Push Your Limits: Don't Trust Anyone

Chapter 6 Chapter 2 Chris's Secret Diary: November 11

Wednesday, May 11

I asked Ben this morning if he ever grew a beard.I'm still confused about what's true and what's not.I wake up very early.Unlike the previous few days, I didn't feel like I was a kid when I woke up.I feel like an adult.Sexy adult woman.The question running through my head isn't why am I sleeping with a man?But who is he?And what did we do?In the bathroom I looked at myself in the mirror in horror, but the pictures around it seemed to bear it out.I saw the man's name—Ben—and for some reason it seemed familiar.My age, my marriage—it seemed that someone had reminded me of the existence of these facts, rather than the first time I had known them.They are buried somewhere, but not very deeply.

Ben had just left for work when Dr. Nash called.He reminded me about the journal and -- after Dr. Nash said he was going to drive me for a scan or something -- I read the journal.There are some things in it that I may be able to recall, and there are a few long passages that I may remember writing, and seem to have survived the night with some lingering memories.

Maybe that's why I have to make sure the content of the log is real.I called Ben.

"Ben," I said as soon as he picked up the phone to say he wasn't busy, "have you ever grown a beard?"

"What a strange question!" he said.I heard the clink of the spoon on the cup and imagined him scooping sugar into his coffee with the newspaper spread out in front of him.I felt a little embarrassed and didn't know how much to say.

"I—" I began, "I have a memory. I think."

There was a silence. "remember?"

"Yeah," I said, "I think so." Flickering through my diary from that day—his beard, his naked body, his erect penis—and yesterday.We both kissed on the bed.The image glows briefly, then sinks into the depths of his thoughts.Suddenly I'm scared: "I just seem to remember you with a beard."

He smiled and I heard him put down his drink.I felt the solid ground under my feet begin to shake.Maybe everything I write is a lie, I'm a novelist after all, I thought.Or so I used to be.

Suddenly it occurred to me how weak my whole logic was.I used to write fiction, so my claim to be a novelist is probably just a fiction, in which case I haven't written fiction.My thoughts became confused.

But that statement felt real, I told myself.Besides I can type, at least the journal says I can type...

"Have you saved it?" I desperately wanted to grab the straw, "This thing is just... very important..."

"Let me think about it," he said.I pictured him closing his eyes, biting his lower lip as if concentrating. "I think I may have stayed once," he said, "for a short time, many years ago. I forgot..." After a moment of silence, he continued, "Yes. Yes, yes. I Think I stayed, a week or so. A long time ago."

"Thank you." I said with a sigh of relief.The ground under my feet feels firmer.

"Are you all right?" he asked, and I replied that I was all right.

Dr. Nash came to pick me up at noon.He asked me to have some lunch before that, but I wasn't hungry.I guess I was a little nervous. "We're going to see a colleague of mine," he said from the car, "Dr. Paxton." I didn't say a word. "He's an expert in functional imaging for patients with problems like yours. We've been working together."

"Okay." I said.Now we sit in his car, motionless in the traffic jam. "Did I call you yesterday?" I asked.He said I did.

"Have you read your journal?" he asked.

I admit I've seen it: "Mostly, I skipped some. It's already long."

He seemed interested: "What parts did you skip?"

I thought about it for a while. "A few places seemed familiar. I felt as if they were just reminders of things I already knew, remembered..."

"That's great," he said, glancing toward where I was sitting. "Very good."

I felt a burst of joy: "Then what was I doing on the phone yesterday?"

"You wonder if you've actually written a novel," he said.

"Have I?" I said, "Written?"

He turned to look at me with a smile on his face. "Yes," he said, "yes, you did."

Traffic started moving again and we started.I let go.Knowing that what the journal said was true, I relaxed into the journey.

Dr. Paxton was older than I expected.Wearing a tweed jacket and with untrimmed white hair protruding from his ears and nose, he looked past retirement age.

"Welcome to the Imaging Center of the Vincent Hall." Dr. Nash just gave us an introduction, he said.He kept looking me in the eye, blinking and shaking my hand. "Don't worry," he added. "It's not as grand as it sounds. Here, come in and let me show you around."

We entered the house. "We're connected to the hospital and the school, and going this way," he said as we passed through the gate, "is both a good thing and a nuisance." I didn't understand what he meant, and was waiting for him to clarify but he didn't speak.I laughed.

"Really?" I said.He's trying to help me and I'm trying to be polite.

"Everyone expects us to do all the work." He laughed out loud, "but no one wants to pay our bills."

We walked into a waiting room dotted with empty chairs, the same magazines that Ben kept at home for me—Radio Age, Country Living, and Mary Carr—and used Plastic cups, it looked like there had just been a party and everyone left in a hurry.Dr. Paxton stopped at another door. "Would you like to see the control room?"

"Yes," I said, "let me see."

"Functional magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) is a fairly new technology," he said as he walked into the control room. "Have you heard of MRI? Magnetic resonance imaging?"

We stood in a small room with only a row of computer monitors emitting faint light. There was a window occupying one wall, and another room next to it. A large cylindrical machine in the room was very conspicuous, protruding from the machine. A bed like a tongue.I feel scared.I don't know anything about this machine.How could I know without memory?
"I haven't heard of it." I said.

He smiled. "I'm sorry. Of course you're not familiar with this. MRI is a fairly standard procedure, sort of like taking an X-ray of the body. We're using some of the same techniques, but we're actually looking at how the brain works." Work, in terms of functionality."

Dr. Nash spoke now—he was silent for a moment—and his voice sounded small, almost timid.I don't know if he's intimidated by Dr. Paxton's authority or is desperate to impress him.

"If you have a brain tumor, then we need to scan your head to find out where the tumor is, to find out what part of the brain it is affecting. This is looking at the structure of the brain. Functional MRI allows us to see you perform certain Which part of the brain is used for the task, we want to see how your brain processes memory."

"Where the lights are," Paxton said, "is where the fluid is going."

"Does this help?" I said.

"We hope this will help us identify where the damage is," Dr. Nash said, "to see what's going wrong and what's not working properly."

"Will this restore my memory?"

He paused, then said, "We hope so."

I took off my wedding ring and earrings and put them on a plastic tray. "You still need to put the bag here," Dr. Paxton said, and he asked me if I had any other holes in my body. "You'll be surprised, honey," he said when I shook my head, "now she's a bit of a noisy old beast, and you'll need these." He handed me a pair of yellow earplugs. "Ready?" he said.

I hesitate. "I don't know," I said.Fear swims in him.The room seemed small and dark, and the scanner itself looked eerie through the glass.I have a feeling I've seen it before, or a machine like it. "I'm not sure," I said.

Dr. Nash came up to me and put his hand on my arm.

"It was completely painless," he said, "just a little noisy."

"Is it safe?" I said.

"Very safe. I'll be right here, just through the glass. We can watch you the whole time."

I must have looked a bit hesitant, because then Dr. Paxton said, "Don't worry. We'll take care of you, honey. Nothing will happen." I looked at him, and he smiled and said, " You just think of it this way: your memories are hidden somewhere in consciousness, and what we're going to do with this machine is find out where they are."

It's a bit chilly in here, even though they've wrapped me in a blanket; it's still dark except for a red light blinking somewhere in the room, and a mirror hangs from a shelf a few inches above my head, angled to A computer screen somewhere.I wear a pair of earphones in addition to the earbuds, and they say they will talk to me through them, but now they don't say a word.All I heard was a distant hum, my own heavy breathing, and the monotonous pounding of my heart.

In my right hand I hold a plastic ball filled with air. "If you have something to tell us, squeeze it," Dr. Paxton said. "We can't hear you." I stroked its rubber surface, waiting.I tried to close my eyes but they told me to keep them open and look at the screen.The foam wedges held my head firmly; I couldn't move it even if I wanted to.I was covered with a blanket, like a protective cover.

After a moment of silence, there was a click.Despite wearing earplugs, the sound was so loud that it startled me, then another, and a third.A muffled sound, from inside the machine or from my head.I have no idea.A slow-moving beast is waking up, resting in the silence before attacking.I grabbed the rubber ball, determined not to pinch it, and then a sound—something like an alarm and half a drill press—beep over and over again, unbelievably loud, and my whole body shook with each sound.I closed my eyes.

Someone is talking in my ear. "Chris," said the voice, "can you open your eyes?" Somehow, they could see me. "Don't worry, everything is fine."

very good?I think.Do they know what is good?Do they know how I feel?Lying here, in a city I don't remember, surrounded by people I've never seen.I think I'm floating around, totally rootless duckweed at the mercy of the wind.

Another voice, that of Dr. Nash: "Can you look at the pictures? Think about what they are and say them, but only to yourself. Don't say what they are out loud."

I opened my eyes.In the little mirror above my head were pictures, one after another, black on white.A man, a ladder, a chair, a hammer.I say the name every time one appears, and then the mirror flashes Thank you!relax now!I repeat these words to myself to keep myself busy, and also a little curious about how people relax in the belly of a machine.

More instructions appeared on the screen.Thinking back to an event that happened in the past, it said, and then a few words appeared below: A party.

I closed my eyes.

I try to recall the party I remember watching the fireworks with Ben.I pictured myself on the roof next to my friend, hearing the noise of the party beneath my feet and tasting the fireworks in the air.

One image after another appears, but they don't seem real.I can tell that I am not remembering but imagining.

I tried to see Keith, remembered him ignoring me, but couldn't remember anything.I lost these memories again.They're buried like they'll never show up, but at least now I know they exist, they're there, locked away somewhere.

My thoughts turn to my childhood parties.Birthday with my mother, aunt and cousin Lucy.Play tongue twisters.Drumming and passing flowers. "Grab your seat" game. "Sing, jump and stop" game.My mother wrapped candy into small bags as prizes.A sandwich with canned meat and fish sauce, gone for the crust.Sponge cake and jelly.

I think of a white dress with ruffles at the sleeves, ruffled socks, black shoes.I still have blond hair and I sit in front of a table with cake and candles.I took a deep breath and leaned forward, blowing out the candle.Smoke rose in the air.

That's when memories of another party flooded in.I see myself at home, looking out my bedroom window.I was naked and about 17 years old.There are long lines of trestle tables in the street, with plates of sausage rolls and sandwiches, jugs of fresh orange juice.Union Jacks are everywhere, and bunting is flying from every window.Blue, red, white.

There were kids in fancy costumes on the street—pirate costumes, wizard costumes, Vikings—and the adults were trying to team them up for an egg-spoon race.I could see Mom standing on the other side of the street, tying a scarf around Matthew Soper's neck, just below my window, and Dad sitting in the recliner with a glass of juice.

"Get back to bed," someone said.I turn my head.Dave Soper sat on my twin bed with my "The Slits" poster over his head.The white sheet was crumpled around him, spattered with blood.I didn't tell him it was my first time.

"No," I said, "Get up! You have to get dressed before my parents come back!"

He laughed loudly, although there was no malice: "Come here!"

I put on jeans. "No," I said, reaching for the T-shirt. "Get up. Please!"

He looked a little disappointed.I didn't expect this to happen - doesn't mean I don't want it to happen - and now I want to be alone.It had nothing to do with him.

"Okay." He said standing up.His body looked pale and thin, and his penis was almost ridiculous.I turned my head and looked out the window while he was getting dressed.My world has changed, I think.I crossed a line and now I can't go back. "Good-bye, then," he said, but I didn't answer, and I didn't look back until he left.

A voice in my ear brought me back to reality. "Very good. More pictures now, Chrissy," Dr. Paxton said. "Just look at each one and tell yourself what or who it is, okay? Ready?"

I swallowed hard.What will they show me?I think.who is it?How bad could it be?
OK, I thought to myself.let us start.

The first photo is black and white.A child - a girl of four or five - lay in the arms of a woman.The girl is pointing at something, they are both smiling, and slightly blurred in the background is a railing, behind which a tiger is resting.A mother, I thought.a daughter.in the zoo.I looked at the girl's face and suddenly realized with amazement that the girl was me and the other person was my own mother.Breath caught in my throat.I don't remember being at the zoo, but the pictures are right in front of me, proof we've been there.Thinking of the words of the two doctors, I said silently: I.Mother.I stared at the screen, trying to engrave her image into my memory, but the picture faded and was replaced by another one.My mother is still in the photo, older now, but not yet old enough to need the crutches she uses in the photo.She had a smile on her face, but she looked exhausted, her eyes sunken deep in her thin face.My mother, I thought again, and a few uninvited words popped up in my heart: Suffering.I involuntarily closed my eyes and had to struggle to open them again.I started to hold the ball in my hand.

The images were quickly changed, and I only recognize a few of them.One was a friend I had met in memory, and I recognized her almost immediately after a thrill.She looked exactly how I imagined her to be, wearing old blue jeans and a T-shirt, smoking a cigarette, with loose red hair.Another picture shows her hair cut short and dyed black, with a pair of dark glasses pushed high on top of her head.Next is a picture of my dad – him when I was a little girl, grinning happily, reading the paper in our front room – and then a picture of me and Ben, standing with another couple we didn’t know together.

Other pictures show strangers.A dark-skinned woman in a nurse's uniform and another in a suit sit in front of a bookshelf, staring at the camera through half-moon spectacles with a very dignified expression on their faces.A man with a round face and chestnut hair, and another man with a beard.A child of six or seven, a boy eating ice cream, and then the same boy sitting at a table drawing.A group of people, looking at the camera one by one.A charming man with black and slightly long hair, a pair of dark-rimmed glasses in front of his slender eyes, and a scar on one side of his face.The photographs came endlessly, and I looked at them, trying to bring them into my head, trying to remember how—or if they—were woven into the fabric of my life.I did as the doctor ordered.I was doing fine, but then I felt like I was starting to panic.The whirring of the machine seemed to grow sharper and louder until it became an alarm, gripping my stomach and refusing to let go.I couldn't breathe, I closed my eyes, and the weight of the blanket began to press down on me like a marble slab, making me feel like I was going to die.

I squeezed my right hand, but it was clenched into a fist, and nothing was squeezed.Nails dug into palms: I lost the ball.I cried out, a silent cry.

"Chris." A voice rang in my ear, "Chris."

I didn't know who it was or what they wanted me to do, so I yelled out again and kicked the blanket off me.

"Chrissy!"

It was louder now, the sirens trailed off, a door slammed open, someone in the room spoke, hands were placed on my arms, legs, and chest, and I opened my eyes.

"It's all right," Dr. Nash whispered in my ear. "You'll be all right. I'm here."

They reassured me that everything was going to be okay—and returned my handbag, earrings, and wedding ring—and Dr. Nash and I went to a coffee bar.It's down the hallway, and it's modest, with orange plastic chairs and yellow Formica tables, and trays of stale pastries and sandwiches that don't look very spirited in the bright light.I had no money in my purse, but I got Dr. Nash to buy me a cup of coffee and a piece of carrot cake, and picked a window seat while he settled the bill.The sun was shining brightly outside, the grass in the yard cast long shadows, and the lawn was dotted with purple flowers.

Dr. Nash's chair scraped under the table.Now that the two of us are alone together, he seems much more relaxed. "Here you are," he said, placing the tray in front of me. "Hope there's nothing wrong with that."

I found him ordering tea for himself, the teabag still floating in the syrupy water when he filled the cup with sugar from the center of the table.I took a sip of my coffee and made a face.The coffee was too bitter and too hot.

"Very good," I said, "thank you."

"I'm sorry," he said after a while.At first I thought he meant coffee. "I didn't expect this place to make you feel so uncomfortable."

"It's very depressing." I said, "It's noisy."

"Yes of course."

"I lost the panic button."

He didn't say anything, but stirred the drink instead.He scooped up the tea bag and placed it on the tray, taking a sip of his tea.

"What happened?" I said.

"It's hard to tell, you're scared. It's not uncommon. It's not comfortable being in there, like you said."

I looked down at my cake.Haven't touched it yet, it's dry. "Those pictures. Who are those people? Where did you get the pictures?"

"It's a bunch of pictures mixed together. Some of them I took from your medical file, which Ben donated a few years ago. I asked you to bring a few pictures from home for this exercise—you said they Posted next to your mirror. Some I found - some people you've never met, what we call a control group. We mixed up the photos. Some of them you met at a very young age People, people you should, or might remember. Family, friends you knew at school. The rest come from times in your life that you definitely don't remember. Dr. Paxton and I are trying to look at your memory reading these different times Is there something different about that time. Of course, the strongest reaction is directed at your husband, but you react to other people too. Even though you don’t remember people from the past, the pattern of nervous excitement is definitely there.”

"Who's the woman with the red hair?" I asked.

He smiled: "Maybe an old friend?"

"Do you know her name?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. The photographs are in your file, unmarked."

I nod.an old friend.Of course I know this - what I want is her name.

"But you said I reacted to the photo?"

"Some of them, yes."

"Is this good?"

"We need to study the results in more detail to really be sure what conclusions can be drawn. The technology is new," he said. "It's experimental."

"I see." I cut off a corner of the carrot cake.The cake was a bit bitter and the icing was too sweet.We sat in silence for a while.I asked him if he wanted cake, but he said no, patting his stomach. "Be careful with this!" he said, though I don't think he'd have much to worry about yet.His belly still looks flat now, although it looks like it's the type that would grow a big belly.But at least now he is still young, and the years have not left traces on him.

I thought about my body.I'm not fat, not even overweight, but it still amazes me.It didn't look what I expected when I sat down.My hips are baggy, and my rough thighs rub against each other when I fold my legs.I lean forward to reach for the cup, my breasts swaying in my underwear, as if reminding me of their existence.In the shower I felt the skin under my arms sway slightly, almost imperceptibly.I'm fatter than I thought and took up more space.I'm not a little girl, compact, with skin tightly wrapped around my skeleton, not even a teenager, and my body is starting to separate fat.

I looked at the untouched cake and wondered what the future holds.Maybe I'll keep getting fatter, I'll be short and fat, puffing up like a party balloon.It's also possible that I'll stay in my current body shape, but I've never been able to accept it, watching the wrinkles on my face deepen and the skin on my hands turn as thin as onion skin, step by step in the bathroom mirror. become an old woman.

Dr. Nash looked down and scratched the top of his head.I could see the scalp through his hair, the ring around the top was particularly noticeable.I don't think he'll notice yet, but someday he will.He'll see pictures of himself from behind, or startle himself in the dressing room, and maybe his barber or girlfriend will say something.Time will not spare anyone, just in a different way, I thought when he looked up.

"Oh," he said in a forcedly cheerful tone, "I brought you something. A gift. Well, not really a gift, just something you might want." He bent Waist picked up his briefcase from the floor. "Maybe you already have one." He said as he opened his briefcase and took out a package. "Here you are."

I knew what was inside when I got it.What else could it be?It's heavy in my hand.He wrapped it in a padded envelope, taped it shut, and wrote my name on it in thick black marker.Chris. "This is your novel," he said. "The one you wrote."

I don't know what it feels like.Evidence, I think.Can prove that the log I wrote is true, if I need proof tomorrow.

Inside the envelope was a novel, and I took it out.It's a paperback, not new anymore.There was a coffee cup print on the cover, and the edges of the pages were old and yellowed.I wonder if Dr. Nash gave me his own book and if it is still available in the market.With the book in my hand, I see again the self I saw that day: young, very young, trying to reach out for this book and use it to find the way to write the next one.Somehow I know that didn't work out - the second novel was never finished.

"Thank you," I said, "Thank you."

He smiled: "You're welcome."

I put it under my coat and it was there beating like a heart all the way home.

*****
When I got home, I opened my novel, but only flipped through it.I wanted to jot down as many things as I could remember in the journal before Ben went home, but as soon as I was done I hurried downstairs to examine what Dr. Nash had given me.

I turned the book over.A desk was drawn in crayon on the cover, and a typewriter was placed on the desk.A crow crouched on the tray of a typewriter, with its head on one side, as if reading papers stuck in the machine.Above the crow's head was written my name, and above that was the title of the book.

To Early Birds, says the title.Author signed Chris Lucas.

My hands began to tremble as I opened the book.Inside is the title page with an inscription.To my father, then yes, I miss you.

I closed my eyes.A memory suddenly flashed.I saw my father lying on the bed, under the bright white light, his skin was translucent, and the sweat that oozes made him almost glisten.I saw a tube in his arm, a packet of clear liquid hanging from an IV bottle rack, a cardboard tray and a tub of pills.A nurse was taking his pulse and blood pressure, but he didn't wake up.My mother was sitting on the other side of the bed trying not to cry, and I was trying to force the tears out.

A smell came over.Fresh flowers and low, dirty dirt.Sweet and disgusting.I saw the day we cremated him.I was dressed in black - not sure why I know it's not uncommon for me - but no makeup this time.My mother sat next to my grandmother.The heavy curtain was opened, the coffin was gone, and I cried imagining my father reduced to dust and ashes.My mother held my hand tightly, and we went home, drinking cheap, sizzling wine and eating sandwiches as the sun went down, crying bitterly in the twilight.

I sigh.The image disappeared and I opened my eyes to my novel.

I turned to the sentence at the beginning of the first page.That's when I write, the engine whines, her right foot is firmly on the gas pedal, she lets go of the steering wheel and closes her eyes.She knew it was bound to be so.She knows the ending.She has always known.

I flipped to the middle of the novel.I read a paragraph there, and then a paragraph near the end.

I'm writing about a woman named "Lou" and a man named "George" (her husband, I assume), and the novel begins with a war.I'm a little disappointed.I don't know what I was expecting - perhaps an autobiography? ——But it seems that the answers this novel can provide are limited.

However, when I turned the book and looked at the back cover, I thought, at least I'm done and published.

There is nothing where the author's photo should be placed, but an author bio instead.

Chris Lucas was born in the north of England in 1960. She obtained a degree in English from the Faculty of Arts, University of London, and now lives in London.This is her first novel.

I smiled secretly, feeling a burst of happiness and pride.This is what I wrote.I wanted to read it, to unlock its secrets, but didn't want to.I worry that reality may shatter my happiness.Either I'll love the novel and be sad that I'll never be able to write another; or I won't, and I'll be frustrated that I've never brought out my wit.I don't know which is more likely, but I know that one day, because I can't resist the pull of my only achievement, I will find the answer, I will find it.

But not today.Today I have something else to discover, something far worse than sadness, more destructive than pure depression.Something that could tear me apart.

I tried stuffing the book into the envelope, which contained something else.A note, stacked four times neatly.Dr Nash wrote on it: I thought you might be interested in this!
I opened the note.At the top he wrote "Flags, 1988," and below that was a newspaper article with a photo next to it.I stared at the paper for a second or two before realizing that the article was a review of my novel and that the person in the photo was me.

I took the paper and started shaking.I do not know why.It's an antique from many years ago; for better or worse, the impact is long gone.Now that's history and its ripples have completely calmed down.But it's important to me.What was the evaluation of my work years ago, and was I successful?

I skimmed through the article, hoping to get the general tone before having to analyze the details.Words jumped to me one after another, mostly positive ones.Exquisite.Insightful.There are skills.Human Spirit.cruel.

I look at the pictures.It’s black and white, and it shows me sitting at a table with my body turned to the camera, hugging myself awkwardly.Something was making me uncomfortable, and I didn't know if it was the person behind the camera lens or the way I was sitting.Other than that I'm smiling.My hair is long and floppy, and although the photo is black and white, it seems to be a darker color than it is now, as if I've dyed it or it wasn't dry at the time.Behind me is the door to the patio, behind which a bare tree can be seen looming in the corner of the photo.A caption below the photo: Chris Lucas, taken at her home in North London.

I realized that this must be the house that Dr. Nash and I had visited.For a moment I almost wanted to go back there, take this picture and say yes, it was real; I was there, here, that was me.

But of course I already knew that.Although I can't remember it anymore, I know that standing in the kitchen I remember Ben.Ben, and his bobbing, erect penis.

I smiled, running my fingertips over the photo, looking for hidden clues like a blind man.My eyes followed the end of my hair in the photo, and my fingers explored the face of the person in the photo.In the photo I look uncomfortable, yet inexplicably radiant, as if I'm keeping a secret, carrying it like a spell.Yes, my novel has been published, but what else, and more than that.

I looked at the photo carefully.I could see my swollen breasts under the baggy clothes, my belly with one hand.A memory suddenly bubbled up—I was sitting taking this photo, the photographer in front of me stood behind a tripod, and the reporter who had just talked to me about my work was walking around the kitchen.She yelled how the shoot was going, and the photographer and I happily replied, "Very good!" and laughed. "It will be fine soon." He said and changed the film.The reporter lit a cigarette and yelled—not if I minded—but if I had an ashtray at home.I'm a little annoyed, but not too offended.The truth is I've been dying to smoke one myself, but I've quit smoking since I found out—

I looked at the photo again and it dawned on me.In the photo, I am pregnant.

My thoughts paused for a moment, then began to spin.My mind stumbles as the newly realized truth emerges into sharp edges: Sitting in the dining room taking pictures, not only have I been pregnant, but I know it, and I'm glad it did .

It doesn't make sense.What happened?How old is the child by now? 18? 19? 20?

But the child is gone now, I think.Where is my son?

I feel like my world is turned upside down again.That word: son.I've thought about it, I've said it to myself with certainty.Somehow deep down, I knew it was a boy.

I gripped the edge of the chair to try not to fall when another word bubbled up to the surface of the memory and exploded.Adam.I feel like my world has slipped off one track and tumbled onto another.

I used to have children.We call him Adam.

I stood up and slid to the floor with the package of novels.My thoughts raced like a whirring engine, racing from side to side inside my body as if desperately trying to find an exit.He wasn't in the scrapbook in the living room either.I know.If I ever come across a picture of my own kid this morning, I'll remember it.I'll ask Ben who it is, and I'll make a note in my journal.I put the note in the envelope with the book and ran upstairs.In the bathroom I stood in front of the mirror.I didn't look at my face at all, but at the old pictures around the mirror, the pictures I used to construct myself when I lost my memory.

me and ben.My single shot, and Ben's single shot.A photo of the two of us with another couple older than us, I think those are his parents.A much younger me, wearing a scarf, petting a dog, with a happy smile on my face.But no Adam.No babies, no toddlers.There are no pictures of him on his first day of school, or sports days or vacations.There are no photos of him building castles on the sand.nothing.

It doesn't make sense.Surely these are pictures every parent takes and no one ever throws away?
They must be here, I thought.I lifted the photos to see if there were other photos stuck underneath them, layer upon layer of history like strata.Nothing but the pale blue tiles on the walls and the smooth glass of the mirrors.Blank.

Adam.The word was spinning in my head.I closed my eyes, and more memories came, each scene with a huge impact, flickering for a moment, then disappearing to bring the next one.I saw Adam, I saw his blond hair, I knew it was going to be brown one day, I saw the Spider-Man T-shirt he was going to wear, and he wore it until it got too small and had to throw it away; I Seeing him sleeping in a pram, and remembering thinking he was the most perfect baby, the most perfect thing I'd ever seen; I saw him on a blue bicycle—a plastic tricycle—somehow I know it's a birthday present we bought him and he'll ride it everywhere we let him go; I see him in the park with his head up on the handlebars laughing as he goes down a ramp towards me Riding over, the bicycle hit something on the road in the blink of an eye and swayed, he rolled forward and fell to the ground; I saw him crying, I picked him up, wiped the blood off his face, One of his teeth was recovered from the ground next to a spinning wheel; I saw him show me a drawing he had made—the blue one was the sky, the green one the ground, and between them were three Small group and a small house - and I saw the toy rabbit he carried everywhere.

Suddenly I came back to reality, back in the bathroom where I was standing, but closed my eyes again.I want to remember him as a teenager in school, or imagine him with me or his father.but I can not.Whenever I try to elicit memories, they flutter and float away, like a feather in the wind that changes direction every time a hand reaches out for it.Instead I see him holding a dripping ice cream, followed by a scene with licorice frosting on his face, and then a scene of him sleeping in the back of a car.All I can do is watch these memories come and go, so fast.

It took all my strength to resist the urge to tear up the photo in front of me.I want to rip them off the wall for evidence about my son.On the contrary, as if worried that any small movement might make my hands and feet betray my reason, I stood motionless in front of the mirror, every muscle in my body tensed.

There are no pictures on the fireplace.A teenager's bedroom without celebrity posters on the walls.No t-shirts in the laundry room and clothes to be ironed.There are no battered training shoes in the cupboard under the stairs.Even if he just left the house, there would still be some evidence of his presence, right?some clues?
But no, he's not in this house.I shivered, realizing as if he didn't exist, he never was.

I don't know how long I stood in the bathroom, just looking at the place without him. 10 minutes? 20 minutes? 1 hour?I don't know when I heard the keys rattle at the front door and Ben polishing his shoes on the mat.I didn't move.He went into the kitchen, walked into the dining room, and called upstairs to ask if everything was all right.He sounded a bit disturbed, with a nervous tone in his voice that I hadn't heard this morning, but I just vaguely said yes, I'm fine.I heard him enter the living room and snap the TV on.

Time stopped.My mind went blank, my only thought was to know what had happened to my son, but I was worried about the answers I might find.The two blend perfectly together.

I hid the journal in the closet and went downstairs.

I stand outside the living room door.I tried to slow my breathing, but couldn't; I let out heavy gasps.I don't know what to say to Ben: how do I tell him I know about Adam?He would ask me how I knew, so what should I say?
But it doesn't matter.Nothing matters, nothing matters more than getting to know my son.I closed my eyes and when I felt as calm as possible I pushed the door open and felt it slide across the rough carpet.

Ben didn't hear.He was sitting on the couch watching TV with half a biscuit on a plate in his lap.I felt a pang of anger.He looked so relaxed and happy, with a smile on his face.He laughed.I wanted to rush and grab him and yell at him until he told me everything, why he kept the novel from me, why he hid the evidence about my son.I want to order him to give me back all that was lost.

But I knew it was no good, instead I coughed.A soft, slight cough, to say I don't want to bother you, but...

He saw me and smiled. "Honey!" he said, "here you are!"

I walked into the room. "Ben," I said.My voice was strained and sounded strange. "Ben, I want to talk to you."

His smile faded to a look of uneasiness.He got up and walked towards me, the plate slipped to the floor. "What happened? Honey, are you all right?"

"It's something." I said.He stopped about 1 meter away from me and stretched out his arms to let me fall into his arms, but I didn't go over.

"What happened?"

I look at my husband, look at his face.He didn't seem flustered, as if he had been through such scenes and was no stranger to such hysterical moments.

I can no longer hold back my son's name. "Where's Adam?" I gasped. "Where's he?"

Ben's expression changed.surprise?Still shocked?He gulped.

"Tell me!" I said.

He hugged me.I wanted to push him away, but didn't. "Chris," he said, "please, calm down. Everything is fine. I can explain everything. OK?"

I wanted to say no to him, things weren't good, but I didn't say anything.I turned away from him and buried my face in the folds of his shirt.

I started shaking. "Tell me," I said, "please, tell me now."

We sit on the couch.I sat on one end and he was on the other, which was the closest distance I could accept between the two.

I didn't want him to talk, but he did.

He said it again.

"Adam is dead."

I felt myself constrict, tense like a mollusc.His words were as sharp as barbed wire.

I thought about that fly on the windshield I saw when I got home from my grandma.

He spoke again. "Chris, honey. I'm sorry."

I feel angry and mad at him.Asshole, I thought, even though I knew it wasn't his fault.

I forced myself to speak: "Why?"

He sighed: "Adam joined the army."

I am speechless.Everything subsided and there was nothing left but pain.Pain condenses into a single point.

A son I didn't even know I had, who became a soldier.I suddenly had an idea.absurd.What would my mother think?
Ben started talking again, spitting out words: "He was a Royal Navy man. Stationed in Afghanistan. He was killed. Just last year."

I swallowed my saliva.Throat is very dry.

"Why?" I said, "how could this be?"

"Chris-"

"I want to know," I said, "I must know."

He reached out to take mine and I let him take it, relieved he wasn't physically close.

"You don't want to know everything, do you?"

My anger welled up.I can not hold it in.Anger, and fear. "He is my son!"

He turned his head away, staring at the window.

"He was in an armored vehicle," he said.Speech is slow, almost whispered. "They were escorting troops. There was a bomb on the side of the road. One soldier survived, Adam and the other didn't."

I closed my eyes and my voice became a low whisper: "Did he die instantly? Was he tortured?"

Ben sighed. "No," he said after a moment, "he didn't suffer. They thought it must have been quick."

I look at where he sits.He didn't look at me.

You are lying, I think.

I saw Adam, bleeding to death on the side of the road, and I pushed that thought out of my head, and instead filled my mind with nothingness, nothing.

My mind started spinning.One question at a time.Questions I dare not ask, for fear the answers will overwhelm me.What was he like as a child, as a teenager, and as an adult?are we closedo we fight?Is he happy?Am I a good mother?
And, how did that little boy on the plastic tricycle end up being killed on the other side of the world?
"What is he doing in Afghanistan?" I said. "Why is he there?"

Ben told me we were at war then.The war on terror, he said, though I don't know what that means.He said there was a very horrific attack in the United States that killed thousands of people.

"And my child died in Afghanistan?" I said, "I don't understand..."

"It's complicated," he said. "He always wanted to join the military and he thought he was doing his duty."

"His responsibility? You think that's what he's doing? His duty? Why don't you persuade him to do something else? Anything?"

"Chris, that's exactly what he wanted."

There's one bad moment where I almost laugh: "Killing himself? That's what he wants? Why? I never even knew him."

Ben fell silent.He held my hand tightly, and one hot, salty tear ran down my face, then another, and then more and more.I wiped my tears away, afraid that once I started crying I would never stop.

I feel like my mind is starting to shut down, it's going to empty itself, retreat into nothingness. "I never even knew him," I said.

After a while, Ben brought a box and set it on the coffee table in front of us.

"I put these upstairs," he said, "for safety."

Watch out for what?I think.It's a gray metal box, the kind of box one might put money or important documents in.

Whatever was in there must be dangerous.I imagine wild animals, scorpions and snakes, hungry mice, poisonous toads.Or invisible viruses, radioactive things.

"Just to be safe?" I said.

He sighed. "There's something here that won't do you good if you stumble upon it yourself." He said, "Better let me explain it to you."

He sat down next to me and opened the box, and I saw nothing but documents.

"This is Adam as a baby," he said, pulling out a stack of photos and handing me one.

It's me in the photo, on the street.I'm walking towards the camera and a baby - Adam - is strapped to my chest in a bag.His body was facing me, but he was looking over his shoulder at the person taking the picture, with a smile similar to mine without teeth.

"Did you shoot?"

Ben nodded.I watched it again.It's worn out, stained around the edges, faded as if it's being slowly bleached.

I.a baby.This doesn't seem to be true.I try to tell myself that I was a mother.

"When?" I said.

Ben looked over my shoulder to the photo. "He's about six months old, so," he said, "let's see, it must be around 6."

I was 27 years old at the time.It's been a lifetime now.

My son's life.

"When was he born?"

He reached into the box again and handed me a piece of paper. "January," he said.The paper is yellow and slightly brittle.It is a birth certificate.I read it silently.His name is on it, Adam.

"Adam Weller." I read it aloud, to myself and to Ben.

"Weller is my last name," he said. "We decided he was my last name."

"Of course." I said.I hold the file in front of me.For all its meaning, it is so light.I want to breathe it in and make it a part of me.

"Here," said Ben.He took the birth certificate from me and folded it. "There are other pictures," he said, "if you want to see them?"

He handed me more pictures.

"We don't have much," he said as I looked at the photos, "lost a lot."

He made it sound as if they had been left on the train or given to strangers for safekeeping.

"Yes." I said, "I remember, we had a fire." I said it without thinking.

He looked at me strangely, narrowed his eyes and squeezed them tightly.

"You remember?" he said.

Suddenly I'm not so sure.Did he tell me about the fire this morning or do I remember him telling me the other day?Or was it just me reading it in the journal after breakfast?
"Well, you told me."

"I have?" he said.

"Yes."

"When?"

when?Was it this morning, or a few days ago?I thought about my journal and remembered reading it after he got to work.He told me about the fire while we were sitting on Capitol Hill.

I could tell him about my journal, but something is holding me back.He didn't seem happy that I had remembered something. "Before you went to work?" I said, "while we were flipping through the scrapbook. You must have said that, I think."

He frowned.Lying to him sucks, but the truth has been revealed today and I can't take any more. "How else would I know?" I said.

He stared straight at me: "I think so."

I paused for a moment, looking at the photo in my hand.There are very few of them, and not many can be seen in the box.Is this all I have, the record of my son's life?
"How did the fire start?" I said.

The clock on the mantel struck the hour. "A few years ago, in our old house, where we lived before coming here." I wondered if he was referring to the house I had been to. "We've lost a lot of things. Books, papers. It's all gone."

"But how did the fire start?" I said.

For a while he said nothing.His mouth opened and opened, and then he said, "It was an accident, just an accident."

I wonder what he's hiding from me.Did I forget to stub my cigarette, unplug my iron, or boil the pot dry?I pictured myself in that kitchen I visited the day before yesterday, the one with the concrete countertops and white components, but years ago.I saw myself standing over a sizzling frying pan shaking a wire basket — which contained sliced ​​potatoes for cooking — watching the potatoes tumble and sink beneath the surface of the oil.I saw myself hearing the phone ring, drying my hands on the apron tied around my waist, and walking into the hall.

Then what?Did the hot oil catch fire when I answered the phone, or did I wander back to the living room or upstairs to the bathroom and forget that dinner was ready?
I don't know and never will know.But Ben told me it was an accident and he meant it well.There are countless dangers lurking in family life for a person who has lost his memory. Another husband may have pointed out my mistakes and shortcomings, and may have uncontrollably occupied the moral high ground that should belong to him.I touched his arm and he smiled.

I flipped through the photos.One shows Adam, wearing a plastic cowboy hat and yellow scarf, aiming a plastic rifle at the person being photographed, and the other shows him a few years older; his face has thinned a bit, and his hair has begun to turn black.He was wearing a shirt buttoned to the neck and a child's tie.

"This was taken at school," Ben said. "A formal portrait." He pointed at the photo and laughed. "Look. Shame, it's ruined!"

The rubber band of the tie was not tucked in properly, protruding from under the tie.I touch the photo.It's not ruined, I think, it's perfect.

I try to remember my son, try to see myself kneeling in front of him with an elastic tie, brushing his hair, or wiping clotted blood from a bruised knee.

Didn't remember anything.The boy in the photo has a mouth exactly like mine and eyes vaguely like my mother's, but other than that he's an unrelated person.

Ben showed me another photo.Adam is a bit older in this one—about five or six years old. "Do you think he looks like me?" he said.

He is holding a football and is wearing shorts and a white T-shirt.His hair was short, knotted into a single point with sweat. "A little bit," I said, "maybe."

Ben laughed and we looked at the photo together.Mostly of me and Adam together, occasionally a picture of him alone; most of the pictures must be from this photo.Some are of Adam with a few friends, others are of him at a party wearing a pirate suit and holding a cardboard sword, and one shows him holding a small black dog.

Inside the photo was a letter, written in blue crayon and addressed to Santa Claus, scrawled all over the page.He said he wanted a bicycle or a puppy and promised to be good.The letter was signed, and he added his age. 4 years.

For some reason, my world seemed to collapse while reading this letter.Grief exploded in my chest like a grenade.I had felt serenity—not bliss, not even restraint, but serenity—but that serenity had dissipated like a mist, and beneath that veil was stinging pain.

"I'm sorry," I said, handing him back the bundle of photos. "I can't do it. Not now."

He hugged me.I felt nausea rise in my throat, but I swallowed it again.He told me not to worry, told me it would be fine, reminded me that he was here with me, that he was always here.I held him tight and we sat there rocking together.I felt numb and my spirit drifted out of the room we were sitting in.I watched him give me a glass of water, watched him close the box with the photo.I'm sobbing.I could tell he was sad too, but there seemed to be something else seeping into his face, maybe resignation or acceptance, but not shock.

I shudder to realize that he's been through it all.For him, this is not a new scar, it has long been buried deep in his heart and has become his foundation, rather than something that shakes the depths of his soul.

Only my grief is new, every day.

I found an excuse to go upstairs, went to the bedroom, and went back to the closet.I continue to write.

*****
In these scrambled moments, I knelt in front of the closet and leaned on the bed to write.I am crazy.Frenzy poured out of me like a tidal wave, almost without thinking.I wrote page after page.Now that I'm back here, I thought I was taking a break.I can't stop, I'm going to write everything.

I don't know if it's like this when I write my own novels, with words gushing out onto the page; or if it's slower and more thoughtful?I wish I remembered.

When I went downstairs I made a cup of tea for Ben and myself.As I churned the milk, I thought how many times I must have cooked Adam's meals, cooked minestrone, and churned juices.I serve Ben the tea. "Am I a good mother?" I said and handed it to him.

"Chris-"

"I gotta know," I said, "I mean how did I handle it? How did I handle the kid? He must have been very young when I—"

"When the accident happened?" he interjected. "He was two. But you were a great mom. Until the accident. And then, uh-"

He stopped talking, swallowed the second half of the sentence, and turned his head away.I wondered what it was that he didn't say, what he thought it was better not to tell me.

But I know enough to fill in some gaps.I may not remember that time, but I can imagine it.I can see everyday people reminding me that I am married and having kids and they tell me my husband and son are coming to visit.I can imagine myself greeting them every day as if I've never met them before, perhaps with a slight indifference, or a blank expression.I can see the pain we go through, all of us.

"It's okay," I said, "I understand."

"You can't take care of yourself. You're too sick for me to be home with you. You can't be alone, not even for a few minutes. You forget what you're doing. You've been lost before. I'm afraid you might Taking a shower and forgetting to turn off the tap, or trying to cook and then forgetting to cook. I can't help it, so I stay home and take care of Adam, and my mother is also helping. But every night we will visit you ,and--"

I took his hand.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Thinking about it, I just thought it was too difficult."

"I know," I said, "I know. But what about my mom? Does she help? Does she like being a grandma?" He nodded, looking like he wanted to talk. "She's dead, isn't she?" I said.

He shook my hand: "She passed away a few years ago, I'm so sorry."

I am right.I feel like my mind has stopped functioning, as if it can't take in any more sadness, any more fragmented past, but I know that when I wake up tomorrow it will all be gone.

What should I write in my journal to get me through tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and every day after that?
An image floated before my eyes.A woman with red hair.Adam joined the army.With a name, unsolicited.What would Claire think?
That's it, my friend's name.Claire.

"Where's Claire?" I said. "My friend, Claire. Is she still alive?"

"Claire?" Ben said.He stared at me in bewilderment for a moment, then his face changed. "You remember Claire?"

He looked surprised.I reminded myself - at least that's what my journal said - that I told him a few days ago that I remembered her partying on a rooftop.

"Yes," I said, "we're friends. How is she?"

Ben looked at me with a rather sad expression, and for a moment I froze.He spoke slowly, but his message wasn't as bad as I feared. "She moved away," he said. "It was years ago. I think it must have been like 20 years, a few years after we got married actually."

"Where did it go?"

"new Zealand."

"Are we connected?"

"You have been in touch for a while, but you have been disconnected again, and you will not be in touch again."

This doesn't seem possible.My best friend, I wrote after remembering her on Capitol Hill, and I feel the same closeness I feel when I think of her today.Otherwise why would I care what she thinks?
"We had an argument?"

He hesitated, and once again I felt that he was calculating and responding.I realized that there was no doubt that Ben knew what was going to make me sad.He had years to learn what was acceptable for me and what minefields were best left alone.After all, this is not the first time he has experienced this conversation.He had had many practical opportunities to learn how to choose a route, how to carefully steer clear of topics that would wreck my life and send me stumbling somewhere else.

"No," he said, "I don't think so. You didn't fight, you never told me anyway. I think you just drifted apart, and then Claire met a guy, she married him, and they moved away. "

Then an image appeared in front of me.Claire and I joked that we would never get married. "Fucking people get married!" she said, lifting a bottle of red wine to her lips, and I was echoing her while knowing that one day I would be her bridesmaid, she would be mine, and we would be wearing wedding dresses Sitting in a hotel room, sipping from glasses of champagne while we had our hair done.

Suddenly I felt a surge of love.Even though I can barely remember the time we spent together, the lives we lived together—and even those lingering memories will fade tomorrow—I somehow felt like we were still connected, and for a moment she meant something to me with everything.

"Are we going to the wedding?" I said.

"Yes." He nodded, opened the box on his lap and flipped through it, "Here are some photos."

They were wedding pictures, but not formal wedding pictures; they were blurry and dark, taken by an amateur.It was Ben who took the picture, I guess.I took a close look at the first photo carefully, and so far I've only seen Claire in my memory.

She is just as I imagined.tall and thin.If anything, she is more beautiful in the photo.She stands on a cliff, her light skirt blowing in the breeze, and the sun is sinking into the sea behind her.beauty.I put down the photos and read the rest one by one.Some of the pictures were of her and her husband—a man I didn’t recognize, and others of me with them, dressed in pale blue silk and looking only slightly less handsome.It's true, I was a bridesmaid.

"Are there any pictures of our wedding?" I said.

He shook his head. "They're in a separate album," he said, "lost."

Of course, fire.

I handed the photo back to him.I feel like I'm looking at another person's life, not my own.I was so eager to go upstairs and write about what I had just discovered.

"I'm tired," I said, "I need to rest."

"Of course." He held out his hand. "Here." He took the pile of photos from me and put them back in the box.

"I'll keep them safe," he said, closing the lid, and I came here to write my journal.

*****
midnight.I was in bed, by myself, trying to figure out everything that had happened and learned today.I don't know if I can do it.

I decided to take a shower before dinner.I locked the bathroom door and took a quick look at the pictures around the mirror, but now all I see is what's missing here.I turned on the hot water tap.

Most days I must have no memory of Adam at all, but today I can only see a photo and think of him.Were these photographs carefully chosen, and were they the only way to keep me from being rootless without reminding me of what I had lost?
The room began to fill with hot steam.I could hear my husband downstairs.He turned on the radio, and the looming jazz wafted upstairs.Over the music I could hear a knife cutting rhythmically across the board; I realized we hadn't had dinner yet.He should be chopping carrots, onions, peppers.He was cooking dinner as if it were a normal day.

It was indeed a normal day for him, I figured it out.My heart was full of sadness, but he wasn't.

I don't blame him for not telling me about Adam, my mother, Claire every day.If I were him, I would do the same.These things are so painful, if I can go through the day without remembering them, then I can be spared from grief, and he can be spared from causing me pain.It must have been tempting for him to keep silent, and life must have been so hard for him: he knew that I carried these jagged fragments of memory with me at all times, like miniature bombs that could pierce through me at any moment. The surface forced me to experience pain like the first time, and dragged him into the abyss with me.

I slowly undressed and folded them up on the chair next to the tub.I stood naked in front of the mirror looking at my strange body.I forced myself to look at the wrinkles in the skin, the sagging breasts.I don't know myself, I think.I recognized neither my body nor my past.

I took a few steps closer to the mirror.They're there, on my stomach, on my butt and boobs.Thin, silver stripes, the scars left by the years.I hadn't seen them before because I hadn't looked for them.I pictured myself following their growth, hoping they would disappear as my body gained weight.Now I'm glad they're there: a hint.

My reflection in the mirror began to disappear in the mist.I'm lucky, I think.At least I still have Ben, who takes care of me in this home of mine, even though the home I remember isn't like that.I'm not the only one suffering.Today he has gone through the same pain as me, but he goes to sleep knowing that tomorrow he may have to go through it again.Another husband may already feel unable to cope, or unwilling to cope.A different husband might have left me.I stare at my face, as if to engrave the image in my mind, to keep it from sinking into my consciousness, so that when I wake up tomorrow morning it won't be so strange, so shocking.When it was gone I turned and stepped into the water.I am asleep.

I wasn't dreaming - or at least didn't feel like I was dreaming - but when I woke up I was confused.I was in a different bathroom, the water was still hot, and someone tapped lightly on the door.I opened my eyes but couldn't recognize a single thing.The mirrors were flat, unadorned, and set in white tiles—not blue tiles.A shower curtain hangs from a rail above my head, two mirrors sit face down on a shelf over the sink, and a bidet sits next to the toilet.

I hear someone talking. "I'll come," said the voice, and I realized I was speaking.I got up from the tub and looked at the bolted door.On a hook in the other door opposite hung two dressing gowns, both white and matching, bearing the initials RGH.I stood up.

"Hurry up!" A voice came from outside the door.Sounds like Ben, but isn't Ben.The man yelled repeatedly as if singing. "Hurry up! Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up!"

"Who is it?" I said, but the voice didn't stop.I walked out of the bathroom.The floor is laid with black and white tiles, running diagonally.The ground was a little wet, and I felt myself slipping, and my feet and legs couldn't hold on.I slammed onto the floor, the shower curtain pulled down and covering me.My head hit the pool when I fell, and I yelled, "Help me!"

Then another voice called my name and I really woke up. "Chris! Chris! Are you all right?" said the voice.I was relieved to realize that it was Ben who spoke and that I had been dreaming.I opened my eyes.I'm lying in the bathtub, my clothes folded on a chair beside me, my life photos pasted on the pale blue tiles above the sink.

"Yes," I said, "I'm fine, I just had a bad dream."

I got up, ate my dinner, and went to bed.I wanted to keep a journal, to record everything I learned before it disappeared.I'm not sure I'll have enough time to get this done before Ben goes to bed.

but what can i doI've spent a long time in journaling today, I think.Of course he would be skeptical and curious what I've been doing upstairs all by myself.I kept telling him I was tired and needed a rest, and he believed me.

I'm not without guilt.I heard him tiptoeing around the house, opening and closing the door softly so as not to wake me up, while I bent over the log, frantically recording.But I have no choice, I have to write these things down.This thing seems to matter more than anything, because otherwise I would lose them forever.I have to find an excuse to go back to my logs.

"I think I'll sleep in an empty room tonight." This evening I said, "I'm so sad. Can you understand?"

He said yes and said he would come to see me early to make sure I was okay before going to work and kissed me goodnight.Now I hear his voice, he turns off the TV and locks the door with the key.Lock us at home.I guess in my situation, hanging around is not a good thing for me.

For a moment I couldn't believe that falling asleep I would forget about my son again.Memories of him seemed—seemed still—so real, so vivid.And I still haven't forgotten about him after a night in the tub, and a longer night's sleep doesn't seem likely to erase all traces, but Ben and Dr. Nash tell me that's exactly what's going to happen.

Dare I hope they are wrong?Every day I remember more and more and I wake up knowing more of who I am.Maybe things are getting better and this journal is bringing my memory out of the water.

Maybe one day I will look back and realize that today was the day I made a breakthrough.It's not impossible.

Now I'm a little tired.Soon I'll stop writing, hide my journal, turn off the lights, and sleep.Praying to wake up tomorrow remembering my son.

(End of this chapter)