Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac(58)

“He was fine.”

“And he basically is fine, but he didn’t want things to get bad. They have before for him, you know. It’s good, honey, he’s trying to be responsible.” She said that it might only be for a couple of days, and that he was in the transitional facility, not the full-on psych ward or something. The difference was that at the transitional facility, he could still keep up with his schoolwork and make phone calls. “It’s really just a house, Naomi,” she said. “He’ll probably call you in a couple of days once he’s settled in.”

I was numb, but underneath that numbness was an indignant little tumor. I couldn’t believe he would take off without even telling me himself.

A week passed without any word from James.

I decided that if he wouldn’t call me, I would call him. There were things he should know and things I needed to say. So whenever Dad was working or out, I would phone Sweet Lake.

I called him maybe thirty times over the next three days, but he never called me back. There wasn’t a direct line to his room or anything. Eventually, I put it to the receptionist point-blank, “Is he getting my messages?” The receptionist sighed or sniffed very heavily—over the phone, this sounds like the same thing—and replied, “Yes. He’s getting your messages, but sometimes a patient doesn’t feel up to returning a call.”

Screw that. I would go see him myself.

I hadn’t forgotten my promise to him. I hadn’t forgotten his “rules.” But I didn’t want him locked up without knowing the truth: I hadn’t been with him because I was delusional or an amnesiac. I had loved him. I think I really had.

And screw James. They were his rules, not mine.

Not to mention, I’d had my fingers crossed.

I knew Dad wouldn’t let me drive up to Albany by myself and especially not to visit James.

I called Will. “Coach,” I said. I knew I was laying it on a bit thick with the “coach” bit, but I needed Will to be in as good a mood as possible.

“What do you want?” Will asked.

“So the thing is,” I said, “I sort of need you to drive me to Albany tomorrow.”

“Why in God’s name would I do that?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” And I didn’t. It had basically been a Hail Mary. I’d been a jerk to Will. So I told him goodbye and I started to hang up the phone.

“Wait a second. I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it yet.”

“Okay.”

“What’s in Albany?”

I told him.

He lowered his voice. “Honestly, Naomi”—he’d stopped calling me Chief ever since I’d quit yearbook, and now that I had my memory back and could remember what good friends we’d been, it stung—“don’t you think I have better things to do on a Saturday than drive you to see your crazy boyfriend?”

“Yes. I’m sure that you do.” I wanted to add that James wasn’t crazy, but I knew by Will’s question that he was coming round.

“I have a yearbook to run. By myself, I might add.”

“I know.”

“And a girlfriend now.”

“Yes.” I’d seen him and Winnie Momoi. Everyone said how cute Winnie and Will were together. Even their names were alliterative.

“Well, I just wanted to make sure you appreciated that my whole life doesn’t revolve around you anymore,” he said. “You’ll pay for gas. And meals. And incidentals.”

“Incidentals? Like what?”

“Like…like sundries and vitamins and pens. Like I don’t know like what. I was just on a rhetorical roll. Incidentally, how long does it take to get to Albany?”

“Two hours, I think.”

“Okay, that’s two CDs. I gotta get started on a mix for tomorrow. Because even though I’m driving you, I’m still not speaking to you, Naomi.”

I decided not to point out the obvious: that he was, in fact, speaking to me.

I heard him flipping through his CDs in the background. “Songs for Visiting Naomi’s Crazy Boyfriend in Albany.” Will and his mixes.

“Catchy title,” I told him.

“I’m gonna fill it with all the famously mad and/or suicidal recording artists. Jeff Buckley. Elliott Smith. Nick Drake. And maybe a couple love songs, too. But the really, exquisitely tortured kind.”

“There’s one other thing,” I told Will. “I need you to call my dad and tell him that it’s something I have to do for yearbook.”

“Christ, Naomi, I am not going to lie for you.”

“Please, Will…He’ll believe you. I can’t go otherwise.”

“He knows you quit,” Will said after a moment.

“I know. Just say it’s something I committed to before that only I can do.”

“I’ll think about it. I’m not promising anything. Not to mention, I don’t like the idea of lying to your dad.”

That night, Will called my dad and told a very short story about my having agreed to photograph the Special Olympics.

Dad didn’t question Will. Everyone knew that William Blake Landsman was no liar. Besides, I think Dad could tell I needed to get out of the house.

We left at noon on Saturday. Mainly I pretended to sleep in the car. I was too nervous to even talk to Will.