Life In Reverse(2)

“Vance,” she whispered as I searched for a flicker of clarity in her eyes. The same one I prayed for every time I came here. The force of my stare willed her to remember the countless times I asked her to read Where the Wild Things Are. The secret Saturday trips to get ice cream for breakfast. Sunday morning cinnamon rolls. But all that was gone. When I glanced at her now, there was an emptiness that made my heart crack open. It made me want to crawl onto her lap and shake her until all the memories came spilling out. But then she shook her head as she spoke and all the hope melted in my chest. “Charles. You know we don’t have children.”

I painted on a smile and took her hand. “Would you like me to read you some poetry?”

“Yes,” she replied, her eyes glittering.

I stood up to retrieve a book from the overstuffed shelf next to the small television. My gaze wandered to the various paintings on the walls. Paintings she put her entire soul into, but now had no recollection she was the genius who created them.

Something inside me that was already broken managed to shatter even more. I wondered how God could be so f*cking cruel—giving us beautiful memories only to take them away. After all, what are we without them?

Then I glanced up at the ceiling, praying to that same God I cursed that I never had to find out.





THE CURRENT IS rough, splashing over the side of the raft. The sheer force of it makes my heart pound as I watch from the edge of the river. It looks like it could toss bodies around as if stirring a soup. Zack is smiling, though. He loves the danger, always has. I glance over at him from a distance. He flashes me one of his goofy grins, sticking his tongue out as if we’re twelve years old again. I reach out my hand to him. Though he’s too far away, he does the same. We’re not touching, but I can somehow feel the small callous on the base of his thumb, the jagged scar along his knuckle from an old scissor cut.

The sound of rustling in the tall trees nearby pulls my gaze away. I blink a few times then return my focus to the river—only to find that the raft is overturned. My eyes frantically scan the water, but there is no sign of Zack and his friends.

And then I scream.

Skin slick with sweat and heart hammering, I bolt up, thrashing around the room as I desperately search for him. When I’m greeted with nothing but the sound of my own heavy breaths, my eyelids flutter open and I become aware that it was a nightmare.

I try to calm my breathing as I sink my head down into the pillow. Maybe it can swallow me up so I can forget. It’s been two years and I’m doing better—most of the time. But every now and then it returns when the darkness settles in, bringing that feeling of sheer helplessness right along with it.

One glance at the time tells me I forgot to set my alarm. It’s already after nine. Part of me wants to pretend I have a sore throat or a stomach ache to avoid class. But that’s not me. That’s something Avery would do.

A tap on the shoulder startles me and I nearly jump out of my skin. My mother looks equally startled when I spring up to a sitting position. “Sweetie, I thought I’d better wake you. It’s nine fifteen.” Her brows pull forward, deep set green eyes holding concern. “Are you okay? You’re pale.”

I make a lame attempt at a smile. “I’m fine, Mom. Just nervous about my presentation this week.” I don’t want to tell her about my nightmare because she’ll start to worry again. She’s doing pretty well and thinks that I’ve recovered. And I have… I’m pretty sure I have. It’s just that every now and then I wake up in a cold sweat, the smell of the river and pine trees sticking to my skin and I can’t seem to shake it. But I refuse to burden her with this. I don’t want to make her heart any heavier.

She tilts her head and surveys me, pressing her hand to my forehead. “Well, you don’t feel as though you have a fever. But maybe you should stay home and rest.” Her stare goes to the window for a moment before returning to me. “You haven’t been yourself for the last few days. Are you sure everything is okay?”

“I’m good, Mom. Really.” Another lie. Another fake smile. “I’ll take a quick shower then come down for breakfast.”

“Okay, sweetie.” Her tone indicates she doesn’t necessarily believe me, but she doesn’t push the issue as she backs toward the door. “See you downstairs.”

I let out a relieved breath then kick off my Mickey Mouse blanket. My gaze flickers around the room to dove grey walls that hold my childhood secrets, not to mention memories and art. The first sculpture I ever attempted, a distorted blue jay, makes me grin. I’ve come a long way since then. Hanging beneath that is a poster of the Foo Fighters beside a framed picture of Zack and me, and I couldn’t possibly be smiling any bigger. Sighing, I look up at the puffy white clouds painted on my faded blue ceiling. For the briefest moment, I feel like I’m floating. My eyes travel back down, falling to my favorite red velvet chair stained with marker. All pointing to my failed childhood attempts at drawing the tree outside my window.

When I was little, I’d come up here and pretend I was going to some far-off land—like in Peter Pan. I’d disappear for hours at a time with my Play-Doh, making imaginary characters in every color of the rainbow. My dad always said I had a brilliant imagination. That he could tell I was going to ‘create’ when I was older. I remember asking him what I would create and he’d say ‘anything you want.’ Funny how in vagueness there can be so much certainty. My dad is like that a lot.