”

I smile, knowing exactly what she’s doing. Dr. Columbus and the specialist, who visited the hospital after I woke up, both suggested that I immerse myself back into my life. They recommended looking at pictures and watching the shows I loved when my headaches subsided. They encouraged me to associate with the same people I did before, but neither Mom nor Dad seem too keen on that idea, even though they wouldn’t explain exactly why that was.

All of this is with the hope that something will trigger memories. They assured me that these memories could trickle in over time, come at me full force all at once, or could be gone forever. They also said that some memories could come back while others didn’t. Neither doctor would placate me or even speculate which of these they think would happen with me. They reminded me that I was lucky to have survived being ejected from my car during the accident, and although they were reluctant, they even admitted that my intoxicated state and lack of reaction time might have been what saved my life.