Chapter 23
Thomas
I’m able to walk with a cane once I’m released from jail. My parents and my sister pick me up, and we go grab hamburgers, fries, and milkshakes from one of my favorite restaurants. I was in prison for less than a week, but the craving for food from the outside is intense.
Once we’re finished eating in a private dining room, we wash up, put our helmets back on, and go home, or, at least, that’s what I thought we were doing. But the house we’re pulling up to doesn’t look familiar.
“Where are we?”
Mom turns around and looks at me, obviously concerned. “We’re home, sweetie.”
“I don’t recognize this house.”
My dad looks at me with an equally concerned expression.
“The doctor did say you could experience some disorientation and confusion for the first few days after what you went through,” he finally says.
“What happened to you while you were gone?” Philantrius asks, absentmindedly playing with a toy puzzle she’d brought with her.
“Philantrius, we talked about how you weren’t going to ask Tam a bunch of questions about what happened, didn’t we?” Mom chides.
“Yeah,” she says, frowning.
We park in the driveway and get out of the car. Mom helps me navigate up the walkway to the porch steps. Philantrius scampers up to the front door, punches in the door code, and runs inside while my dad parks the car in the garage.
Once we’re inside, things look more familiar. It’s strange how the mind works sometimes. There’s the island in the kitchen area where we eat breakfast, the hallway leading to my room—a flood of memories rush back as if they’d been hidden away, waiting for permission to return.
I’m feeling tired, and exhausted from the day’s activities. Torture, a court hearing, an emotional reunion with my family—it can make for a busy day. After taking off my helmet, I go to my room and take a nap.
* * * * *
I awake to a gentle rapping on my door.
“Tam?” Mom asks tentatively.
“Mmmm…”
“There’s someone here to see you.”
I look over at the clock. It’s nine o’clock—in the morning, judging from the light coming in my window. I must have slept straight through the night. Wow.
“Who is it?”
“It’s a friend of yours from school.”
“Okay. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be out.”
I wonder who it could be as I manage to drag myself out of bed. I almost tumble to the floor as I take my first step but manage to reach out my arm and brace myself against the wall in time to stay upright. I grab the cane that’s leaning against my desk and shuffle off to the bathroom to brush my teeth and get my hair in some semblance of order.
A few minutes later, I’m making my way down the hall towards the kitchen/living room area, and I hear my mom talking to someone. As I come into the room, I see a girl about my age with hair a mix of silver and purple on the couch. She immediately stands up, smiling.
“Tam!” she says as she starts moving towards me but stops short. She must see the confusion on my face.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure who you are.”
Her hand goes to her mouth, and I can tell she’s about to cry. I suddenly feel like I’m going to topple over, hobbling over to an empty chair to sit down. My mom comes over to comfort the girl, whose eyes are now closed.
“You don’t remember her?” my mom asks. I shake my head from side to side. They walk back to the couch together and sit down.
“I’m sorry,” the girl says. “I should have been prepared for this. It’s the interrogation. This happened with my mom, too.”
“They said it may take up to a week before his brain re-adjusts and things get back to normal,” my mom says. “They told us temporary memory loss is one of the side effects.”
“Those animals!” the girl exclaims through clenched teeth as she balls her hands into fists.
Mom puts a hand on her back, no doubt trying to reassure her. I try to remember the girl’s face, but I’m not able to place her.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to do something to make this awkward situation better.
“Wait,” she says. She reaches down into a backpack that’s beside her on the floor and rummages around, then holds up a plastic tube for me to look at. I immediately know what it is. It’s what we use to send messages to each other at the dead-drops.
“Where did you get that?” I ask. Now I’m wondering if this girl might be working for the police, sent here to trick me into revealing something that they couldn’t get out of me by torturing me.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” the girl persists, her voice calm and level now.
“How do you know me?” I ask.
“Sweetheart, this is the girl who told us you were in jail. She’s the one who helped us organize the protest to help get you out,” mom replies.
“I don’t remember her, Mom. I’m sorry,” I say again, turning to face the girl. “I just don’t remember you.”
I’m about to ask her to leave when she asks, “Do you remember the schoolhouse?”
An image flashes in my brain of an old building made of bricks, with lots of windows. I close my eyes to try and get a clearer picture, but it doesn’t help.
“What about the little shed where we used to put our helmets . . . or the music room where we . . . where we would talk?”
I see a hallway with old books on the floor of a long-abandoned classroom, a large room with a curved outer wall with a huge window looking out into the woods. I remember it all, but not this girl. But then I see my hand at my side, and I’m holding another hand—a girl’s hand. Her fingernails are painted black, and she has a small, silver ring on her pinky finger.
“Let me see your hands,” I say, looking in her direction. She stands up and walks over to me, holding her hands out, palms up, extending them towards me. I see the pinky ring and reach out, turning her hands over and seeing the black polish on her nails, and that’s when it hits me. It’s the smell of her perfume. And suddenly, the memories flood back, and I grip her hands tight, pulling them to me and holding the backs of them against my face. She’s down on her knees in front of my chair now. I look at her and see tears in her eyes.
“Do you remember?” she asks.
I can’t speak, but my eyes are blurry with my own tears now. I nod my head, and she smiles, letting out a small laugh that hitches at the end.
“Veritas,” I say as I kiss the back of one of her hands. We’re both crying now.
After another minute, we part, and I look up to see that Mom is crying, too, and Dad is standing in the entryway, smiling, looking over at us.
“Hate to interrupt,” he says, “but is anyone hungry?” He holds up a spatula like a wand and waves it around.
“I’m starving,” I say.
