Reminiscence

How many memories do we need to forget before we remember?

It’s a week after my previous amnesia. Today is February 15, 1990.

I’m not a very good writer--or a writer at all, really. So bear with me, please, medical staff. I was told by one of the doctors to have all this in the report--how I felt, what I felt, what I did or heard, what or who I saw--everything as I remember it, now that I’m with the clinic. I’ll try the best I can, so that this record is kept secured for the future.

February 8, 1990

I had no idea why or how I got amnesia. I awoke without memories, standing alone in the middle of an empty street. I couldn’t remember how I got there. For some reason, I felt as if I had lost my reminiscence before, because in a strange way, this felt like deja vu.

It was dark and gray in the sky, as if a rain storm might be approaching.

I roamed the neighborhood randomly for a while, only to find myself on the same street again. There wasn’t a sign of anyone, neither a human presence nor an animal shape. I chose a direction leading south, one of the roads I hadn't taken yet.

It appeared I picked correctly, for I discovered a lady who looked about 20 standing alone on the sidewalk. She was gazing into a pet store’s glass window. As if sensing my stare, she turned and looked back at me. Her deep gray eyes left me frozen to the spot. After a moment of gazing at each other, her expression changed and filled with such sadness I had to look away. To this day, I have not forgotten how her face appeared and yet now I still do not know how to describe it.

She said, “I see you’ve lost your memories again.”

Again? Recognition showed clear in the glitter of her eyes. I noted the dark bags under them. She must have known me. I nodded in response, then answered in a strangely deep voice, “Yes, ma’am.”

That seemed to cause her grief, but she tried to hide it. She said, “You’re older than me.” She pointed at the glass next to me. I followed her finger with my eyes, turning to look at myself in a store’s window.

Seriously, I was shocked that I looked like a man. I must have been at least 30. How did I not know that?

“Lady, what happened?” I asked her.

“You’re 31,” she said, a shaky smile pulling at her lips. “If you'd still like to know, brace yourself. I’ll explain it for you, as I’ve done the last 2 times.”

The last 2 times? What was she talking about? “Sure. Tell me.”

Her smile was still twitchy and I noticed her hands began to shake. “I think… Mentally, now, you’re back to your teen years. This is the third time you’ve had amnesia. The first time, you behaved normally. The second, you went back to being around my age, 20. You acted as if you’d just gotten out of your youth as a child.”

My eyes were probably bugging right now. “No!” I blinked in disbelief. Was I mental or what?

Her false smile didn’t change and only then did I ask her who she was. She faltered, probably thinking about whether to lie or tell the truth. Finally, she said, sincerely enough for me to believe, “I’m your fiancée.”

I, of course, didn’t believe her at first. This pretty lady, my fiancée? She was a tanned lady with dark auburn hair and round gray eyes that seemed to almost turn black at times. Her skin contrasted with the entirely white business suit--a shirt, coat, and skirt--she wore. I could even tell she had a figure of a woman through the layers of small clothes. I, on the other hand, looked a bit too pale and withdrawn, almost too thin to fit into my dark gray suit.

She began telling me our story and I listened, unconsciously inching my way closer toward her. I studied her as she told of our first meeting, the day we became friends, the day we went on our first date, the day we toured each others’ homes, the day I proposed to her…

Not once does she mention her name or mine. I just knew she was talking about us. All the while, I was replaying her words about amnesia.

How could I have forgotten this woman? Her voice as she reran our memories were filled with such passion I felt terribly guilty for only vaguely understanding as I listened, but strangely, I was remembering with her. Not in the sense of the actual recollection, but I imagined how we must have pictured. She was good at telling stories, I knew that much. Yet she sounded as if she’d said these words before. Twice she’d done this.

Later, by the time she became more subdued, I could tell she was reaching the psychological portion of the tale. My first memory loss.

I listened in astonishment. The incident began with a typical car crash, but the most unexpected part was that after I’d removed myself from the first car, another had hit me--this time in the head. My hand unconsciously came up to feel my temple for a while. It came into contact with a pretty sizable bump. When she saw this, she smiled sadly as if she felt my pain--which wasn’t hurting at all, really--and continued the procession of explaining my false 20-year-old life.

She was in a melancholy now. I was ignorant of such despair. That was, until she began detailing the slow return of my memories and I suddenly felt older. It was then that depression began to set in. My mind became numb.

My belated reaction finally seized me. I remembered how familiar this experience was.

I still didn’t know my name. Did I have family? Where did I live? Where was I now? Questions flashed by from one to the next, and I stopped hearing what the lady said.

When I finally became conscious of the silence, I asked, in a daze, “Huh? What? Do you know where this is?”

“This is the pet shop we first met in,” she answered, then added sullenly, “I’m sorry. I just started rambling and couldn’t stop.”

“No! It’s...okay. This was all just too much, too fast.” I glanced back at her and noticed with a start that she was crying. “Wha-What’s wrong?” I frantically looked around the still silent street in a panic.

She did not, could not, answer. She shook her head, her tears never once easing. “Everything. I am so, so sorry...” she trailed off on a hiccup.

“It’s not your fault! It was mine, since I was the one who was driving. I should have checked before I came out of the car.”

“You always said that the last 2 times you lost your memories.” She smiled tearfully, ruefully, but I was glad to see it. My relief was short-lived, however, as she continued. She tamped down on her sobs while speaking. “But don’t you see? Well, obviously not. It is my fault. If--If I hadn’t asked you to come pick me up, you wouldn’t have driven over. On the day of the accident, it was raining. I-I was at a party celebrating my parents’ remarriage, but you had work, so you couldn’t come with me. I didn’t want to stay there, pretending to be happy for my parents... I wanted to see you. M-My selfishness caused the incident. My mom drove me there, and I didn’t want to bother her, so I called you to bring me back home. I am so--”

I cut her off, knowing I couldn’t allow her to continue. I hadn’t expected to find myself hugging her, but I suddenly embraced the stranger, the woman who knew me so well. Wasn’t it odd, that while I was the victim and she the teller I was the one comforting her? I just couldn’t let her blame herself any longer. “I don’t remember any of that. Maybe in time, I will. But when I do, I know one thing for sure. It’s not your fault,” I enunciated very carefully, aware of what I was saying was at least the truth. “I feel a little like my age now that you’ve explained to me.” I tried for a smile, and almost succeeded--until my head began to throb, painful in its swift intensity.

Abruptly, gradually, her words sank in. Before, moments ago, I had only felt detached from it all. I hadn’t been able to comprehend any of it, except when she explained the accident. I remembered one of the days I spent in her company, but then it was gone. The image of her smiling face vanished, leaving me to snatch at empty air.

I was looking at her through a void, dark and hollow before me. Her distant figure was fading quickly, and I felt as if my head was about to explode.

Her name is Sierra Vena. She is 22-years-old. You have been engaged to her for over a year! Remember! Never forget again! You just got her back! You can’t lose her now!

Those were the words I had shouted to myself the day I remembered everything after my first amnesia.

It’s Sierra Vena! She’s Sierra Vena! Your love, your being, your life. How could you forget her again? She’s not just half your soul, she’s your whole! The wall! Remember the wall!

Those were the words I cried to the whole world, from atop a high roof, the day I remembered everything after my second amnesia.

I remembered feeling that I had been starting to slip again, that just when I had finally recalled all of it, I was blanking out again. Twice that had happened.

I had vowed never to forget again, but I did. I forgot all of it, for the second time.

The present resumed through a shady cloud of gray. Now all I remembered was the day of the accident.

As the memory began to recede, I slowly blinked to find Sierra staring at me in desolation. She said, her eyes becoming almost black as it shimmered with infinitely unshed tears, “You did it again, Delaney. Every time I told you about the accident, how I explained it was my fault, you blank out.” She choked, but ruthlessly forced out her next words, “Whenever that happened, you remember everything but start to lose yourself.”

No. I wanted to deny it, but my mind was hazy. I couldn’t make myself speak. I remembered the previous 2 times she dealt with the same situations. How she explained it the first time. How she made herself explain it the second time. How she now had to explain this to me the third time. The second time, she told me that she couldn’t hide the truth from me because I hadn’t let her, since I’d made her promise to always explain it to me whenever this happened.

“Sierra...” I shook my head, as if to clear it. Finally, I croaked, “I--I remember, Sierra. I’m sorry...to make you promise such a thing. No. No, I’m not forgetting. I can’t. I can’t!” And I wasn’t. I lowered my hands from my head sluggishly, fearfully.

Then I grabbed her hand and pulled her along as I began to walk in the same direction I came from earlier.

“Lane?” I could hear the anxiety in her voice. “Lane, where are you taking me?”

I had to take her there. Had to. Have to.

One by one, visions of the past three years returned. Second by second, I recalled all the days she had explained our story. My head pounded painfully, but I already knew it was worth it. And not worth it. The only thought coursing through me as I became awash in the memories was, would I forget again, a fourth time?

I realized I’d stopped walking. I charged ahead again, my grip tightening on her wrist without my consent. She didn’t seem to notice.

The wall. Remember the wall! The wall! My promise. I remembered my promise. It was a promise I’d made to myself for her, in secret, just last year. I’d meant to tell her about it when I was absolutely sure I would not lose her again. She wasn’t aware of it, but now I must show her. I have to show her! Before it’s too late!

“Lane, you’ve recalled where you live?” she asks suddenly, as she finally realizes where my designation is.

We’re heading to the apartment complex I developed at the beginning of my career, when I was earning big bucks from a company I did service for.

“Yes,” I tell her, and finally we reach the front door. I take my key from my coat shirt pocket and turn it in the door knob of the room I’ve been living in, a habit so familiar that my hand almost shakes.

I hurry to my bedroom closet where I stow the only one significant treasure in the whole world, up in its little attic through the ceiling. “Stay here, Sierra.” I begin climbing the little white-coated ladder attached to the wall, meant to blend into the pale wallpapers.

I slap my palm against the attic’s entry and it pops open lightly, then I hasten to retrieve the black key I only used once before.

I find her trembling on the carpet in front of my closet as I climb back down to her. “Are you all right, Sierra?”

She nods, then hops to her feet. “Then we must hurry!” I begin to drag her along again, back down the hallway to the emergency stairways where I intend to go up.

On the roof, she says as if unexpectedly remembering, “Food! Aren’t you hungry? Lane, you must not have eaten for days!”

“Food is not as important as this.” I cannot afford to eat when even now, I may be losing these precious few seconds, minutes, hours. I don’t even know how long I have with her. That’s the worst of finally remembering.

At last, I approach the thin door connecting to a small shed-like room that protrudes out of the apartment building. With the black key, I open it to expose the little bit of sunlight showing through a hole in the clouds above. With this light, I see the familiar darkness of the interior, but what I notice most of all, as I did a few months ago, is the bright white text glowing in the shadows from within.

The wall. My promise. And behind that wall, our future.

“What’s this all about, Lane?” She peers over my shoulder into the room, and when I don’t say or do anything, she enters cautiously. I let her precede into the room before I follow.

I shut the door behind me, the echoes reverberating as if the precious time in the confined space is also being captured with us.

I read aloud along with her the promise I engraved.

With the words, my determination and confidence begins to return.

You were afraid that you would disappear, that you would be lost and forgotten. I remember holding you tight against the dark and saying that I would always come for you.

Then one day it happened. You were torn from my arms and vanished from this world which I knew so well. Maybe you don't remember my promise. But I meant every word. I hope you're not afraid, wherever you are. You don't need to be. I'm not.

I will find you.

“Lane, this is your handwriting,” she says slowly, tremulously, as if she is crying.

I realize I’m crying, too. I feel the moisture on my face.

Yet my hands do not shake. Yet my body does not tremble. Yet my face does not change; I feel it set into one resolved expression of the determined feeling I have.

“Yes.” My voice does not quiver. I hear the confidence in it. “I wrote it 6 months ago. Do you remember my promise to you? I will always come for you--I had come to you just an hour ago, do you recall that?” I continue, not having planned to get a response, “I will find you,” I recite. “And I did find you, an hour ago right in front of the Petco, last year right before your hotel room, two years ago right before your college campus... Three years ago, right before the very same Petco.” I do not remove my eyes from her profile, which still faces the wall. “My promise to myself. This wall, this room--this roof, this building--is a promise to myself. And behind that wall, behind this very room, I hid from you what I know you must see most of all.”

“Lane,” she chokes, then turns to me. I glimpse the sheen of tears in her eyes as we enfold each other, once more. Now that I remember, I cannot even begin to depict the feeling of this all-too-familiar and yet all-too-new memory of our embrace. It is just different than before, when I hugged her as a stranger. It is all the more fulfilling--especially now that I don’t have any more headaches.

“What is the gift behind the wall?” she asks when we finally look at each other.

I smile. I’m surprised how easy it feels to smile, but the gift brings it out with such ease. It is that important.

Hands clasped, we walk to the edge of the wall with my carving and I unveil the curtain at the very corner. I open it and raise it above her head, then follow her in.

“In here, I have prepared plans. 6 months ago, I arranged a license for our marriage and formed all the insurance and living quarters we’ll live in. It’s the home we first chose 3 years ago. It’s the wedding we first plotted 3 years ago. It’s the nursery room we first designed 3 years ago.” I look to her stomach, pleasure coursing through me. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

Her hands come up to cover her mouth and her face contorts with the preparation of tears. Eyes glimmering like that, it’s the prettiest I’ve ever seen her.“Yes. 3 months... When I first learned of it, I was on my way to tell you last week. But...”

“I know. Don’t think about it,” I tell her. “I will find you, whether it happens again...or not. I’m hoping not.”

“I’m not showing, yet. How did you know?”

“I just knew.”

She takes my hand and puts it over her very slightly rounded stomach. “You can still feel it. Are you hoping for a boy?”

“No, I’m hoping for both of them. Maybe?”

Her eyes round. “Twins? Or two kids?”

“What about twins, a girl and a boy?” I suggest, then take her hands in mine. “Shall we wait?”

“Until you forget again?” she whispers.

“Until I stay,” I answer.

And we wait.

Through the only window of the small room, the sun has come up to shine outside.

One, two, three days pass by... My memories are still intact.

February 15, 1990

Now it’s been a week already. My doctors told me that the sooner I have this report written, the better. That meant I’d better write it quickly in the case that I forget again and the clinic will have to wait for me again.

I remember how it was like to lose my memories the first and second time now.

So, to sum it all up, it began with blanking out. My eyes blurred and suddenly seemed to become pitch black, as if I’d voluntarily closed my eyes. I knew I hadn’t. To be precise, it was dark for just a moment, as if I blinked longer than was normal, and then I was able to see again. 5 minutes later, however, it happened again--but I actually lost consciousness the second time around.

When I regained consciousness a day into losing it, I was aware of a blank and gray void in my head--the same as any other with amnesia. The second time, though, I had a sense of deja vu--like the void in my head was something I’ve felt before. The third time, just a week ago, the deja vu was much more prominent, as if that void had become a part of me... I shouldn’t say such an ominous thing, but it was true. Even now, I remember the feeling. The hollow emptiness felt almost attached to me, at the same time I was detached from the world.

Well, at least I don’t feel like that right now. It’s been 6 days and 14 hours since I felt like that. I hope I won’t again. There’s nothing to do now but hope--for the sake of my love.

So after losing my memories, it took about a week to regain them the first time around. The second time, it shortened to a few days, maybe about 5. According to my third memory loss report, I remembered within a day. I’m hoping that means this whole amnesia experience is finally coming to an end. Please tell me that’s a possible theory.

At any rate, the first 2 times as soon as I recalled my memories, I lost something else. My mind wasn’t stable. It didn’t feel normal. I lost myself, as Sierra told me 6 days ago. I couldn’t think mentally. I couldn’t even think, let alone count two plus two equals four. But worst of all... I couldn’t get the words “I love you” out to Sierra right before I lost my memories the first, second, and third time.

I’m putting up my promise again on this record, so that it’s officially put on paper, even if I’m saying this on a document. Remember, Lane, you’ll find her. I’ll find her. I’ll find you.

Please. Preserve this record, medical, as if it is your life.

~Delaney T. Mulnix

“Delaney Mulnix, come with me,” Dr. Ryan says as he enters the waiting room.
“Where're we going?” Delaney asks as he follows. “Can I bring Sierra?”
“I’d like to show you the way to reach the report. Officials have approved of your admission to look at your record.” He glances at Sierra, who is walking alongside Delaney. “Would you say you’d trust--”
“Yes!” Delaney replies automatically. “You know I do.”
“I see.” The doctor smiles, though neither of his visitors can see it.
“How did you convince them to let us look at it?”
“Actually, your record’s being conserved in an isolated room, where no other records lie with it. So you’re able to see your own file at any time you’d like,” Dr. Ryan explains. “Just please, don’t mention it to the public.”
“Of course not.”
Dr. Ryan halts before a door labeled OFFICE and Dr. Ryan’s name printed beneath. They enter a small, almost stuffy, though warm and comfortable, room with a black leather couch to the left side and a small desk in the center. There are no windows.
In the three visits Delaney and Sierra has ever come to Dr. Ryan’s clinic, they had only ever seen this office once.
Dr. Ryan heads straight over to the door behind his desk, coated white in order to mix with the white walls of the room. It’s one of those thick but small doors that look like it’s stuck or might be part of the wall itself, and you usually had to pry it open.
Well, Dr. Ryan doesn’t have to. He takes a tiny key from his lab coat pocket and sticks it in the key slot at the edge of the door, then twists it all the way around. The door swings open as he puts the key away.
Inside, a small room fit to be a closet exposes another doorway. With a new silver key that has just been recently made, he unlocks it to reveal a white empty room. The only object inside is a metal filing cabinet, and from within the second to top box, Dr. Ryan takes out a brown, thin file folder.
“Here, your record.” He hands it to Delaney.
It is a given fact what Delaney would do next with it. He holds it out to Sierra.
Smiling, she asks, “Are you sure I can read it?”
“Yes.”
“Is it all right if I read it in your office, Dr. Ryan? I’m sorry for the inconvenience, doctor,” Sierra says, turning to Dr. Ryan.
“Go ahead. It’s not a problem.” Observing the couple sitting on his sofa, Dr. Ryan only wishes that he could say the same for their future.
At the moment, it is uncertain...whether Delaney T. Mulnix will survive--or not.
The doctor’s gaze lifts to stare at a sheet of paper he had hung on the wall overhead, just above the couch.
Quoted on it are the words, ‘We all mourn the life we could have had. --Anonymous’
Knowing the outcome of the crisis before him, the end result that would shake the life and love of the two most deserving people on his couch, he could not bear to tell them what he had planned from the beginning to say.

“Love cannot save you from your own fate...” At least saying it, whispering it out loud, even if they couldn’t hear him, was enough.

Wasn’t it?

"You're wrong."

Dr. Ryan looks up, glancing around the room. Who said that?

"You're wrong, Dr. Ryan."

Delaney had spoken. The doctor shakes his head. "About what?"

How had he heard?

"I read lips. Our love will save us. It's not only my love, Sierra's love. There's 3 of us."

"Three? What-- Your baby. You're talking about your baby." Dr. Ryan's eyes fall to Sierra's stomach in surprise. It has grown fuller now. "I forgot. Well, there's 3 of you. How--How can you be so sure?"

"I don't know what my fate is, what our fate is, and I don't want to. But have no doubt, we'll survive it. The three of us together," Delaney states matter-of-factly. "Because if I don't, if none of us does, then what was the point of all my effort? We've tried so hard to get to where we are now. Isn't it a sign the second I've kept my memories long after I should have lost it again, the second I've been able to think clearly long after I shouldn't, that we'll live through it?"

"Certainly, it's possible. But we--" He stops himself before he blurts out the truth.

"I take it when you say 'we', you mean the doctors, right?" Delaney guesses. He realizes the truth on his own. "So, you guys came to a conclusion?"

"No, we're not a hundred percent sure. But it's a high probability. Chances are--"

"If that's the case, don't worry. Our love will save us." He stands, then Sierra does the same.

"Is it all right if I take this record with us?" Sierra asks of Dr. Ryan.

"Oh, y-yes." He watches as the two exit his office. "You won't survive on sheer determination alone!"

Somehow, he can't make himself believe those words.

Sierra looks at him over her shoulder. "He's not alone."

And he finds himself smiling.

It was a month before Dr. Ryan saw either one of them again.

He opened the door of his condo to find Sierra Vena bent over her knees, one hand on her stomach.

Panting for breath, she looked up. She gasped out, "Lane... He's gone. Today... Today was our wedding day!" She collapsed into his arms, sobbing. "We all believed him, didn't we?"

"Yes." The doctor hugged her to him. "And in a way, I'm glad we did."

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