Four

        Where We Forget

        Everything has some sort of sentiment to us. There’s the photographs of that time you went to the beach with your friends and had a great time, or a letter a crush sent you back when you were younger and thought it was the best thing in the world. I’ve never had some sort of sentiment that was material. I’ve always been someone who’s kept my precious memories inside, only where I’m the one who can view them.

            However, today, I think I might have one thing.

            “She still thinks you’re a size five,” Grandpa says, handing me a shoebox. “But when she wasn’t looking I traded up.”

            Sitting on the edge of the bed in my mom’s room, I slowly remove the lid of the shoebox. Inside is a pair of ugly, tan cowboy boots. And when I say ugly, I actually mean the most hideous things I have ever seen.

            When I moved away, I vowed to hate everything country that reminded me of where I came from. Now, being back, I still hate everything, especially cowboy boots. But despite the material part of them, I look up at Grandpa and smile.

            He said that my mom got them for me one day a month ago when he took her out. And even though otherwise I would never wear them, I slide them on and feel a step closer to my Mom.

            Inside Grandpa’s old red and grey pickup truck, Belle’s squished in the middle wearing the nicest thing that Grandpa bought her; a light pink dress with black flowers growing up from the trim. My dress is simple, probably because Grandpa doesn’t know much about teenage girls clothing. It’s a halter dress, the top half white but the bottom black that hangs just above my knees. It looks silly with the cowboy boots, but we’re going to a special hospital, not a fashion show.

            “Now Isabelle, if you need to go out of the room and get some air, that’s fine, you don’t need to ask,” Grandpa explains as we pull onto the main road. I lean my head on the passenger window, staring out at the early morning people as we pass them. “And make sure not to mention anything that I told you about last night, okay?”

            Belle nods as we start near the diner. On the road, I see a familiar blue Camaro parked and when we get closer, I see Jacoby, walking around to the passenger side. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that matches his hair and simple jeans with blue Converse. He pushes the seat forward and reaches into the back seat, starting to retrieve something. Now I’m directly beside him, Grandpa slowing the truck for a red light.

            Jacoby finally looks up, his eyes meeting mine. His are surprised and he looks stunned for a moment, however his arms keep moving. He pulls a little girl out of the backseat, her curly hair the same colour as his. She looks really young, like Jacoby’s mother had to have gotten pregnant after I left. The light ahead turns green and we start to slowly pull away. Jacoby and I still stare at each other, but neither of us knows whether to smile or wave. By the time the truck is far down the main road, I’m turned around in my seat, still staring.

~~~

            The one thing that always made me feel okay when I really wasn’t was when my mom would brush my hair. If I was crying from getting in a fight with Dove Miller, Mom would brush my hair and by the time she was done, my eyes were dry. If I had skinned a knee, the remedy wasn’t a Band-Aid, but sitting on her lap, letting her do my hair.

            So as I sit in the waiting room beside Grandpa and Belle, I’ve finger-combed my hair a total of fifteen times and finally tied it into a braid over my left shoulder, knowing I’m not going to be okay no matter how many times I pretend.

            “You may go in now, but only one at a time unless you’re with the child,” a nurse says, gesturing to Belle.

            “Stephen, would you like to go first?” Grandpa asks, taking my hand and giving it a comforting squeeze. I swallow, my throat dry and give him a small, unsure nod. “Last room on the left.”

            Slowly, I rise to my feet, feeling Belle’s eyes on me. My legs feel like they’re going to collapse under me, like they’re made of Jell-O. Slowly, I take a few steps towards the hall that leads out of the waiting room, trying to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. As I pass by the other rooms, I look through the few open doors.

            The first one I see has a middle-aged man in it, sitting in a chair beside a window that’s letting in the early morning light. He looks completely normal and I feel myself pause, trying to wonder why he’s here. Then, as I move to walk on, he turns towards me, showing the side of his face that I couldn’t see before. It’s scorched, like he was burnt. But it doesn’t look recent. In fact, it looks like it happened a long time ago.

            The next open door is on the right, revealing a little girl, lying in her bed. Her dark blonde hair hangs in pigtails over her shoulders, reminding me a bit of Belle. At first, I smile at her, wanting to be friendly. Though it quickly fades when I see something that takes my brain a long time to process. She has no arms.

            “I don’t know you,” she snaps, not returning the smile I had given her. The pretty, little girl I had first seen now looks bitter, practically snarling at me as I stand in her doorway. As quickly as I had come, I leave, vowing to leave the residents without a stranger poking my head in their doors.

            When I finally near the last door on the left, I pause. It’s open, but only slightly. It takes me longer than it should to finally get to the entrance and when I do, all the air in my lungs comes out in a rush. I feel faint, like someone is sucking the blood from my veins.

            She’s sitting by the window, slowly moving back and forth in her rocking chair. Her once long, brown hair is short and choppy, like she’s left it to do it’s own thing for a while now. Her body looks frail, and even though she’s facing away from me, I can see that her skin is extremely pale.

            Quietly, I take a deep breath and step into the room. I remember what Grandpa said and start to repeat the words I rehearsed in my head all morning.

            “Hello, Ms. Greenwood.” My voice sounds unsure and each word comes out quieter than the one before it. “How are you today?”

            She practically whips around in her chair to look at me. As soon as I meet her gaze, I see no sign of the mother I once knew in them. She looks scared, like she’s constantly in fear of something unknown to me.

            “Who are you?” She asks, her voice no nicer than the girl down the hall’s.

            “My name is Stephen,” I practically whisper. My hands shake at my sides and I quickly clasp them together, trying to hide the fact that I’m about to combust.

            “I have a daughter named Stephen,” she says, her scared expression quickly changing into a smiling one. “Why don’t you come sit?” She gestures to the chair across from her. “I’d love to tell you about her.”

            I listen to my mom talk about me for a long time, making sure I don’t slip up and finish her sentences about things I did in the past. I haven’t seen her in years and the whole time I’ve been looking forward to this moment. But now, now I wish I hadn’t come. She’s worse than I thought.

            She has no idea who I am.

            “Your hair,” Mom says, pointing to my braid. Looking down, I see that I’ve been playing with it and the tie fell out. “Want me to fix it for you?”

            Nodding, I hand her the tie and she tells me to sit on the bed behind her rocking chair. She follows me there and sits behind me. The exact moment I feel her fingers brushing out my braid, I feel my whole body relax. For the first time in years, I feel normal.

            “Who’s there?”

            I follow Mom’s gaze to the doorway where Belle is standing, her eyes scared and upset. Her mouth is open slightly, not believing her eyes exactly like I had been.

            “Stephen?” Suddenly Mom drops my hair and runs to the doorway, wrapping Belle in her arms before she is prepared for it. “Where have you been, Stephen? Where’s your father? Where’s Belle?”

            Belle pulls back but Mom’s hands stay on her arms. “I’m Belle, Mom.”

            She shakes her head back and forth so quickly she looks like a bobble head. “Why are you being like this? Stephen, stop kidding around. Now tell me please what’s going on and go get your father so we can get out of here.”

            Belle knows better, but right now, she looks so scared that the words just come out. “I am Belle. Stevie is over there.” She points to me and Mom’s back stiffens. Slowly, she turns around to face me and when her eyes meet mine, they’re full of hatred.

            Her eyes find their way down to my boots and they widen. “Stephen, those were for you,” she says quietly, her voice shocked. She turns to Belle and then back to me with an expression I’ve never seen on my mother before. “Give my daughter back her boots!”

            “I’m your daughter!” I finally yell, frustrated. “I’m Stephen! That’s Belle!”

            “Nurse!” Mom yells franticly. “Nurse!”

            As soon as the nurse comes in, Belle and I are rushed out. The door is quickly closed behind us and I can hear Mom’s screams and cries all the way down the hall.

            “What’s wrong with Mom?” Belle asks, stopping me before we hit the waiting room. I’m at a loss for words. “Please, Stevie. Just tell me. I’m tired of being kept in the dark.”

            “Belle,” I sigh, avoiding her eyes. Instead I stare at the floor, wondering how many times my mother has walked down it. “Mom got in a car crash before we moved. She can’t remember anything after it happened.”

 A/N: Picture if of Dove Miller :)