The Leaving(32)
She watched Sashor.
Counted his blinks.
One.
Two.
Three.
“No”—his eyes wide open and unblinking now—“I mention it only as an example of how complex and unpredictable these kinds of retrieval disorders can be.”
“Retrieval disorder,” she repeated, thinking that was a good term to describe the situation with the object inside her, too.
There was still no, well, movement.
Sashor said, “It’s possible the memories are still there and that your brain just can’t access them.”
“Eleven years’ worth of memories?”
Tried really hard then.
To retrieve.
Like with a long arm.
/
/
/
/
“Well, you have to remember that the average sixteen-year-old only has a limited number of memories of the last eleven years of their life as well.”
Now she felt her own blink. “How many?”
376
4,567
1,111
6,984
786
7,493
3,049
65,097
11
300,009,099
8,765
9,089,888
100,000,000,006,000,000,000
85,968
85,969
“No way to know for sure, but think about it this way. The majority of people walking around probably have no exact memory of their eighth birthday or tenth birthday or of their ninth Christmas or any of that.”
Normal people don’t remember everything.
Normal people forget.
Do normal people ever have just one memory that is so . . .
very . . .
unrelenting/unavoidable/unfathomable?
“The hot air balloon and carousel and all,” she said. “Do you think those things even happened?”
She’d spent her time in the waiting room searching for hot air balloon companies and carousels in the area on her phone.
Horse stables, too.
It was useless.
So far, Lucas’s plea to the world to help them had turned up nothing, and she had zero expectation that it would.
“As I told Lucas and Kristen,” Sashor said, “it’s a lot easier to implant a fake memory than it is to erase a real one—though it’s true that people are having success in treating trauma victims with post-traumatic stress by just recasting the trauma—like if they witnessed a car accident or something awful. But the reverse is much easier. So it’s possible that the hot air balloon memory was implanted in you, though to what end? It would be one thing if you remembered that your captor was a man, say, with a scar on his forehead. Because if that were a fake fact, an implanted memory, it would throw the police off the trail. A hot air balloon? What’s the point?”
/
/
/
He went on to say that the problem now was that “source errors” could creep into their minds. That, at least in terms of helping to locate Max, Scarlett and the others were becoming less reliable with each passing second.
“You’ll think you’re recovering your own memory,” he explained, “when it’s actually something you pulled out of a news report or movie or article.”
/
/
Great.
She asked, “Do you think hypnosis could really help?”
Then tried to imagine it.
You are getting sleepy.
Very
very
sleepy.z z z z z z z z z z
Was that how it really worked?
“I have my doubts,” Sashor said. “The person Kristen is working with has been at the center of an ongoing controversy for years now. She’s been involved in a few prominent abuse trials, and there’s concern about false recovered memories.”
“She said she remembers not liking me,” Scarlett said. “How does that work? Like memories of emotions?”
It was a nice, roundabout way of asking about her longing for Lucas.
She’d answered “yes” to the question about being in love.
She couldn’t recall a single incident of kissing, but had visceral memory of what it would feel like.
Had felt like.
With him.
Last night, at Opus 6, it was all coming together.
So many rocks and w i n d i n g, l o o p i n g paths.
She liked it there. S h e f e l t t h a t w a y, t o o.
Maybe when they got together later—just the two of them, like they’d planned—they’d know.
Know what, though?
Something.
Anything.
Sashor said, “That aspect of memory is still one of the most mysterious.”
“Do you think it’s weird that I’m not sure I want to remember where we were?” she asked then.