The week after my decision last year, my grandparents agreed to put me through a rigorous memory rehabilitation programme in the same city. The programme lasted for nearly a year and the batch of seventeen was composed of the likes of me – accident survivors, coma amnesiacs and Alzheimer patients. I was the youngest person in the batch and every day, for ten months, I received pity through some form or the other.
The programme was straightforward; first two to three months were spent in recognizing what memories needed to be restored. This phase wasn't simple for me because I had to start out like an eight-month-old infant. That mean I didn't make progress. I could grasp stuff faster than anyone in the batch, and the more information I received, the more it felt as if I was familiar with everything. It felt like my memory was coming back – but not quite.
The next phase which lasted for the rest of the programme focused mainly on identifying the vulnerable areas of the memory and strengthening existing ones. For all the professionals who assisted in my case, this phase was the most mysterious part. I was retaining factual and commonly used information like a normal person, but none of them could figure out which areas of my memory was the most affected. Rumours started spreading amongst the staff that I was admitted only as a quality inspection person from the headquarters.
That didn't change the way the professionals tried to crack my case. I was made to take countless memory and psychology tests, which all led nowhere. After trying everything and failing, they declared that my memory was normal, and none of the memory areas were vulnerable to loss. This was three days ago, and I had to be officially confirmed by a doctor that I was perfectly okay. This confirmation was the reason we ended up visiting the same hospital that I was discharged from, a year back.
A soft buzzer sounded from the speakers overhead. The receptionist in view picked up the microphone and spoke in a calm voice.
"Consultation for Dr Edward is now open. Patient 101 can now visit the doctor."
I looked at the tiny white slip that my grandmother was holding. "That's us." I declared as I stood up.
My grandmother stood up with me and assisted my grandfather to get up.
"That must be the room," my grandfather started sauntering over towards the other side of the metal waiting chairs.
After entering the door, we were facing a fairly old, balding doctor. He was muttering something before looking up at the three of us.
"Oh yes, yes, how can I forget?" he set down his bifocal glasses, "Harris Skye, isn't it? How have you been?"
My grandparents both looked at me from either side, confused. I was equally confused as them.
"You don't remember me? Ines? None of that ring a bell?"
Ines? I had a faint feeling of a déjà vu. I shook my head.
"Don't worry, it's been too long since you last saw any of us," he reassured, "What do we have today?"
My grandfather cleared his throat. "We had put Harry through a memory rehabilitation program. The results came back positive. We need a signature."
"Oh really?" Dr Edward asked, a hint of surprise in his voice. He glanced at me for a while and a neutral smirk spread across his face, "what's Poland's capital?"
"Warsaw." I replied without hesitation.
"Who's the founder of Apple?"
"Steve Jobs."
He leaned back on his chair looking surprised with raised brows.
"Congratulations Harris," he said, setting his hands on the table. "You have my signature."
The successful, mini trivia session got me feeling prouder about myself. A small smile crept across my face.
"Here you go," He slid the form towards us after signing. "Contact us if you need any assistance."
The ride from the hospital was quiet. This silence, however, wasn't uncomfortable at all. I felt a vague sense of acceptance in the air. I breathed out a sigh of relief and my grandmother took notice of it.
"You've worked hard for it, Harris." She said. "Aren't you relieved?"
"Yeah," I said. The trees on the side of the road were passing by much slower now. "So, what about school?" I asked in a fairly low voice. I didn't want the topic to be interjected as if I was demanding it, nor did I want to keep it to myself.
"When do the academic year start?" My grandfather asked my grandmother.
"I think it's around the end of August, isn't it?" She turned back and looked for an input.
I nodded. "Around mid-August it does."
"It's the end of July now," My grandfather thought out aloud. "That means you don't have enough time. We better decide fast. Harris, when we get home, you start looking at options right away."
He pulled the car into the driveway and shut the engine. My grandmother was unlocking the door by the time we got out and locked the car. We walked inside the house and settled down on the couch.
"Oh dear, I really hope this still runs." She said as she set down a dusty laptop on the counter table.
My grandfather pressed the power button and wiped off the dust on the keys and trackpad with the back of his palm.
"Maybe it needs to charge?" I pointed out at the blinking light on the side.
"Yes, yes." He said, "Where's the charger-"
"Here." My grandmother brought out a long charger and connected it to a wall outlet and handed us the other end.
After a moment, the computer started whirring and turned on with a bright screen. Figuring out the password didn't take long because my innocent grandparents had written it on a sheet of paper and slipped it in the same bag as the computer.
"Harris, we'll leave the decision up to you. Let us know when you have decided." My grandfather said and patted my shoulder as he got up.
I nodded, and both of them disappeared off into the kitchen, leaving me all alone in the living room.
Alright, I need to make a decision now. I thought to myself and got to work.
Some half an hour later, I called out to my grandparents. They both walked in and sat down beside me. My grandmother put on her bifocals while my grandfather squinted at the screen. Their breathing changed.
"H-Harris, are you sure about this?" My grandmother asked, "It's not about the money or anything but-" She faltered and she couldn't continue any further.
"I want this." I said, "Please?"
My grandfather who was equally shocked drew in a long breath. "If this is your decision, we have no other choice."
YOU ARE READING
Will you remember me?
RomanceMemories are created and cherished by everyone. But there is one boy who can't do this. Read on to find out how Harris Skye, a selective amnesiac struggles to safeguard his sweetest memories of all time in his high school days.
