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He can’t reach her anymore.
He saw her during the treatment, her hair tangled, her eyes scared, and he strained to get to her. He managed to take one step, to crawl halfway there and brush his fingertips against her arm, but that was the extent of it. And then, he couldn’t even get close enough to do that. Then, he was forced into a box.
He looked for the door after running into the wall the first time, and he never found it. He shouted enough that his voice grew hoarse. He screamed. He pressed himself as far up against the walls as he could, put his forehead to the glass, and pleaded for his mom to remember.
He was made for her to grieve him. (He thinks.)
He was made so she could reminisce. (And oh, she does so much reminiscing.)
He was made to force her to think of what could have been. (He does that more than he should, really. But he’s supposed to be there so she has something to let go of.)
He’s twisted that over the years. He’s changed it to fit what he wants. He doesn’t want her to let go of him, so he alters his purpose slightly to make sure that doesn’t happen. He morphs into whatever his mother needs in the moment, because it gives him a few more seconds to stay. He’s alive to her. Not alive in the way he craves. But close enough that he’ll accept it. He’ll fight for it.
How can she grieve his death if she can’t remember him?
The worst part is that he sees her, on the other side of the wall. He’s suspended just outside of the world his family lives in. He watches Mom go home. He watches Dad take her coat for her. He watches his sister freeze when Mom doesn’t remember her. If he wasn’t so desperate to get out, he would cherish that, think about how well he’s done his job. Or he would try to grab his sister’s hand and tell her he’s sorry for everything and know that sorry would never be enough. As it is, he only brings himself closer to the wall, fingernails digging into the glass.
Please, he thinks, eyes locked on his mom. Please. Look this way. I’m here. I’m still here. I’ve always been here.
She doesn’t. The treatment did its job. For now, at least. He comforts himself by thinking that surely, it can’t be forever. She has to remember. She can’t forget something like him. She needs him.
He paces around the box. If this were a physical room, there would be a track worn in the floor from the circles he makes. He traces his hands along the wall just in case a door appears. He tries to claw his way out. There are scratches in the glass because of that; the hours blur together and he doesn’t remember that time very clearly, but he knows that it included a lot more crying than he expected. He sunk down to the ground when he was finished and knocked his head hard against the wall, which gave him a new idea.
(It didn’t work either. Barely even a crack. He’s never bled before, but he bleeds then. His blood is black instead of red.)
(Didn’t his sister say that head wounds bled the most, a long time ago? Hadn’t she studied something about that for a health class he’d listened in on?)
(He lets the blood mat in his hair. It dries against his forehead and on his clothing when he wipes his hands on them. It still stains his fingers, and he doesn’t know how to get it off.)
He’s always known where his mother was. He could follow her around. He could sense her whenever he couldn’t see her. He could reach out and touch her, and even when that touch was a reminder that he wasn’t everything he wanted to be, it was still a touch he welcomed. Now she drifts out of his sight and he’s left wondering if she’ll ever come back, engulfed in panic until she appears again. Something tugs in his gut each time he catches sight of her. His hands move to it instinctively, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. It’s like pain, but not quite. He doesn’t know if he can call it painful. If he’s a good judge of that. It was all he knew for eight months of his life—could he call it life?—and he isn’t sure if that means he’s acquainted with it enough to know if it’s pain, or too adjusted to tell if it qualifies.
His family brings out pictures. Dad finds boxes and sets them on the counter and they get to work reminding Mom of everything important. He watches them explain and wishes he could explain with them. He was there for most of these memories, too.
For a moment, he thinks they’re getting close. That there’s a crack. His sister rifles through photos and says, “Uh—you’re missing a few pictures here, Dad, didn’t the doctor say to—”
“The doctor said at the right time,” their dad interrupts.
His sister frowns as the pictures in her hands are taken and set back in the stack. “Oh. Well, then.”
He pulls away from the glass. Wipes his blood-stained hands on his pants. It’s becoming habit.
His mom lays everything out on the floor, and she goes back to it every day, rearranging photos, reading notes again and again. Once, he feels the same twinge he’s used to—a spark that means she’s trying to reach for him. She’s unaware of it, and often he knows he should ignore it, but he interprets it to mean that she needs him with her and rushes to her side. He perks up at the feeling, scrambling close to the wall again, but she’s still staring at the pictures in her hands.
Please.
“Di, honey,” Dad says, peeking in on her. “You’ve been at this for days.”
“Something is missing, Dan.” Mom throws down the photos, gestures at the spread. The twinge happens again, more insistent. “It’s like it’s tugging at me, I can almost see it.”
“Come to bed.” Dad holds out a hand. Mom shakes her head and murmurs something under her breath. “If the memories are meant to come back, they will.”
He pushes away from the glass like he’s been struck. He knows what his father thinks of him, but it still hurts to hear it. He runs his hands through his hair. His fingers catch in the matting. When he looks back at the scene in front of him, he doesn’t look at his mother, but at Dad. He stares hard.
I know you know I’m here, he thinks. You know I’m still here. Memories don’t die, isn’t that what you said? I’ll never die.
His father doesn’t react. He isn’t sure what he expected. So he turns to his mother again and focuses on the feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Mom,” he says. It’s the first time he’s spoken aloud in as long as he can remember. The first time he’s said something meaningful instead of wordless screaming. His voice is hoarse, and he tries a second time for the word to come out right, but he has to give up. He’s damaged it beyond repair. “Mom?”
She falters like she hears his voice, but she doesn’t turn around, and that’s almost worse than if she hadn’t heard him at all. He lets out a sob and drops his head against the glass, smiling without knowing why.
“Hi, Mrs. Goodman.”
He looks up at the new voice. Dad is going up the stairs, and on the other side of the room is Henry. He shifts back on his feet and waves quickly as Mom glances up at him.
“I just needed to talk to Natalie about some homework,” Henry says when Mom only gives him a blank look. She nods. “I—know it’s late, um…she’s not been answering her phone, and I thought—”
Mom leans back, still staring at Henry. He pauses. “Is everything okay?” he asks.
She points at him. “Henry?” she says.
Brow furrowing, he says, “Yes.” He won’t stop moving his hands. He watches Mom nervously as she thinks to herself.
“...God, you remind me of someone,” she finally murmurs.
That sets off the twinge again, the strongest it’s ever been. He nearly doubles over at the sensation. He lifts one hand to the wall, putting all of his force behind it.
I’m right here. I’m right behind you.
“How old are you?”
“Uh, seventeen,” Henry answers. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Mom says, sounding lost. The sensation starts to fade, and he digs his fingernails into the glass like that will keep the feeling with him. Like he’s on a cliffside and about to take a dive. She’s so close. He can still sense her reaching for him. If she keeps doing that, if she doesn’t let go of him—
Then she shakes her head, smiles, and stammers out, “Uh—Natalie’s in her room.”
The feeling gets put back in a box. He gets put back in a box. (Not that he was ever out to begin with. But it becomes more cramped. The walls press in tighter.)
In frustration, he rears back and rams his shoulder into the glass. It doesn’t give. His shoulder aches. He laughs.