Unremembered (Unremembered #1)(43)

I wait, wondering if something is supposed to be happening. I’m half expecting a bolt of lightning to strike my brain, but in reality, nothing changes. My mind is quiet. And the room has fallen silent once again.

‘I don’t feel anything,’ I tell him.

He nods. ‘You won’t feel different. Think of this as an extension of your brain. An external storage container of sorts. But in order to access the information that’s in it, the memories have to be triggered somehow.’

‘OK,’ I say dubiously. ‘And how do we do that?’

‘There are several ways to trigger dormant memories – key words, objects, images – but the easiest thing is for me to ask you questions.’

‘OK,’ I say again, feeling less and less confident that this will actually work.

He rubs his palms on his pants. ‘Let’s start with your house. Tell me about your living room.’

I frown. ‘How can I possibly do that? I don’t remember my house. I don’t remember anything about my life before—’

‘What colour is the couch?’ he interrupts.

‘Beige,’ I say without thinking.

My whole body freezes. Apart from my pounding heart. Which I can now hear in my ears.

What just happened?

‘And where is the front door?’ he continues.

This response comes as quickly as the last one. ‘On the opposite side of the room. Next to a tall brown lamp and a coat rack.’

I don’t know how I’m doing this. I don’t know why these answers are coming so easily. Or if they’re even the right answers.

I stare wide-eyed at Zen. ‘What is going on?’

He smiles encouragingly. ‘You’re remembering.’

‘I am?’

He nods. ‘Your brain is accessing the memory that’s stored on the drive.’

A rush of euphoria shoots through me, waking me up, energizing my senses. ‘Do it again!’ I order. ‘Ask me more questions!’

Zen laughs. ‘OK, OK. What else is in the room?’

I bite my lip in concentration and close my eyes but nothing is coming. ‘I . . . I . . .’

Zen steps in. ‘Sorry, you probably need something more specific. What is in the corner, to the right of the front door?’

A grin spreads wide across my lips. I know this. ‘It’s a plant!’

I doubt anyone in the history of the world has ever gotten this excited about a plant, but I don’t care. For me, this plant means everything. It’s a piece of me. A piece I thought I had lost forever.

And then suddenly the room starts to take shape. What was a blank white canvas is now becoming a tapestry of colours and objects and furniture. One by one, items materialize out of thin air, filling in empty gaps. A table. Another lamp. A chair. A bookshelf. A fireplace.

It’s so magnificent. And so real! I can remember it almost as clearly as I can remember my room at Heather and Scott’s house.

‘Is this really my house?’ I ask Zen.

‘Yep.’

I can hardly believe what I’m seeing – or remembering, rather. For the first time in what, for me, seems like forever, I start to feel an undeniable sense of ownership over something.

My living room.

My beige couch.

My house.

And everything I see feels comfortable. Safe. Right. It feels like home.

The living room continues to populate with familiar adornments and trimmings. As though a pair of magic, invisible hands were skilfully decorating my memory. Brass candleholders appear atop the mantel and are immediately filled with long tapered green candles. A richly coloured mosaic rug unfurls along the hardwood floor.

The walls, once plain white, are suddenly coated in creamy taupe paint as three dark wood picture frames take shape over the couch. Inside each one, a beautiful oil painting starts to emerge, swiftly crafted by an unseen artist with a concealed brush.

Red opaque curtains glide across the window, blocking out the daylight until, finally, the lamp in the corner illuminates, casting a warm soothing glow on everything, and adding a satisfying finishing touch to the full picture.

But even though the living room seems to be complete, I am hungry for more. I have a burning desire to explore the rest of the house. To push the limits of my newly returned memory.

I notice the beginnings of a narrow hallway leading out of the room and I’m immediately pulled towards it. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and focus hard on the path of the hardwood floor, forcing my mind to walk down it until I see . . .

Nothing.

The world simply stops there. And as hard as I try, as deeply as I concentrate, I can’t see beyond it. It’s as though the hallway just dissolves into nothing. The floor ceases to exist, the walls disappear, and I’m surrounded once again by that exasperating empty white space that’s been haunting me since they pulled me from the ocean.

I squirm in my seat and let out a small whimper. ‘I can’t . . .’ I try to explain, frustration mounting. ‘I can’t see anything else.’ I open my eyes and look desperately at Zen. ‘I can’t remember what’s outside of that room! Why can’t I remember?’

Zen puts a reassuring hand on my arm, but this time his touch does nothing to calm me. ‘Because you only have access to what’s on the hard drive. And unfortunately I wasn’t able to get any memories of other rooms in the house. Which means you won’t be able to see anything past the living room.’