Page 19 of You Again

I sigh at the repetition of these visits. “Toast.”

“That’s accurate,” Mom says, her hands wringing together. I think she’s just as anxious about leaving me today as I am to have her go.

“How are the panic attacks?”

“Still present,” I say, feeling more and more annoyed with the man.

“Are we still having them daily? Or have they lessened?”

“I doubt I have one a day,” I grumble.

“More like five to six times a week,” Mom says.

I glare at her. Why? I have no idea. Because this whole entire appointment makes me anxious? Because I’m on the verge of a panic attack right now? All because of this dummy and his questions.

Just make the magic happen, doctor! There’s a reason we pay you the big bucks. Just bring back Rosalie’s memories. Cha-ching!

But he doesn’t cha-ching anything. He types on his keyboard, looking at his screen, not us. “And you’ve started counseling, correct?”

My pulse thrums. Dr. Case—my therapist—would tell me to breathe. She’d say I’m making this appointment, his smile, and my lack of memories big. And it doesn’t have to be. The reality is it’s exactly as it was a month ago. I just need to remember that, keep it small. “Yes,” I answer. “Twice a week. Virtually.”

“The woman she liked the best is in Tesoro,” Mom says in explanation.

“That’s fine,” Dr. Strouse says, jotting another note on his computer before spinning in his swivel chair to face us once more. “Okay—can you repeat the three random words I asked you to pay attention to earlier?”

I clench my jaw and pull in a deep breath. “Ring, barnacle, Elvis. Unless you want it backward, and then it’s Elvis, barnacle, ring.” I drum my fingers on the white, crinkly paper beneath me. “How much longer until I’m right again?”

“Rosalie.” He rolls his chair until he’s right in front of me and the tuna scent is back in my vicinity. Blech. “I’ve told you before, there’s no answer for that. Those memories may never return.”

“What am I supposed to do about work? The school keeps asking when I’ll be ready to return. How am I supposed to go teach second graders when I have no memory of any training or how to manage a classroom or how to write a lesson plan or what they’re learning? Am I supposed to go back to college?”

“Your training is still there,” he says. “That’s the funny thing about amnesia. Your brain has different compartments. One stores the memories of events and another stores your skills. You still have the ability to be an excellent teacher, even if you don’t remember obtaining those skills. The part of your brain that holds your training—your semantic memory—is still intact.”

“So, you’re saying I could just go back to work? Teach subjects and children I don’t remember?”

“Your training would kick in. And you’d get to know your students again. So—yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

This guy has lost his mind.

I shake my head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m moving to Tesoro anyway.”

“You are?” my mother says, her eyes wide. “What about your job?”

“Fran’s there. My therapist is there. Why would I stay here?” I lick my lips. “And I’m not going back to that job.”

“But Rosalie⁠—”

“No, Mom. I’ve made up my mind—” And I have, in this very second. “What’s here for me? People who know me that I don’t remember? That sounds horrifying.”

“A new place might be just what you need,” Dr. Strouse says.

“I thought you said familiarity without pressure.” Now my mother looks annoyed with the smiley doctor. Good. Let’s gang up on him.

“That’s good, too.” He sighs. “Rosalie, is this what you want to do?”

“Yes,” I say, determined with my last-second decision.

“Then I think you should.”