The Memory Book(3)

Mrs. T: You’re very strong.

Me (starts packing up stuff, in anticipation of leaving): I try.

Mrs. T: I’ve known you since you were a little fourteen-year-old with your (puts fingers in a circle around eyes) little glasses.

Me: I still have glasses.

Mrs. T: But they’re different glasses. More sophisticated. You look like a young woman now.

Me: Thanks.

Mrs. T: Sammie. Wait.

Me: Okay.

Mrs. T: You are very strong, but… But considering everything… (begins to choke up again)



At this point, I began to feel an uncomfortable tightness in the back of my throat, which at the time I attributed to a side effect of my pain medicine. Mrs. T really had been there for me since I was a freshman. She was the only adult that actually listened to me.

Sure, my parents tried, but it was only for five minutes, between their jobs and feeding my younger siblings and fixing some hole in our crap house on the side of a mountain. They don’t care about anything I do as long as I don’t let my siblings perish and I get my chores done. When I told Mrs. Townsend I was going to win the National Debate Tournament, get into NYU, and be a human rights lawyer, the first thing she said was, “Let’s make it happen.” She was the only one who believed me.

So for what she said next, at the risk of being melodramatic, she might as well have stuck her hand down my esophagus and clutched my heart in her hands.


Mrs. T: Do you think you can even handle college?

Explosions in head.

Me: What?

Mrs. T (pointing at computer screen): This—I mean, I will read up on it more, but—it seems like it affects everything. It could do serious damage.

Me: I know.



And here’s the thing. The health stuff I could take, but don’t take away my future. My future I had worked so hard to set up so nicely. I have worked for years to get into NYU, and now I was in the homestretch. The very idea that Mrs. Townsend would even consider that I would give it up filled me with rage.


Mrs. T: And on top of that, your memory is going to suffer. How are you going to go to class with all of this? You might— Me: No!



Mrs. T jumped back. Then it was my turn to begin weeping. My body wasn’t used to crying, so the tears did not come out in clean, clear supermodel drops like I thought they would. I shook a lot and the saltwater pooled up in my glasses. I was surprised by the strange whine that came out of the back of my throat.


Mrs. T: Oh, no. No, no. I’m sorry.



I should have accepted her apology and moved on, but I couldn’t. I yelled at her.


Me: I am NOT not going to college.

Mrs. T: Of course.

Me (sniffling): I am NOT going to stick around Strafford, riding around on four-wheelers, working at a ski resort and smoking pot and going to church and having tons of children and goats.

Mrs. T: I didn’t say that…

Me (through snot): I pushed my way into Hanover, didn’t I? I got into NYU, didn’t I? I am the valedictorian!

Mrs. T: Yes, yes. But—

Me: Then I can handle college.

Mrs. T: Of course! Of course.

Me (wiping snot on my sleeve): Jesus, Mrs. Townsend.

Mrs. T: Use a Kleenex, hon.

Me: I’ll use whatever surface I want!

Mrs. T: Sure you will.

Me: I haven’t cried since I was a baby.

Mrs. T: That can’t be true.

Me: I haven’t cried in a long time.

Mrs. T: Well, it’s okay to cry.

Me: Yeah.

Mrs. T: If you ever need to talk to me again, you can. I’m not just an academic resource.

Me (exiting): Yeah, cool. Bye, Mrs. T.



I walked out of Mrs. Townsend’s office (perfectly normally, thank you) and skipped ceramics and went straight home to work on my paper until the feelings went away. Or at least until the feelings and me got some miles between us.

I cried because I have never been more scared in my life. I fear that Mrs. Townsend has a point. I envision a vague gray shape that is supposed to be my brain inside my head, but instead it’s this blob outside of me, empty, that I won’t be able to use.

And I’m tired.

It’s like, take my body, fine, I wasn’t really using it anyway. I’ve got this enormous butt on ostrich legs, the hair of a “before” picture, and weird milky brown eyes like a Frappuccino. But not my brain. My true connection to the world.

Why couldn’t I wither slowly and roam around on an automatic chair, spouting my brilliance through a voice box machine like Stephen Hawking?

Uggggghhh. Just thinking about it makes me—

g;sodfigs;ozierjgserg

I don’t know how else to say it right now. And I don’t like not knowing. Anything. I don’t like not knowing in general. I should always be able to know.

And that’s where you come in, Future Sam.

I need you to be the manifestation of the person I know I will be. I can beat this, I know I can, because the more I record for you, the less I will forget. The more I write to you, the more real you will become.

So: I’ve got a lot to do today. It’s Wednesday morning. I’ve got to read seven articles on living wage conditions. I’ve got to call Maddie and remind her to read these articles, too, because in her three-year tenure as my debate partner, she has had a terrible habit of “winging it” because she thinks she’s God’s gift to affirmative speeches. (She is, sometimes.) The dumb chickens still need to be fed. The window is cracked open. I smell dew and cool air coming off the Green Mountains. No one else in my house is up yet, but they will be soon. And look, the sun is rising. At least I know that.