Faulty Memory

They tell me that I will remember her again. The doctors, my family, friends. They repeat the same mantra as each day passes. "It is just temporary. A side effect." Trauma, brain injury. Key phrases repeated almost hourly when my frustration sets in.

The first few days after the accident they left me alone. Gave me space to figure out my new place in this oblivion that is not my life. A blank screen that once in a while static black and white images shoot across, but nothing forms into a whole picture. I hate these images and dread those moments. My frustration builds and I want to scream.

Now they are coming at me constantly with good intentions and hungry eyes hoping that I remember the time we rode the roller coaster at Cooney Island or went for a pre-adolescent joy ride in grandpa's truck that ended with a whole summer spent repairing his shed after we crashed into it.

This woman Karen, she says she is my sister, brings me ornately decorated photo books, scrapbooks that she has put together to help me remember. The picture on the cover of the very first book is the picture of her. She is laying on the ground in the middle of a forest. The sun must have just risen shortly before the picture was taken because a hint of the sky can be seen between the trees. It has that muted yellow tint when the sun is fighting the morning cloudiness trying to get out and claim the sky. Why? Why can I remember the intricacies of a sunrise, but not remember her?

"Jen," Karen says softly when she sees my face twist into exasperation. "That is her name."

Plain name. So simple. Easy to remember. But I can't. "Arianna. That is the name that I feel when I look at her." I look up at Karen hoping that I said something right. Karen smiles, giggles a little even. I am glad this is funny for her.

"You loved that name when you were little. Maybe you thought that is who. . . " she jabs at the photo I am holding. "Maybe that is who you thought she should be."

I keep looking at the photo. I feel my hand come up to my swollen face with the bandages covering the left side of my face. "She is pretty."

Karen takes my hand. "She still is."

I look at the woman in the picture and then I look up at Karen. I see the resemblance. I know she is not lying. She is who she says she is. She is my sister. I want so badly to remember this woman lying on the ground looking peaceful and happy. This woman that everyone keeps saying is me.

I want to remember her, but then I am glad that I don't because I know that the picture is past tense. If Jen remembered the loss would be unbearable. The happy woman in this picture would not exist anymore. The woman in this picture had a family, a husband, two children. Her husband, Christopher, a childhood sweetheart. Married for six years. Twin daughters, Emme and Grace. Karen tries to show me pictures of them and I reject her harshly. I throw the scrapbooks across the floor. She is visibly hurt, but trying to stay strong. Another side affect of my trauma, unbridled anger. The doctors say that my frustration unleashes as anger, but they are a bunch of nimrods.

The funny thing about memory loss is the specifics are lost, but feelings raw and untamed still bubble under my skin. I may not remember Jen or Christopher or the twins, but I do know that losing a husband or a child would be unbearable. I don't want to think of it. When I let myself think of it the static images come back.

Karen leaves me alone. I still have my picture tucked next to me into the folds of the hospital bed sheet. I am so scared. Just a few more days and I will be ready to leave. I suppose I have a house somewhere, but I don't think I want to go there. I know that I can stay with people who call themselves my family, but they will just want me to remember the time before the accident that took my life and twisted it into something that makes a news headline. From what I accidentally saw on the evening news, the headline was something like: Local woman survives attack. Husband, children killed. Maybe I am imaging that. The television was quickly switched off and no one spoke of it.

It doesn't matter. I don't want to think about it. I take the picture of Jen and I stare into the image of myself. Arianna . . . The name keeps swirling in my head. I think I even smile. I don't know much of my past. Maybe someday my brain will decide that I am strong enough to remember, but for now I am okay with not knowing. I have to move forward. I rip up the picture. Jen is dead. She is at rest with her husband and her daughters.