A Memory Blocks the Road

Photo by Wenniel Lun

A Memory Blocks the Road

by Stetson Bostic

My wife and daughter fade away as the screen goes black. I toss my phone into the bin along with my ring, wallet, and keys. The receptionist pulls it away without looking up, swivels in his chair, places it on a conveyor belt that takes it through the wall. As he turns back and begins to type, I think about work, about the traffic getting here, about Kaily getting her treatment today. Only six and having to spend so many days of her life in that specialty center. I need to thank Talia for taking her to all her appointments. She always thanks me for coming here, for getting us the extra money to pay for the treatments, but I never thank her for having to watch our daughter suffer discomfort.

“Left hand, please,” the receptionist says.

I hold up my bracelet that says Platinum above a barcode.

Still looking at his screen, he scans it.

Platinum means you’re up for anything. I come in every Saturday and the occasional Sunday. Sometimes they have me scheduled. Other times they use me to replace someone who dropped out last minute. Occasionally I sit in the waiting area for four hours until they call me up to tell me that I’ve been paid and can go.

Platinum pays the best because you have to be the best. Say no to a trial, they ding you. Late to an appointment, ding. Have to reschedule or cancel, ding. Don’t cooperate with a smile, ding. Too many dings and you drop down a tier. I’ve never been dinged.

I keep waiting for the receptionist to give me any indication that I can move along, to tell me I’m all set. His fingers are dancing over his keyboard and his eyes are twitching. I send him an exaggerated smile that he ignores, then exit out of the vestibule into the circular waiting area. In the center is a kiosk with touch screens and an information ticker that scrolls around the top. A few hundred people are scattered in seats that all face the kiosk.

Before I can sit down, the kiosk chimes. I see Gray Blume on the scroll. They must have something specific in mind for me today.

The kiosk tells me to go to the Hobson Wing on the Third Floor. The halls are empty. I hear muffled voices and rumbling machines as I pass doors. I stare up at the drop ceiling while I wait for the elevator. Stains—ombré circles of yellow and brown. Nothing seems less sterile. Everything should be smooth white plastic.

I’ve been on this floor before, but this is my first day in the Hobson Wing. Each wing has a small waiting room. This one is empty. I move to the check-in desk and the nurse asks for my name and birthday, then scans my bracelet. She gives me a kind smile and asks that I follow her. I smile back.

My height and weight are taken. Blood pressure. Pulse. We walk into a room. On one side is a large rectangular box made of medical grade beige plastic, as tall as me and at least eight feet long. The rest of the room is computers and screens and medical devices. I take a seat in the back corner of the room next to a sink. The nurse says it will just be a moment and leaves.

For the first few minutes I stare at the box, considering the purpose. As more time passes the hands on the clock above the door seem to become louder. Talia and Kaily are probably waiting the same as I am, miles away, for the doctor to come in and give Kaily the shot that seems so malicious yet is meant to recalibrate her confused immune system. The thought that I’m glad I’m here and not there intrudes, and I push it away with disgust. There’s no one to care for here.

Twenty-five minutes pass. Two people enter. They are wearing the same white lab coats. The same khakis, white tennis shoes. Neither are wearing name tags. He introduces himself as Curt Smith, and she says her name is Lacy Reynolds. Neither claims to be a doctor.

Reynolds sits in front of me. Smith stands in front of a terminal and begins typing.

Reynolds smiles. “We have a brief explanation for you, then you’ll enter the device.” She gestures to the box. “When you return, we’ll ask you some questions, then you’ll be off. Any questions so far?”

“No, not yet.” It’s best to not ask too many questions, but I’ll need to ask one or two at some point to show that I’m engaged.

“Great, then we will begin with what you can expect.”

This line prompts Smith, who leaves the computer terminal and walks to the door. He peeks his head outside and looks both ways, then closes the door. He is either new or a terrible actor. If this was that secretive of a study, we would be on the fifth floor. I would have had my bracelet scanned by two security guards wearing face distorters. Smith sits down next to Reynolds. He is staring at his clipboard and avoiding eye contact.

“This study­—”

Reynolds interrupts him by placing her finger on his clipboard. He clears his throat, looks up at me, then back at his script.

“Thank you for being a participant. You have been selected based on your impressive trial history and your record of discretion. This study seeks to analyze the psychological effects of what is commonly referred to as time travel.” He pauses and coughs.

I raise my eyebrows just far enough to indicate surprise. Reynolds makes a note. I will not be time traveling today. It is hard to say why they want me to think I will be, what they will really be testing. I start to think of my questions.

“The device behind me will not physically transport you but will cast a projection of you into the past to a time and place of your choosing. This projection of yourself will be able to physically interact with the environment, and will be able to relay senses, causing you to feel them. To reach this time and place, you need only to focus on it as the device activates. Any questions?”

No, but they expect questions. So, I ask a question. “Will I change the future?”

Smith’s finger glides down a list of prepared responses. “Once the projection ends, so do the effects and memories of the projection. This has been carefully tested. You cannot change the future.”

“What if I think of the wrong place, or time, at the last second? Can I be taken someplace dangerous?”

“We are monitoring you for signs of distress. If you are in pain or any extreme discomfort, we will end your projection.”

I nod. “I have no further questions.” I have covered ethics and safety. Fair and engaged.

They give me a gown and privacy. They knock, and I tell them I’m ready. Reynolds enters commands into the box and the lid lifts, then slides backward. It is half-filled with water. Smith helps me balance as I sit on the edge and swing my legs around. The water feels thick and warm. They tell me to sit and to try to keep my head and hands dry. The water reaches my chest.

Reynolds slips a glove over my right hand. It contracts, tightening, then releases, then contracts again to where it is snug but comfortable. She attaches a wrist strap just above the glove. I feel her pressing in a button. The strap tightens, releases, tightens. It reminds me of my mom, how she used to hold my hand and squeeze once for each word as she said I-Love-You. I think of Kaily’s hand, imagine it as empty and reaching out as I place mine on a doorknob. I feel multiple small needles press into my wrist, stinging for a moment before my wrist numbs.

Smith brings over a white helmet from an equipment table. His hands are shaking. He gives it to Reynolds. She asks if I’m okay, and I say I am, then she places it over my head. There is no opening in the front. I feel her pull a sleeve down from the helmet to cover and seal my neck. I open and close my eyes and see complete and constant darkness.

Her voice is muffled. “I’m going to guide you back now. Lie down.”

I want to ask if all this equipment is safe. If I’m going to be electrocuted when the helmet hits the water. How well that sleeve really keeps out the water. They want me to think that I’m going to slip through time, when really, they are just going to put me to sleep. Make me dream. But I don’t say anything.

She holds my head above the water. “Relax and float. Think of where you wish to go.” She eases my head back. The helmet begins to hum.

I relax and float. I can’t hear anything. I assume the lid is closing. I feel a warmness in the veins near my wrist. The first pull of drowsiness hits. If I am to have a vivid dream, I want it to be a nice one. I imagine my lane—

I’m standing on my lane, the one I rode my bike back and forth on when I was just learning to ride. To my right is the house. To my left, green corn that lines the lane from stop sign to stop sign. The trees in the front yard are shorter. Dad hasn’t pulled out the flower beds and replaced them with stone. I reach up and feel my head. The helmet it gone. The glove, the strap. My hair feels light. I press in on my scalp and feel faint pins and needles. It doesn’t feel like a dream.

I turn, but my movement has a discrete delay. I see the car coming toward me. It’s going faster than you should drive on my narrow country backroad. My mom is in the passenger seat, and the drunk driver is squinting over the wheel. She is smiling at me. I want to say something to her, but before I can find my words the car has reached me. I think: I am the tree. The car doesn’t even swerve. It hits me and keeps going, throwing me backward then running over me. It happens so fast it is hard to process what occurred, but I’m lying on my back and can sense a distant pain that feels real yet artificial. Blood starts pooling in my mouth, but when I touch it and hold up my hand, I can see it’s clear. Water.

I’m back in the tank, and even as I realize I’m thrashing it is hard to stop. The helmet is being yanked off my head and I’m being lifted by the arms. I cough and water falls out of my mouth.

Smith and Reynolds help me out of the tank. They assist in getting me changed, and I’m shaking so hard and feel so cold that I don’t care in the least that they’re seeing me naked. I glance at the clock. It’s been three hours, though it felt like such a brief moment. I think of my mom’s face. I’m angry I couldn’t speak. Once I’m dressed and starting to warm up, they ask me questions. I answer them as best I can.

Where did you travel to? When? What happened when you arrived? How did you feel before the accident? Do you think that—

Smith takes notes. He’s also shaking so much I’m not confident my answers will even be legible. Reynolds is making lots of eye contact with me, analyzing my face.

They give me some privacy to collect myself, then I leave the room. I follow the signs back to the waiting room, where the nurse that checked me in tells me to have a nice day. I request a ride home while I’m on the elevator. When I arrive outside it’s still approaching the building, cruising over the paved driveway in front of the main entrance, and I realize I’ve retreated back against the wall next to the revolving doors, pressing my back against the cold bricks. Even after it stops, and the door eases open, I have to convince myself to move, that it’s not going to lurch and turn and come for me. My phone plays a tone, letting me know my ride has arrived, and I break free and begin to walk. I slide in the backseat, and as I go to tap Begin on the screen, I notice that my hand still has a tremor.

It takes fifteen minutes to get home. My fingers dig into my knees as the car takes me through a sea of apartment complexes, then by a field swarmed with busy drones. I stare at the distant view of the city as I enter my town and work through the string of stop signs that draws a path to home.

I sit in the car a while longer, thinking, until it chimes at me to nudge me out. Talia is standing at the bay window holding Kaily, and both are waving. I wonder how long they’ve watched me for. I make an effort to send back a smile, but I can’t.

The door opens in front of me, and I try to forget about the tank, the violent car, the pool in my mouth, as they greet me.

“Daddy, I got a new kit, it’s very cool,” says Kaily. “For doing a good job with my shot. Can I show you?”

Kaily reaches for me, wants me to take her in my arms, but I just pat her head instead, then turn toward the stairs. Talia, waiting for a hug I don’t give, stares at me, and I can feel her eyes even after my back is turned. “Daddy isn’t feeling very well, I’m going to go shower, okay?”

Kaily doesn’t answer.

Talia shifts Kaily’s weight then uses her free hand to grab my wrist. The square grid of needle marks has become red and raised, and her cool thumb feels nice against it. She lets Kaily down, then inspects it some more before I pull away.

Kaily runs to her play table. “It’s a bracelet kit,” she says. “I made mommy a bracelet, and Sara at school one, too. You have to tell me what charms you like though so I can make you one.”

“I’m sorry Kay, not today.” I look back at Talia. “I have a terrible headache.”

“Okay,” she says, her voice flat.

I put my Platinum bracelet on my nightstand, shower, then lay down on our bed. I start to work through my thoughts. I hear Kaily’s laughter echo up the stairs. Talia sends me a message asking if I’m okay and telling me to come downstairs. I toss my phone to the other side of the bed, close my eyes, and then I’m asleep.

It is a dream, yet more vivid than any natural dream I’ve ever had. It’s not like the other place, not that real. I can’t feel, or smell, but I am there in an empty void that somehow still feels tangible and weighted. Kaily is building a model car from blocks. Talia is trying to talk to me, but I won’t look at her. I feel the memories of emotions—jealously, fear, anxiety. Depression. I feel them creeping nearby, and don’t want them to come back for me. I’m staring at my phone, and it’s playing a video of myself curled up on a bed crying and rocking. Talia tries to take my hand, but I fly backwards and turn around, and there is my mom. She’s just staring at me, a composition of all the different versions of her I knew. She won’t talk. Won’t smile. She just stares at me until dream-Talia shakes me awake, and real-Talia tells me it’s time for dinner.

Weeks pass. I spend every Saturday and Sunday at the center, but I’m not sent back to the Hobson Wing. The studies I’m assigned are simple, not to my level, yet I’m paid the same. They want to keep me around, but don’t want me starting another complex study. One weekend I spend both days watching movies. They give me a giant bucket of popcorn and a tub of my requested soda and put on a movie that has yet to debut. They put an EEG cap on my head that looks like an old leather football helmet, then tell me the creators of the movie are looking to see how my brain reacts to certain scenes. It’s misdirection. They’re tracking how I eat and drink. Somewhere a cinema chain executive is pacing, chewing their nails, waiting for the results they paid for to determine how to sell more concessions.

When studies are short, or canceled, or filled early with other participants, they tell me I can leave early, and I’ll still be paid. Sometimes I stay sitting in the main waiting area for hours, watching the names scroll, making up life stories for the people who flock to the kiosk. One day I walk to a local park, and see a father playing catch with his daughter, both laughing—connected. I don’t go back there again.

The dreams come back most nights. I wish they were as real as the one in the tank, because at least then I’d have some control over them. I want to see my mom again. The realer version, the one that felt like I could reach through that car windshield and touch. I started smoking again not long after the first session. Was going for a walk and steered myself into the convenience store without much thought. The cashier told me how cool it was that I smoke the “old school leafy ones.” They didn’t have my brand—it doesn’t exist anymore—but he gave me a pack he said was close.

Talia, catching the smell for the first time one evening when I’d grown too lazy to properly hide it, did not find it cool. She’d usually rub my back as we watched the news, but sat far away from me, almost leaning over the other armrest. She asked if I was doing okay, if I’d reach out to my therapist and maybe start going again. I told her it wasn’t a big deal, that I was going to stop again soon.

“It is a big deal,” she says. “You ignoring us for weeks is a big deal. I’ve had to take care of Kaily by myself every evening and every weekend. I’m being as patient as I can, but you won’t even fucking talk to me about anything.” She stands up and leaves the room. I don’t follow her.

When they finally call me back for round two it seems sudden and urgent. I’d planned to take the Sunday off. Talia had insisted I take Kaily somewhere, and she’d wanted to go to the zoo. When the message comes through, I feel compelled. A grotesque relief.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Kaily says, though her disappointment is clear. “Here, take this with you,” she says, holding something out to me as I double check my pockets and glance at my phone to see how close the car is. “We can still add more later, but I—”

“Give it to me when I get home, sweetie,” I say. I don’t look at her as I exit, and after the door closes, I hear her start to cry.

Reynolds runs through the standard intro with me again. She has me fill out more forms. Smith is jittery. I am too. The tank eases open, awaiting me.

“Have you had any side effects since last time that you might attribute to the study?” Reynolds asks. Her tone is more relaxed, informal.

“Headaches. Dreams. Very vivid dreams.” I catch myself before I compare them to what they’re calling time travel. “Nothing else.”

“Any changes in mental state?” she asks.

I take my time considering the question. It’s not an act—I don’t know what to say. “Yes, I suppose. Distracted. Probably even distant.” More than usual, I think, my mouth pulsing tight as the thought pushes through bulwarks of rationalizations.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s begin. It may be different than last time. We’ve added some safety measures.”

“Okay,” I say.

I’m not in the same place. I’m close. It’s the same time, I think, but I’m on the road that leads to my lane this time. I’m in front of the tree. I look both ways down the road and see that nothing is coming. A bird hurries from a nearby branch, crosses the creek behind the tree, flying toward a distant field. I scuff my feet and feel the friction, hear the crunch. I touch the tree. It’s like any other.

Time seems to slip forward. The surrounding flora wilts then straightens over and over as rain pelts me for moments only for warm sun to dry me before I can even feel drenched. Stones on the edge of the road shift in a staggered unchoreographed dance. Snow blinks around me then melts to nothing. Then the tree changes. In an instant it becomes battered, bark disintegrated a few feet from the base, wood cracked and splintered though the tree is still whole enough to stand. I didn’t see the car, but I know it was there. My mom in the passenger seat. The drunk driver squinting over the wheel. The tree starts to heal, a pained rebuilding, but before the bark has rid itself of all the scars, I pass out.

This time I’m on a stretcher. People I’ve never met are examining me, discussing. I turn my head and see Reynolds and Smith standing against the wall. I tilt my head up and see the MRI machine, uncertain if I’m coming or going from it.

They tell me the scans showed damage equivalent to a Grade 3 concussion. I’m kept a few hours for observation and feel guilty that I don’t call Talia to tell her how late I’ll be. Reynolds comes to my room by herself to ask me questions. She refills my water and helps me readjust my pillow. I tell her what happened as best I can, and she asks follow-up questions with a voice that’s almost gentle.

That night Talia doesn’t speak to me for hours, then agrees when I ask to talk. I can’t tell her details about the trial, but I explain in vague terms the complications.

“Then I think you should stop,” she says. She’s turned sideways on the couch, looking at me. “It’s not worth your health.”

“If they call me back, and I think they will, I’d like to do it once more. If it doesn’t go well, then I’ll stop. There is something I need to see, to find out.”

She considers this while massaging her eyebrow with her knuckle. “You can’t tell me more about it? If this trial is the reason you’re becoming so distant, then you’re not going back. The smoking was a deal-breaker when we were dating. I put up with it until Kaily was born. It’s still a dealbreaker. I won’t keep moving the goalposts. You’re slipping away from me. And Kaily. I’m worried. I’m angry. You were getting better, working really hard on things, and then this—”

I look at her; squeeze her leg. “How is Kaily doing? Treatments going okay?”

Talia shakes her head. “You have nothing to say to any of that?” She looks me in my eyes, her own piercing. “She’s getting better. They’re going to have us start giving the injections at home soon.”

Injections to ease away allergies we feel we could have prevented had we just listened to the right set of ever-changing recommendations.

“The swelling and the side effects she’s kinda gotten used to, but the injections are still tough. We don’t have to hold her down anymore, but she still cries every time. Sits there all brave as the doctor puts that needle under her tongue, waits until she’s sure it’s all done, then bawls her eyes out.”

I feel my own eyes welling up.

“So yeah, that’s going well.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m still scared to death every day when she’s at school. But I’m glad that she can go to school now. They say she should have some protection already. That if she comes in contact with something, her reaction will be manageable.”

She puts a hand on my knee. “We’ll get the money some other way. The injections will still cost a lot, but not having to go to so many appointments will help. You don’t need to keep doing tests.”

I pull her into a hug. I don’t promise anything, but I want to.

“Thank you for talking to me,” she says. “I’d still like some space tonight. I don’t want to leave, but I’d rather us go live with my parents than have Kaily see you like this. I know you don’t want to be cruel, but that’s exactly what you’re being.”

“I know,” I say. “Something’s brought it all back up. But I’m working on it.”

I’m standing on the lane again, but my surroundings fade into darkness so near to me that even my house looks caught in a shadow. I try to look for cars, feeling panic rise in my chest, but I can’t turn. Then I see the drunk driver, George. He’s walking toward me, talking but I can’t hear him speak. He sinks to his knees, crying, hands together pleading with me. I don’t want him to feel despair for the rest of his life, but I don’t want to feel bad for him either. I start to get angry that he’s daring to solicit pity from me. George stands back up and moves toward me again, reaching out, staggering as though still as drunk as he was that night. Just as his hand touches me, I wake up.

They ask me to come back the following weekend. A few days that week I wake up and there’s blood on the pillow, and crust on my nose. I clean it up before Talia can see. She has two bags packed in the closet. One for her, one for Kaily. When Saturday morning arrives, I wake up early, get dressed, then slip on my Platinum bracelet. Talia doesn’t wake up as I kiss her forehead. I sneak past Kaily’s room, consider going in to kiss her forehead as well, then think better of risking waking her only to say goodbye.

The roads are empty and the ride is short. The car runs off the road a few feet while making a turn before recalibrating, and I get an uneasy twist in my stomach as I’m made aware I’m not in control. They’ve asked me to come in earlier than I’ve ever gone in before. There are only a few people in the waiting area. I’m sent to the Hobson Wing immediately.

Reynolds smiles at me as I enter the room, and Smith gives me a distracted greeting. I’m excited yet anxious to see what happens today, and it’s impossible to tell which feeling is stronger.

I’m back on my lane. I check for cars. I jump up and down, and can feel my weight. I kick at a stone. At first, my leg drags and feels heavy, then it returns to normal, and I send the stone flying into the corn.

I turn and see my mom walking away from me, down the hill, on her usual route. She is so short. I knew she was short, but she was always taller than me. I yell out her name. She turns. Her squint is the same. The way she puts up one hand to shade her eyes, and the other on her hip. Her smile—cheeks rising and glowing, her whole face beaming joy. She waves.

I can tell she is studying me as I get close. I’m just a toddler to her now. I remember her haircut. I’m probably inside working with Dad in the basement.

“Mom,” I say.

“Wow, you got big.” She is laughing. That sweet sound. She laughs with her shoulders. “Well, this is something.”

I want to cry but don’t think I should. It is her. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but who cares. Give me a hug, wow, how did you get this big? And your hair is so dark, hardly any blonde.”

She wraps her arms around me and squeezes with an unseen strength. Her head is against my chest. I squeeze back. I have wished for this countless times. They’ve fixed whatever was broken. This feels real, and stable.

She whispers how cool this is as we rock gently side to side. When we finally part, she takes my hand and asks me to walk with her. She asks me if I am married, if I have any children. I tell her about my wife and daughter. I want to say that my wife wishes she could have met her. That she holds me when I cry over her memory, has cried herself. I don’t think I should. I say that Talia is intelligent, and kind, and beautiful. I describe her features. Tell the story of how we met. I tell how she holds me when I’m having panic attacks.

We pass the tree stump she used to sit me down on to tie my shoes while walking to wait for the bus. I tell her about Kaily, about her giggle, how she wants to go to the library what seems like every day for new books. About her treatments and how uncomfortable they make her, but that they’re working.

While I’m talking, Mom gives my hand three quick squeezes, one for each word in I-Love-You. She asks me to recap major events. Presidents. She refuses to believe a few things I tell her. Says I’m messing with her. I laugh and promise it’s all true.

We arrive at the end of the lane, and I feel a swell of anxiety. We are halfway to the tree. I ask if we can turn left to walk past the old schoolhouse instead of going on her usual route.

She shakes her head. “I love my route. Love walking it with ya. You love when we do trash pickup. You spot out a wrapper or plastic bottle and get all excited.”

She turns right and guides me. She begins to ask me more questions, but I stop her and say that I want to ask her questions. I ask what Grandpa was like when she was a kid. To tell me the story of how she met Dad. What’s her favorite book right now. How does she stay so calm when I get upset. I want to ask her to give me the look, the one that would always calm me down and bring me back to self-awareness.

We take the final turn that will lead us to the tree. I twitch. Water droplets splash onto my hand. I reach to wipe them but feel nothing but skin. She nudges me. Gives me a version of the look, the one where the right eyebrow goes way up—not strict but questioning.

“You okay, honey? Getting distracted?”

“Can we go back the other way?”

She shakes her head. “We’re almost finished now, sweetie. I want to keep going.”

I nod. “I’m sorry. I guess it hasn’t happened yet, I’m still probably young and kind, but when I’m twelve, I call you a drama queen. I’ve never forgotten how you cry after I do. And you asked me to go to a movie with you, and I said no. I only said no because I thought I was supposed to. I thought twelve-year-olds weren’t supposed to go to movies with their mom. But I wanted to.”

Tears form on my eyelashes and roll back past my ears instead of splashing onto the pavement. She wraps her arm around my side as we walk, rests her head against my arm. The trees that line the road are darkening, as though night is falling, though the sun is still high in the sky.

“Honey,” she says in her mom voice, the one she uses in the video clip where I’m recording and she’s talking to the camera, the clip I have watched a few times each year. “I forgave you immediately. From the day you were born, there was nothing you could say or do that would make me love you any less. And I have never for a moment doubted your love for me. The way you run up to me. Smile at me. Cuddle me. I know what you’ll be like when you’re twelve. I forgive you, sweetie. I love you.”

I can see the tree. The bark is not yet shattered near the base. No car has taken the turn too sharply and hit it in the dead of night. I have not been woken up in my bed, a line of neighbors standing before me. Been told Mom and George have been in an accident. That one of the neighbors is downstairs calling the hospital. That someone else is calling Dad, who lives fifteen minutes away now. Then heard the scream from downstairs, the visceral scream, and known she was dead, gone in an instant, a minute out of a dream.

“You shouldn’t have been in the car with him,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry. I was just a person, and people make mistakes.”

“I know,” I say. “I forgive you.”

We stop in front of the tree. I look at her, and she is smiling at me.

“This isn’t real,” I say.

“No, honey, it’s just a dream. But it’s been nice to see you. And talk to you. I’m so proud of you. You’ve grown up just how I hoped.”

I hug her. “I wanted to be able to warn you. So that it wouldn’t happen.”

She pulls back from me, pets my arms, holds my hands. “Even if that were possible, I wouldn’t want you to give up what you have. Life happens as it happens. To bring me back would mean to lose Talia and Kaily. Your relationship with your father, maybe. Changing time would mean risking all of that. It’s okay to just remember the time we did have together.”

I shake my head, but I mean to nod. “You seem so real. I’m glad I got to see you.”

“I am real. I am your memory of me, of all of our moments together, and everything you’ve learned about me.”

Our surroundings continue to darken. The tree is fading, and all I can see clearly is her. I hear the hum and feel my pruned skin. I accept that this was not real, but I also accept that every moment has been true.

She smiles. “Say hi to Kaily and Talia for me. Thank you for being my son.”

“I will. Thank you for being my mom.”

I put my hand on her cheek, and she does the same, as she begins to fade.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The days drift, clouded by subsiding headaches. The eye heals. My nose stops bleeding at night. Talia seems to notice me ease back to my former self. She sits closer to me. We start to laugh again. I notice the packed bags disappear from the closet.

I receive constant messages asking me to return for more sessions. Smith and Reynolds were ecstatic about the results of the last one. I stare at each request, as tempted for more time with my mom as they are for data.

I help give Kaily her first treatment at home. I see the tears form in Kaily’s eyes at Talia, hands unbelievably steady, slips the needle under her tongue. I hear the whimper as Kaily says, “No big deal, I’m going to play now.”

“Good job,” I say. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Play with me?” she asks. “Come on.” She takes my hand, wanting to lead me.

I look down at my wrist and adjust the bracelet, no longer Platinum, and turn it so that I can see the three circles that spell Dad—surrounded by the charms I chose.

END