The Leaving(69)

No man carrying wrapping paper.

Nothing that looked like wrapping paper.

Nothing.

So she kept walking.

Then stopped and turned again a block later.

Compared the crowd.

Yes, that girl.

Definitely following her.

So she walked straight at her, surprised that the girl stood her ground, didn’t run. “Why are you following me?”

“I was afraid to say . . . I just.”

“You just what?” Scarlett stepped closer.

“I wanted to see you with my own eyes, I guess,” she said.

“Why? Who are you?”

But the girl’s voice was so familiar that Scarlett realized she knew the answer. She’d seen her before, on the news.

The girl said, “I’m Avery. I’m Max’s little sister.”





Lucas


“I wasn’t expecting I’d hear from you again.” Sashor shook Lucas’s hand, and again Lucas didn’t want to let go. But did. They walked down a long hall to his office together. “So, what’s up?” Sashor asked.

They sat—Sashor at his desk, Lucas in a chair in front. A sign on the wall that Lucas hadn’t noticed last time read, THERE’S NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT

AND NO PRESENT LIKE TIME.

“Have you ever heard of a memory scientist named Daniel Orlean?”

“First I heard of him was from Chambers.”

“His research had to do with erasing trauma, curing post-traumatic stress.”

“Yes, I read up on him a bit. The science has come a long way since he was working in the field, but it’s still a minefield of moral issues.”

“It seems like maybe whoever did this was influenced by him, by the book. Because our traumas have been erased.”

“You remember the scene of your mother’s car crash, Lucas.”

“But not the shooting. That must mean something.”

“It could mean everything or nothing. Chambers and I, well—Lucas, I’m not sure I’m free to talk about it yet.”

“About what?” Lucas asked.

Sashor just pressed his lips together.

“You’re seriously not going to tell me.”

“I’m really sorry.” Sashor looked it, at least. “Soon,” he said. “I’ll have something to tell you soon.”

“I kissed Scarlett,” Lucas blurted, and Sashor looked surprised and interested. “And I knew it wasn’t the first time. But I’ve been trying to will myself to remember and I can’t. Can I will myself to remember things she and I did together?”

“Well, certainly there are memories we have and never access until someone else mentions them.” Sashor sat back in his chair, swiveled a little one way, then the other. “Like someone will say ‘Remember the time you did the “Thriller” dance in your underwear,’ and you won’t have thought of it in years but you’ll remember it.”

Lucas said, “I don’t know that dance.”

“You get my point,” Sashor said. “There’s also stuff that your subconscious hangs onto—like a buffering or savings effect—so if you memorize a list or something, then wait a long time until you’re sure you’ve forgotten. Like if you tested yourself. Then if you try to memorize the same list again it’ll take you less time than it did the first time around. So the memory of the sequences was stashed away somewhere in your brain and then reactivated.“

“How do you remember everything that you know about memory?” Lucas asked.

Sashor laughed.

Lucas worked hard to phrase the next question just so. “So if I can remember loving someone, would I remember hurting someone?”

“I wish I had clearer answers for you, Lucas.”

“I wish you did, too.”

“I just wonder if there’s a point at which you should just stop trying to remember. If maybe what you need is the opposite of trying to will yourself to remember. Maybe you need to intentionally forget about remembering.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” Lucas shifted in his chair.

“Imagine each memory of these past eleven years, imagine each one as, well, a penny. Say the reality of each moment is the penny. Now imagine them all stretched like Scarlett’s penny—because your recall, if you had any, of what happened wouldn’t necessarily be accurate anyway. So why fixate?”

“There was a woman in the nursing home. Where Orlean is. She couldn’t remember anything. Not from one minute to the next. You leave the room and you go right back in, and she had no idea who you were.”

“I’ve read about her.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name, you mean?” Sashor shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“No, I mean, how do you form and maintain your identity if you have no memories?”

“You have the whole rest of your life ahead of you to make memories.”

“But how do I know how to be?”

“How does anybody? Most people only come into adulthood with a handful of vivid memories of their childhood anyway. There’s a forgetting curve that has been researched and documented. The longer you live, the less you remember. Don’t overvalue what you’ve lost.”