Memories

Sleep-ridden, my mind registered vague shapes and murmurs through squinted eyes, as if I were eavesdropping on a reality I ought not to see. As I slowly regained consciousness, some words grew clearer until one in particular brought me to my senses. Heather. Not the flower, but my name. However, it had not come from whatever hallucination I was having, but from my mother, who by the sounds of it, was across the hallway outside my door, likely pacing as she does when attending to a particularly stressful call.

My curiosity was immediately punctuated by the same throbbing pain in the back of my head that had greeted me every morning for the past fortnight. Instinctively, I groped for the prescribed painkillers that lived on my bedside table, and misjudging my grab through the haze of pain, promptly collapsed on the floor with a loud groan.

The talking stopped abruptly, then came the usual, “Heather!” as my door was swung wide open and I somehow managed to roll my eyes amidst the mild agony I was experiencing.

“That’s the third time this week,” she fretted, “you’ve got to be more careful!”

A small mumble of “Mum…” was all the response I could muster, weakly gesturing towards the pills which had gradually become my lifeline.

“Ah, of course sorry.” She gently eased me back into my bed, my back against the headboard, and handed me my medication.

The pain subsided quickly, almost too quickly. I looked down at the box, since when was I put on such strong meds? “When did I switch to Vicodin?” I wondered aloud.

She sighed, “Last week. Get ready, I was taking a call until…” She trailed off, giving me a pointed look. I nodded as she gently closed my door. Before it shut, I heard her mention that she needed to speak with me later, but so quietly that I almost missed it.

A half hour passed, my name was mentioned several more times and guilt flooded me. Why was I being fussed over while Luke had been in hospital nearing on six months now? I’d kept track of the days at one point; When had I stopped?

I brushed my teeth, undressed, and threw on my generic jeans and hoodie. I grabbed some books, slung my bag over my shoulder and headed out.

“I’m going to the coffee shop near the mall!” I yelled, pausing at the door. I heard some sort of mumbled assent which I translated as ‘alright’. The last words I caught before stepping out was, “…mental defence mechanism?”

This had to be related to my migraines in some way. My mind swam with questions as I mindlessly waved down the bus at the end of the street. ‘What did a concussion have to do with my mental health?’, I wondered as I took a seat on the bus. About two weeks prior I had suffered some sort of accident outside the hospital where we were visiting Luke. With the exception of a single memory, consisting of blinding white light and a searing pain in my head, I could recall next to none of the details of it. All I knew was that, I was supposedly struck by a car near the back end of the hospital.

I felt that suffocating guilt constricting my windpipe once again. That was the night Luke had been due to move to a home care unit. The mood had been somewhere between sombre and downright depressing, the adults tried being subtle about it - as if at seventeen I was fool enough to miss the message: The transfer indicated his dwindling lifespan, they were moving him to a more comfortable place to live out the final portion of his life.

They gave up too easily. There was still every chance with the right treatment and money. I had savings, our family hardly struggled, I recalled doing a fundraiser of sorts before that night. Together we could manage something for him. Then all it would take was a small miracle, but such low odds couldn’t dampen my hopes with such an unthinkable alternative.

My resolve hardened and my mind was made up. I closed my eyes as the mall flew past my window, this journey was going to go a bit further than planned.

***

I strolled past unfamiliar streets and buildings, the autumn breeze held my hair behind me, a flowing wave of hazel.

I double checked my phone. Nothing. Dozens of emails, all unanswered. I bit back tears, he had every right to be upset, I’d promised to be there with him that night, amongst other things. The last we’d spoke, he’d momentarily dropped his façade, and in that millisecond, I saw how scared he was - and has been - for far too long now. It wasn’t fair that he felt he had to act strong for my benefit. It wasn’t fair that he’d succumbed to lung cancer, he didn’t even smoke!

Since my injury, mum keeps making excuses to postpone a visit, she seems more pre-occupied looking after me. No matter, migraines or not I still remembered things from further back, such as the transfer address and room number.

I pushed open the airlock door with a swish and attempted a confident stroll approaching the receptionist.

“Hi, I need to visit Lucas Becker in room 3-C.” I hoped she couldn’t see me shaking.

“Are you sure you’re in the right place, miss?” She asked gently, looking concerned. I felt a tinge of annoyance, people ofttimes mistook me for much younger than I am, treating me like a lost child.

“I’m sure,” I said firmly, “please, let me visit him.” She must have heard the earnestness in my voice as she clicked a few keystrokes before giving a reluctant nod, ignoring the ‘Visitors’ clipboard on her desk.

Her voice floated after me, “Be quick please.”

I counted the rooms as they passed, one by one, until there it was. A silver plaque reading ‘3-C’. I could see his outline through the glass paned door, but the resident name slot was empty. Odd, I thought, he’d been here for about twelve days now.

Breath held, I gently nudged open the door. He immediately turned towards me and my heart froze. A mixture of suspense, fear and guilt seized me, and I braced myself for a potential outburst.

“You’ve got a twig in your hair.” He smiled, I exhaled in relief. He leaned forward and gently flicked it out.

“You… aren’t mad?” I asked tentatively.

He cocked his head, “Should I be?” A smile played on the edge of his lips; he was enjoying this.

“Shut up, you know what I mean,” I mumbled, eyes trained on my feet, “I missed the move, I haven’t seen you for two weeks, you haven’t answered my emails.”

His smile wavered at last, “Ah yes, those,” he glanced at the laptop on the desk beside him, it looked untouched, “I haven’t checked any messages lately.”

I raised an eyebrow and following a brief stare-off (I won), he finally whispered, “I haven’t asked for the Wi-Fi password.” That got a laugh from me. Life hadn’t been particularly amusing as of late, it was heartening to see him so normal.

“I have, however, spent a lot of time with this,” he gestured towards a familiar-looking, black, leather-bound notebook on the study. It was a small thing, old and worn, a gift to me some four years prior. An original from the late 90s by some Luxury Italian manufacturer. I remembered leaving it in his possession when we last spoke.

“I’ve had quite some time to look over what you wrote,” he said, “I did my best to answer your questions, even added some of my own. Take a look when you get time, really helps take your mind off things.”

“I- Thank you, I’ll be back with answers.” I stammered, briefly flicking through roughly a dozen pages, newly inked in his hand. There was a sudden clatter from outside. “I’m sorry, I need to go. Mum doesn’t know I’m here, the way she’s been acting since I got hurt, you’d think somebody died.”

He seemed to look through me, “Goodbye Heather.” He smiled, but his tone was off-putting, I glanced around, the wardrobes were bare, his mattress didn’t even have sheets. I felt that I were missing something obvious, but I didn’t have time to ponder or I’d miss my bus. Our eyes met, the air charged momentarily with unsaid words, so many unexplored emotions. Then the door shut, and I may have heard a sob.

***

Hospital food’s pretty bland sometimes, what’s your favourite food? (Maybe bring me some!)

Grinning, I jotted down each answer laying on my bed, periodically flicking back to his writing. It was soothing, as natural as talking.

Heather, what do you think of me?

That was a broad question, instead of the general answers you might think of, my mind spiralled into all manner of thoughts- which I promptly shut down. Perhaps, I mused, heart racing, with more time…

My phone buzzed. A blue P appeared in my notifications. I hadn’t used PayPal for a while, perhaps mum had sent me spending money? Instinctively, I tapped on it- and I froze.

***

I slammed into the kitchen door. There was a gentle tinkling of shattering glass as my mum whipped round in alarm.

“Heather, what—”

“Twenty thousand dollars,” I breathed, “In my account, two minutes ago. I don’t know where from, but this changes everything!” I was ecstatic, we needed a miracle for recovery and here it was… So why did she look so distraught?

“Honey, this is what I wanted to talk to you about,” Her tone was strange.

“I- what? It’s to do with you? I don’t know how you did it, but the treatment, this is plenty for—”

“Heather,” She interrupted, her eyes unreadable, “There’s a reason you were in the alley that night.”

I began to interject, but my head ignited with pain. Lights. Screaming. Too many sounds. I felt a pill dropped in my mouth and swallowed it dry. The pain receded, but the memories did not.

The howling screams: They were mine. “Luke- Lucas…”

“You ran through two private wards and a fire-escape to get out,” she sobbed, “I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t respond, it made no sense. With a glance towards her I rushed to my room and seized the notebook. When I turned, she was standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her face.

“Look- LOOK AT IT!” I shoved the book in her face, but she just continued to cry.

“Honey, what—?” No sudden shock appeared across her face, only confusion. I looked down and flicked through the pages.

“No, this makes no sense.” I saw questions I wrote weeks ago, and responses I had been writing earlier. But in between… A dozen blank pages, completely untouched.

Memories flooded back, sirens, an ominous flatline beep, followed by blinding lights, screeching tires and a piercing pain.

“He can’t be gone; I just saw him.” But even as I said it, I saw the concern on the receptionist’s face, the empty name plaque, stripped sheets and wardrobes and the thin layer of dust that coated everything in the room except him. What did I see?

“The fundraiser you started,” my mother choked, piercing my conflicted thoughts, “my beautiful daughter. I’m so sorry. Twenty-thousand was an incredible feat, and his last wish was for it to go back to you.”

I stood speechless, half-conscious. My world had broken down, my ‘mental defence mechanism’ destroyed, and I was hit with the full force of reality for a second time. A sob was wrenched from my throat.

It made no sense, yet I knew it was true. With trembling hands, I held to my chest the leather-bound book he never set a pen to. The last memory I had of the boy it so cruelly outlived.