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1265 Words
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Child Who Didn’t Forget
I don’t sleep.
Again.
Apparently that’s becoming a theme.
I lie in a bed that might be mine and stare at a ceiling I don’t remember choosing.
The photograph is on the nightstand.
First day she forgot me.
The sentence keeps replaying.
Not because of Kit.
Because of Lucas.
Because somehow all of this was manageable until that.
Marriage?
Confusing.
Alternate timeline?
Annoying.
Hidden memory issue?
Terrible.
But a child—
a child means responsibility.
A child means someone got attached.
Someone learned my face.
Someone trusted me.
Someone somewhere says Mom and means me.
And I—
apparently—
forgot him.
My chest hurts.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
Like somebody put a fist under my ribs.
I turn onto my side.
Close my eyes.
Open them immediately.
No.
No sleeping.
Eventually I hear soft footsteps.
Tiny.
I sit up.
The hallway light slips under the door.
Another sound.
Then—
a quiet knock.
I freeze.
Another knock.
Then a tiny voice.
“Mom?”
Everything inside me stops.
Not because I remember.
Because I don’t.
I don’t know what to do.
Silence.
Then—
“…Wrong room?”
My throat tightens.
I stand.
Walk over.
Open the door.
A little boy stands there holding a stuffed dinosaur.
Curly dark hair.
Sleepy eyes.
Tiny socks.
He blinks up at me.
His expression changes.
Not excitement.
Not relief.
Recognition.
Like he expected this.
He studies my face.
Then asks—
“Bad day?”
My chest twists.
I stare.
“…What?”
He shifts his dinosaur.
His voice lowers.
“Dad said maybe.”
Dad.
I look behind him.
Kit is standing at the end of the hallway.
Not approaching.
Watching.
Lucas notices me looking.
He turns.
Then whispers loudly—
“Go away.”
Kit blinks.
“…Okay.”
Lucas points.
“She likes quiet.”
Kit looks at me once.
Then nods and disappears downstairs.
I stare.
Lucas turns back.
Then walks into the room like he pays taxes.
He climbs onto the bed.
Sits cross-legged.
Looks at me.
I stand there.
He pats the mattress.
I slowly sit.
Lucas studies me.
Then nods once.
Like he confirmed something.
“…You forgot.”
My throat tightens.
Kids aren’t supposed to say things like that.
I swallow.
“…I think so.”
He nods.
Normal.
Like I said it might rain.
Then—
“Okay.”
I blink.
Okay?
That’s it?
He hugs the dinosaur.
Then says—
“Dad gets weird.”
I stare.
“What?”
Lucas shrugs.
“He talks too soft.”
I almost laugh.
Lucas thinks.
Then says—
“And he cleans things.”
I blink.
“What?”
Lucas nods.
“Like angry cleaning.”
I stare.
That paints an immediate image.
I hate that.
Lucas continues—
“And he doesn’t eat.”
My chest does something uncomfortable.
I look away.
Lucas studies me.
Then—
“You’re not crying.”
I blink.
“…Should I be?”
He thinks.
Then shrugs.
“Sometimes.”
Oh.
My chest hurts.
I look at him.
Carefully.
He looks familiar.
Not memory familiar.
Feature familiar.
His nose.
His expression.
His eyes—
I freeze.
His eyes.
Brown.
Mine.
No.
Coincidence.
People have brown eyes.
I look away.
Lucas notices.
Kids notice everything.
He says quietly—
“You always look at my eyes.”
I stop moving.
He continues—
“You say I stole them.”
My throat closes.
I stare.
Lucas shrugs.
Then asks—
“Do you want me to tell you things?”
I blink.
“…Things?”
He nods.
Like this is obvious.
My chest tightens.
“…Okay.”
Lucas thinks.
Then—
“You don’t like bananas.”
I blink.
He continues—
“You say coffee is emotional damage.”
My mouth opens.
What.
He nods.
“You say Dad folds towels wrong.”
Excuse me.
Lucas keeps going.
“You say socks are prison.”
I stare.
Then—
he smiles.
Tiny.
Like he’s proud.
“You call me Bug.”
My throat closes.
Bug.
I stare.
Lucas looks at me.
Waiting.
Like he expects something.
I say quietly—
“…Why?”
His smile gets bigger.
“Because when I was little I said I wanted to become a beetle.”
I blink.
Then—
before I can stop it—
I laugh.
Small.
Unexpected.
Lucas lights up.
Immediately.
Like somebody switched on a lamp.
And suddenly—
my chest hurts.
Because—
that reaction.
That joy.
That was automatic.
His smile slowly fades.
He studies me.
Then says—
“…You remembered?”
My smile disappears.
His face changes immediately.
Too fast.
Like he realizes.
He looks away.
Then nods.
“Oh.”
My chest drops.
I hate that expression.
That careful little okay.
I say quickly—
“No.”
His face stills.
I swallow.
“…I didn’t remember.”
He nods again.
Too calm.
Too practiced.
I hate that more.
Then quietly—
“You don’t have to pretend.”
I stop breathing.
He shrugs.
“You get sad after.”
The room goes quiet.
I stare.
He hugs the dinosaur tighter.
Then says—
“…It’s okay.”
No.
No no.
Children are not supposed to comfort parents.
I say—
“It’s not okay.”
His eyes lift.
I don’t know why I say it.
But I do.
“It’s not okay.”
My voice shakes.
His face changes.
Small.
Surprised.
I swallow.
Then—
“I’m sorry.”
Immediately—
his eyes widen.
Then—
very seriously—
“Dad said don’t say sorry.”
I blink.
“What?”
Lucas nods.
“He said if you say sorry then you think you did something bad.”
My chest twists.
Lucas shrugs.
“He said forgetting isn’t mean.”
I look away.
My eyes sting.
I hate everybody.
Lucas studies me.
Then—
quietly—
“Do you want to see?”
I blink.
“…See what?”
He grins.
Then jumps off the bed.
Runs out.
I hear drawers opening.
Chaos.
Tiny footsteps.
He returns carrying a binder.
Blue.
Obviously.
He drops it in my lap.
Written on the front:
THINGS MOM TAUGHT ME
My throat closes.
I open it.
Page one.
A badly drawn frog.
Underneath:
Mom says frogs are suspicious.
I stare.
Page two.
Photos.
Cooking.
Reading.
Park.
Page three.
Mom says if I get scared I can squeeze her hand three times.
Page four.
Mom says people change and still stay people.
I stop.
My breathing changes.
Page five.
Child handwriting.
My favorite thing about Mom:
She remembers things for me.
I stop breathing.
The room goes quiet.
Slowly—
I look up.
Lucas is watching me.
Not scared.
Not nervous.
Just waiting.
Like he already knows.
I whisper—
“…Did I say that?”
He nods.
I stare.
Then quietly—
“…What if I can’t?”
He thinks.
Then shrugs.
Child simple.
Child impossible.
“…Then I remember for you.”
Silence.
The room goes blurry.
I blink.
Lucas studies me.
Then says—
“Oh.”
I wipe my face quickly.
His eyes widen.
Then—
very seriously—
he climbs onto the bed.
Puts the dinosaur in my lap.
And says—
“Bad days get dinosaur.”
I laugh and cry at the same time.
And from the doorway—
very quietly—
I hear Kit leave again.
Like he’s giving me privacy.
Like he already knew.
Like maybe—
this isn’t the first time Lucas remembered me first.
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