He pulls me along so defiantly, almost as though he’s on a mission, that I can’t help but think he finally saw the light. And for some reason, it makes me anxious … as though I’m not prepared to discover whatever it is he wants to show me.
“Where are we going?” I ask, in a moment of clarity.
“Your memories,” he says.
That doesn’t make any sense. You can’t just walk into your own memories. What’s he playing at?
We walk through the woods until we get to a clearing where the apple trees are kept. Some of them were planted by my own hands, their sprouts giving me a twinge of pride. But it soon fades as Noah plucks an apple from the tree and throws it at me.
“Catch,” he says, barely in time.
I frown and stare at the apple in my hand. “What’s the point of this?”
“Look at it. See anything familiar?” he muses.
“No, I don’t understand,” I reply, still staring at the apple.
What am I supposed to see?
“You were here before,” he says.
“Yes, with the other initiates and elder wives. We planted some of the trees,” I answer.
He shakes his head. “Before that.”
“There’s no before—”
“Yes, there is.” He’s never sounded more serious than now. “There were many.” He picks another apple and chucks it right at me. “Many times before …” Another one, and another one, until I can’t catch all of them and some drop to the ground.
He grabs a basket standing underneath the tree and brings it to me, picking up the apples that fell to the ground one by one until they’re all in the basket, and then he shoves it into my hands.
“We used to do this all the time,” he says.
My brows furrow. “We?”
A wicked smile appears on his face, and he leans in, picks an apple out of the basket, and takes a bite. “Savory.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “I’ve never been here before … before all this …”
“Don’t you remember?” he asks, still clutching the partially bitten apple. “Dig deep into your memories, Natalie. Remember. It’s the only way.”
My lips part, but I don’t know what to say. Does he mean … I’m really from here? Me? I came from this community?
I shake my head. “No, my mom left me at an orphanage. I’m from the outside world.”
“You were … but only temporarily,” he says, throwing the apple away.
He grabs both my arms, causing me to drop the basket, and drags me along the trees to a well nearby. He pushes me against the stones, and says, “Look at the water.”
And I do … but all I see is my own reflection. The woman I’ve become … and maybe an inkling of the little girl I used to be. Afraid, alone … left to be raised by strangers. But I once had a mom. I know, because I remember her, I remember her beautiful auburn locks, and the sandalwood scent that followed wherever she went. The woman who held my hand as she whisked me away in the night …
And the boy who stares right back at me … the boy with the tattoo on his hand.
The boy … standing on the opposite end of the well right now.
That same boy is staring back at me through the water, rippling from the drops of my tears.
I look up, tears streaming down my face as I see the man the boy has become.
“I remember you on the night my mother left me …” I mutter, choking on my own words.
He nods and tries to approach me, but I circle around the well to keep him at bay.
“Stay away,” I growl.
I don’t know why I bark like that, but I need time, space, everything. I can’t process this all at once.
“What do you remember?” he asks, holding up a single hand.
“You … my mother … She pushed me away from my own home, from my life. And I ended up in the orphanage?” I shake my head at my own memories mixing with my own thoughts. “No, no, that can’t be right.”
“It is,” he says. “It’s the truth.”
“No, you don’t know that,” I say, my body shaking like a twig.
“Your mother lives here in the community. Just like me, you were born here, too.”
“No!” I close my eyes and will the memories away, but they won’t stop invading my mind. Images of a boy with a playful smile who would throw apples at me and run with me through the woods, that same boy who would sit with me and read books near the fire, that boy … is him.
“I’m not from here!” I yell with a visceral rage that rakes at my heart.
I want to claw at my own brain and rip out the memories, but I can’t. He’s unplugged the bottle, pulled out the genie, and there’s no way to put it all back inside.