Don't Forget Me

Chapter 8

I'm discharged from the hospital  a few days later. Per Dr. Smith's recommendation, the very first thing I do when I get home is head into the bathroom and take a long, hot shower. It feels incredible. It's the first real shower I've taken in over two weeks and I'm not going to lie... it freaking feels like it.

When I step out onto the mat, I keep my eyes away from the mirror, just like I've done since I woke up four days ago. I don't know what I think it is I'll see, but... I'm just not sure I'm ready.

When I'm all dried off, I wrap the towel around me and cross the hallway, so looking forward to stepping into my room, my space. My evergreen-painted walls plastered with posters from floor to ceiling: Outer Banks and Stranger Things, Taylor Swift and the US Women's National Team. The old wooden desk in the corner, family photos lining the top shelf. Plants that my mom and I started from seeds sitting along the windowsill in mismatched pots hanging over my pink bedspread.

I swing the door open ready to breathe a sigh of relief, but as I step inside it's...

... It's not my room at all.

Across from me, all of my posters are gone, replaced by tons of little white spots, where the paint was ripped off the drywall. I drag my bare feet across a new beige area rug and over to my desk, which is now painted white. A line of books has replaced all but one of my framed family photos. The one with me as a baby being held by my dad, my mom standing beside us looking like the happiest person to ever walk the earth. It's always been my favorite. I slide my hand across the spine of each book, but my fingers catch on something hard and rough after the last one. Leaning in closer, I pull out a gray-and-orange-striped rock tucked between two sections of wood. I have no idea what it's doing there, but I place it back on the shelf next to the photo. Then I rest my hand on the cool metal of a silver MacBook, running my eyes across the completely empty windowsill, not a single one of our plants in sight.

The drive home today proved that not a single thing about Wyatt has changed. It's still full of the same empty storefronts. The same front yards littered with brightly colored plastic toys and turned-over bicycles. Even the same old man sitting on his front porch in a tank top watching the traffic go by. So I never expected my room would be so different. Have I really changed this much in two years?

I walk over to my door again, my hand clamped around the edge. I know I'll see my own reflection when I close it. I know the mirror at least has to still be there, because when I was ten, I had the genius idea to Gorilla Glue it there. I still don't know if I'm ready, but at this point I might as well rip off the Band-Aid.

I close the door and drop my towel, staring at my naked reflection in the full length mirror. Turning to the side, I run my hands over my chest, fingers dragging down each rib, across my flat stomach and onto my hips, taking in all the changes to my body, big and small. I flip my hair over my shoulders, and it actually might be the most noticeable difference. I have always wanted really long hair, but I could never stand that awkward midlength like an overgrown bob and I'd cut it before it could pass that point. I guess I finally found the drive, because it's hanging almost down to my belly button.

I lean in closer, examining my face, turning my chin to the left and right, up and down. Different, but not in a bad way. My cheeks aren't as full and my jaw is a bit more pronounced. I guess I look... older.

I turn my back to the mirror before I get too weirded out and make my way over to the closet, pulling the handle to reveal a line of hanging T-shirts, both plain and graphic in mostly muted tones. The girly tank tops and bright colors I remember are nowhere in sight. I reach into the top drawer for a pair of undies but pull out pajama pants instead. So I make my way down each one, until in the bottom drawer I find a pair, along with a bra that looks too big but isn't. I get dressed, picking out some blue jean shorts and a faded yellow T-shirt with a bundle of wildflowers embroidered onto the chest pocket. Cute.

Behind me, where my desk used to be, now sits my bed, a blue-and-whitestriped comforter taking the place of the pink set I grew up with. Spread all across it is a mess of printouts, pamphlets, and books that my mom must've brought up while I was in the shower. It makes my palms feel sweaty. It's all the information I was given upon discharge from the hospital this morning. Dr.Smith went over my recovery and upcoming appointments pretty thoroughly, but I know I should probably read it for myself. I just don't think I'm up for it right now. It all feels like too much. Especially when this room, my bedroom, my space, doesn't even feel like it belongs to me.

There's a knock at my door and as if on cue, my mom pops her head in.

"Feel better?" she asks.

"Uh, a little." I run my hand carefully through my freshly shampooed hair, inhaling the familiar smell of my cucumber-melon conditioner, one thing that hasn't changed.

My mom smiles. "You know what would make you feel better? Getting out of here. They said the best thing for you to do is to get back to your routine, your normal life."

I laugh pathetically, shaking my head. "What does that even mean? I don't remember my normal life."

"Well, right now, it could mean hanging out with your old ma?" She gives me a hopeful smile.

"Lola's is still open, right?" I ask, my stomach growling at the thought of our favorite little lunch place.

"Lola's?" She knits her eyebrows together.

"Yeah," I reply, squinting at her. "Best sandwiches in the county? We basically live there?"

Am I the one with amnesia, or is she?

"Uh, sure." She gives me a weird look but shakes it off into a smile. "I'd love to."

"I guess I'll drive." I step forward and pluck the carabiner with a car key attached off my desk. "These are mine, aren't they? For my car?" I ask, a smirk spreading across my face. I'm not going to lie, having my license and my own car does bring me a genuine rush of joy.

"Uh, no." She grabs for them, but I move fast enough that her hand cuts straight through the air.

"Come on," I plead. "Dad taught me how to drive when I was like eleven." I may not remember getting my license, but I do remember how to drive.

"Dr. Smith said no driving until she clears you," Mom replies, extending her hand and wiggling her fingers until I hand over the keys.

"Fine," I grumble, following her out to her car, feeling like I'm still being treated like a fifteen-year-old, even though all traces of her seem to be gone.