Where Lost Things Go | ✓

【零伍】HER PRETTY BRAIN

chapter 5.
her pretty brain

࿏ ࿏ ࿏

THAT WEEKEND, REAGAN pushed past the side door to the library counter, and quietly laid down her bag. Taking a seat in the wheeled chair, she logged in for her library shift.

Reagan liked working at the university library. The soft sounds of turning pages and keyboard clacks kept her at ease. Those 3-6 PM weekend shifts were quiet, relaxing, and just what she needed. She passed the time organizing the library books and doing her homework, occasionally assisting students who asked about the library catalog.

The loneliness didn't bother her as much as it used to. She had long since gotten used to that persistent feeling of emptiness. Even when she surrounded herself with Kate's abundant chatter and Molly's amusing tricks, she couldn't erase that lingering feeling when she realized she had nothing to offer.

And try as she might, nothing ever really piqued her interest either - not the parties, the gossip, or the substances her peers labelled as fun.

Reagan had always been like this.

Lost. Alone. Drifting along.

Most days, she liked the solitude.

Other days, loneliness was a feeling so empty, she'd carve herself inside out looking for something to fill in those gaps.

Reagan tried not to think about it too much. Instead, she immersed herself in her studies. She took as many classes as she could, pushing the credit limit every semester, and even then, taking it upon herself to study the notes of Molly's classes.

That Sunday evening, she took a break from her physics homework and turned around to the back of the counter space, where new books had come in. She ran her fingers across their spines, tilting her head to read their titles.

She pulled out a history textbook on ancient civilizations and flipped through the pages, skimming through the bolded text and appreciating the smell of the new book.

Against the brand new pages, Reagan recalled what her mother's illegible penmanship used to look like. It would decorate every corner of every page, annotating every line with unreadable interpretations. Her mother lived through books.

She was the smartest person Reagan ever knew.

She was a scientist. A researcher. A professor. She devoted her entire life to her studies, coming out with a number of books and notable awards to her name. A scholarly treasure like her did not go unnoticed in the world.

But she quit all that when Reagan was born.

Instead, she spent her time homeschooling her daughter. Reagan's mother seemed to know everything about...everything. By the time young Reagan was supposed to be in ninth grade, they had begun covering college material. Their afternoons were spent working the books, pencil on paper, mind on fire. The hardest equations. The oldest literature. The rules of sophistication. Reagan did whatever her mother told her to do.

Smile, Reagan. People like it when you smile.

Fix your posture, Reagan. Sit up straight.

It's a simple question, Reagan. You're not thinking.

Sometimes Reagan thought so much, she felt like her brain was about to burst.

You're smart, Reagan, but even the smartest people get careless. You can't afford mistakes.

Every reckless mistake was unforgivable. Every accidental slip-up was deserving of punishment. As fast as Reagan's brain worked, it could never catch up to her mother's.

Remember - all you need is that pretty brain of yours. Nothing else. Don't ever let your guard down and someday you'll achieve the heights I never could.

As brilliant as she was, her mother was a bitter woman. There were days when Reagan would hide behind doors to spy on her, watching her mother look longingly out the window, as if their house was some jail cell she could not escape. She flooded her room with books, reading them over and over again until their spines had fallen apart. She rarely ever step foot in the kitchen, letting it overflow with take out and pizza boxes until Reagan took it upon herself to clean. She flicked through television channels, only to get frustrated when nothing interested her enough. The only show that caught and kept her interest were the evening quiz bowl shows, where she would make Reagan sit and solve each question as she hovered from the couch.

And when Reagan didn't know the answer, she would shake her head wordlessly, as if somehow the world had been set against her. It was that look – that look of shame, regret, and disappointment that used to destroy Reagan.

At night, when Reagan pretended to be asleep, she would hear her mother stand at her door. Most nights, she just stared. Some nights, she whispered things. Other nights, she cried.

You are nothing like me.

Reagan slammed the history book shut, momentarily forgetting that she was in a library.

Her mother was a calculating, manipulative, unfeeling woman. Once defined by her intelligence, all she became was a bottomless pit of growing regret. Reagan sometimes wondered if, of the countless, hundred, million things her mother knew, whether love was one of them.

That's why Reagan didn't feel anything when one day, a car rammed into her mother and mashed that pretty brain of hers into dust.