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Stan stood at the stove making his Stancakes, thrilled that he could now cook them without setting off the smoke alarm. Not that he wasn’t itching to remember more than that.
It was early; even Mabel hadn’t bounced out of bed yet, but the kitchen already smelled of sweet pancakes and coffee. So unlike the past week, it felt normal. God knows Stan had missed it.
Ford leaned his back against the counter, silent, mug in hand. The silence between them was comforting, because they weren’t thinking about the grudge they harbored.
How could they? After everything that happened, after what Stan sacrificed. All of their time spent together, they held Mabel’s scrapbook open, recovering memories they thought had been burned away, destroyed by the pull of a trigger.
“Kids should be coming down soon,” Stan remarked. “Nothing wakes ya up like the smell of breakfast.”
Ford chuckled in agreement, before he went ghost-pale. “Stanley, your hands…”
Stan looked down at his hands, and it was as if his whole body iced over. Barely, just enough that he could almost convince himself he’d imagined it, he could see through them. The spatula he held began to shake. “What the hell?”
Suddenly, the smell of food cooking was overwhelmed with a sweet burning as the Stancakes lay unflipped on the hot skillet. But even so, that was the least of Stan’s worries.
“Stanley?” He looked up, at a face that he should’ve named in an instant, but there weren’t enough features left. It was as if half of the face was scooped out, leaving nothing but an empty space behind.
No. This wasn’t happening. He was just starting to come back. He wasn’t going to forget. Not again.
His hands went numb, like he’d plunged them into a snow pile.
The spatula fell from his transparent hands, and he held them up to his face in dawning horror. It wasn’t like last time. There was no peace, no acceptance, only fear. Wildly, he looked back from them to the faceless man standing in front of him. “What is this?” he demanded, stumbling back. “Who are you?”
But the stranger could no longer say anything at all. A six-fingered hand reached out, almost pleadingly. He went to swat it away, but his hand—a hand that was barely there—phased right through it.
He himself was vanishing, as was the man in front of him. As were the faceless children running down the stairs. He desperately grasped at the features he could still see: the boy’s messy hair, the girl’s oversized nightshirt…but it didn’t last. Gradually, they vanished, like smoke.
He felt nothing. No longing, no grief…he realized that he didn’t even think to say I love you or I’m sorry.
After all, what he could possibly have to say to a couple of faceless strangers?
Stan bolted upright, briefly forgetting where he was. But then he saw the TV, glowing blue, a home video paused, saw the film reel and the cardboard box next to it, and he remembered. He looked over and found Ford, sleeping in a folding chair, and he bit back a wince. If they were anything alike, his back wouldn’t be thanking him in the morning.
Stan sighed, too loudly. Ford shot up, alert despite the hour. “Stanley, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Jeez, how light of a sleeper are you?” Stan joked, hoping to draw attention away from the fact that he was still shaken up. No such luck.
Ford looked at him for so long that Stan averted his eyes. Before he could cough and excuse himself—anything to avoid the incoming conversation—his twin said, “You had a nightmare.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sixer,” Stan grumbled, turning away, hugging himself. He wasn’t going to let it get to him. He wasn’t going to let some silly dream mess up all the progress he’d made. Sure, their early childhood was still foggy, but he wasn’t as lost as he was on day one.
“Stanley,” Ford’s voice was hard, but when Stan looked at him, almost as a challenge, his eyes were soft. “I want to help you.”
Stan dragged a hand down his face. He never was one to talk about his feelings. Talking made him feel vulnerable…weak…
“I was cooking breakfast,” he muttered. “Then…I dunno…my hands started to disappear. I could see right through ‘em. Then, I saw you, and you were disappearing too, and so were the kids, and I realized that I didn’t recognize anything. Not my family, not the shack, nothing!”
In any other scenario, Ford would’ve rationalized it away, would’ve said this was Stan’s mind adjusting, but he knew that Stan didn’t need a logical explanation. He just needed his brother. He wrapped his arms around him. Long-accustomed to the cold-shoulder, Stan stiffened, but he didn’t pull away.
“I know it’s a long road ahead, but I promise I’m not going anywhere,” Ford said, quickly adding, “again.”
“I don’t know why I was so worked up,” Stan mumbled. “I mean, my family literally disappearing? How dumb is that?”
Ford pulled away, but kept his hands on Stan’s shoulders. “It’s not dumb, Stanley. It’s your fear that all of our efforts are in vain, that you’ll forget us again, and your fear is completely valid.”
Stan’s shoulders slumped, like he’d been held up by invisible strings, and the strings were cut. “I’m not supposed to be the scared one, Ford,” he murmured. “I’m supposed to be the protector, supposed to look out for everyone. Now, I’m having dreams where there are no faces to remember?”
He remembered the cold, the absence of feeling anything, even the pain of loss, because it was as there was nothing there in the first place. He remembered feeling the same blankness from that day in the forest.
“Stanley, this isn’t the same as taking a punch. Your mind is healing, rebuilding what was lost,” Ford explained gently. “Nightmares were bound to be a part of that. I know.”
Oh, he definitely did. But never in the same way.
“It’s different, though. I have days where I can’t remember my own name without thinking about it, and it’s even harder because I haven’t written the name Stanley on a legal document in Moses knows how long.”
From what he’d learned, Stan spent years burying his own name so deep that even he could no longer access it, and now that he needed it most, it was near-impossible to find it again. The only person who called him that was the man in front of him. His own face, staring back at him, eyes full of sorrow, and maybe even guilt. Not that Stan knew what he was guilty of.
Stan could tell something was eating at Ford. “Whatever it is, Sixer, I can take it.”
“I was so angry at you for so long, Stanley, and the second you stepped up to help save us all, I confronted you with something that didn’t even matter. It wasn’t your fault that you suffered such a cruel fate. It was never your fault.”
Stan scoffed. “Would it have been any crueler than having to bury the kids? Even if I have days when I don’t know their names, I’ll always choose that over letting them die.”
This was the reason that Stanley was more of a man that anyone gave him credit for. He was willing to sacrifice his entire self if it meant his family would be safe. Without thinking, his brother wrapped his arms around him again. “I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life repaying you for everything you’ve done for us, for me.”
“You sure you have that kind of time?” Stan joked.
Ford let out a watery laugh. “I’ll make the time.”
And with that, the fear of forgetting melted away. Stanley was back, and he wasn’t going anywhere ever again.
THE END