73 Memories

The Twenty-First Memory

You and I ended up in my room. I was curled up at the head of my bed, biting my nail and trying to decide how to tell my story. You were sitting in the middle of my bed, legs crossed and waiting patiently for me to begin.

I looked up from where I had my eyes trained on my blanket and into your eyes. And I knew by the way you stared straight back at me that I could trust you.

"It was a week before I moved here," I began, and I could see you become a little more alert and aware. "My dad and I had gone to the movie theatre for his birthday. Back then, he and I were really close. My dad was my favorite person, hands down. We were a big, happy family, my Mom, Dad, brother, and I. His name was Burlin." I watched you stiffen as I said 'was', but I went on anyway. "We were going to take him with us, and my mother, but she claimed that he was running a favor and she wanted to stay home with him. My dad offered to postpone, but my mother insisted that we go alone. So we did. We got in my Dad's pickup truck and drove to the small retro theatre. Dad gave the girl in the ticket booth money, and she gave us tickets.

"We watched the movie, and then afterward decided we would pick up some dinner before heading home. Dad insisted that I choose what we would be eating, but I told him that he should since it was his birthday. Finally, he caved and we picked up something from a local restaurant. I don't really remember which one." I wiped the tear from where it had fallen on my cheek, and you scooted up to sit next to me. I put my head on your shoulder and stretched my legs out, feeling the warmth from where you used to be. I sniffed and then started talking again. "So Dad and I picked up the food and drove back home." I stopped again, a sob racking through my body.

"You don't have to keep going," you whispered.

I shook my head and wiped furiously at my eyes. "No. You need to know. After we pulled in the driveway and grabbed the takeout bags, we headed inside. Dad and I walked up the driveway and I opened the front door for him to make his way inside since his hands were full. He gave me a grateful smile and walked through the house and into the kitchen, and I followed.

"He called out for my mom. She didn't answer, but we knew she had to be home. I mean, she wouldn't leave the house if my brother was sick. Dad and I wandered the house, checking every room. Eventually, I found her."

I reached for your hand and grabbed it, sobbing hard now, but doing my best to make my words clear so I could finish the thing that haunted me night and day- unless I was with you. "When I saw her, I screamed. I was in the bathroom, standing frozen. When she heard my voice, her head snapped towards me. 'Amelia,' she said, whispering my name to where I could barely hear it. She-"

"Your name isn't Amelia," you interjected, and I laughed humorlessly.

"It was, but my father and I changed it to what it is now. I used to be Amelia Rivers."

"What happened next?"

"Next. Next, I looked into the bathtub for the second time where I saw my mother shoving Burlin's head under water. My dad came in now, and he was frozen for a minute at what he saw. I started to step forward, but he stopped me. "No! You can't!' he told me, pushing me back behind him.

" 'But I have to save Burlin!' I yelled back, trying to shove past him. My dad pushed me back farther, into the hall and then rushed forward and pushed my mother away from the tub. Dad yelled at me to get the phone and call 9-1-1, and so I ran through the house. The lady on the other end asked me questions and I answered every one of them, but I don't remember doing that. The only thing I remember next is standing in the bathroom again, my dad trying to bring life back to the cold three-year-old he was pumping air into. My mom was sitting in the corner, rocking herself slightly."

I looked over at you and your eyes were wide and glossy. "Wha- what happened to your mom?"

I squeezed your hand a little before I answered. "Well, my mom went to jail. I heard the cops telling my father that she was mentally unstable. But we had a funeral for Burlin, packed up, changed our names and moved. My dad was absent after that. He's never around anymore, and if he is, well, he's not here mentally. He's literally only said five words to me since we've moved here."

"Okay, but wait. What does your mom's mental state have to do with you? Why were you scared to tell me this? I don't get it." You shook your head.

"Don't you get it. My mother killed her child. What if it's genetic? What if I'll kill my kid, too?"

"No."

"No, what?"

"You aren't your mom. You're you."

That shut me up, but I was still scared that I was right and you weren't.