Marcie
My mouth drops open. He doesn’t remember anything? A whole childhood, just missing?
“But you told so many stories,” I say.
“Secondhand.” He shrugs. “Familiar things were supposed to help me regain my memories, so most of those first few weeks were just Mom pumping me full of stories about myself between sobbing fits.”
“Fuck.” I sink back against the couch. I lost eighteen years, too, but more like if I’d lost the sweater Grandma bought me one Christmas that I absolutely hated by “accidentally” leaving it on the bus. He really lost it. I can’t imagine having so much nothing to look back on. Even just hearing about it, I feel like a boat set out to sea, lost and drifting.
“The people who found you… they’re all you know about the accident?”
He nods. What a stupid question. I don’
