At school I meet with Mrs. LaTrobe for special sessions of psychological counseling all week. Ever since my sister's re-appearance on the same day that I woke up beaten and covered in a stranger's blood, I'm supposed to check in with her every day.
"You still remember nothing about how your face came to be bruised?" she asks gently. "Nothing about the blood on your shirt?"
I've already confessed to her that memories of our original disappearance had started to come back to me. I've told her that I've remembered the address 779 Sterling Place, and that I'm pretty sure the address was from a note I'd been given. But honestly, now I don't remember much more beyond that. The only other thing I recall about the week before Shanna's appearance was finding a human finger behind our bathroom sink and flushing it down the toilet. But it's such a bizarre memory that it must have been a dream, so I've left that part out.
"I don't remember anything about the night before Shanna came back," I tell her truthfully. "I just woke up, and she was home."
Mrs. Latrobe has made us both herbal tea. Mine's getting cold on her desk. She sips hers and nods at my answers.
I ask, "Do you think I'll ever remember what happened to us? Will Shanna ever remember?"
For a moment Mrs. Latrobe just stares out her office window. "It's very unlikely," she answers. "The levels of amnesic sedative in your blood was much, much higher than last time. Shanna was off the charts. So, no. For better or worse, neither of you will ever remember anything."
Though it's maddening to have these gaps in my memory, I'm relieved. Whatever Shanna endured for the year, I'm certain it's best that she never remembers any of it.
Still, I'm curious. So far it's been much easier to get updates about the investigation from Mrs. LaTrobe than from the detectives, so I ask, "Do you know if they got the DNA from the blood on my shirt yet?"
