Page 18 of You Again

I nod. I guess that makes sense. “I just can’t imagine Robert being so cold, so unkind.”

“And maybe that’s the bright side of all this⁠—”

“Bright side,” I sneer, but Grammy holds up a hand. She isn’t finished.

“You are not carrying around the heartache you held before.”

“But according to you, I shouldn’t have the strength that time gave me either.”

She tilts her head in a half nod. “You have plenty of other trials forcing you to be strong, Rose. Don’t worry about that.” She squeezes my fingers, then stands. “Time to remove my mask.”

“Gram,” I say before she can leave. “Do you know anyone named Stella?”

“Of course I do. She’s my pottery teacher.”

I laugh, feeling the tiniest bit lighter. “You take pottery lessons?”

“I’m quite good at the wheel,” she says. “Next time, you can come along. You are the one who got me started.”

My mouth drops, but no words escape. Me? I got her started in pottery? Was that before or after we lost Gramps? My brain hurts—literally from attempting to remember so many things today.

“When I come back, I want to hear about the redhead.” Grammy waves a hand at me. “Did you see him again? Let’s forget about Robert and Margo and talk all about the hunky hunk from the café.”

Eight

ONE MONTH AFTER THE ACCIDENT

The white paper beneath my bottom crinkles with my nervous shifting. Mom rubs a hand over my back. She has to go back to California today. She’s leaving me.

Who’s going to go to the grocery store so I don’t have to risk seeing anyone? Can I afford grocery delivery? Who’s going to sit with me when my heart is threatening to jump out of my chest and my dreams wake me up at night, confusing me with what’s reality and what’s not?

The fact is, I don’t know. Anything could be a lost memory.

I know Fran loves me. She’s even offered to move in. But she lives in a different town. She has a job and clients. And a husband who would probably like to live with his wife. And then there’s the pesky problem that none of us knows how long I’m going to be like this.

Dr. Strouse walks into the room, a smile on his face. “How are the headaches?”

I grind my teeth and resist the urge to smack the smile from his lips. “Better.”

“They’re better,” Mom says, as if the doctor missed my response.

“Well, that’s good.” Another grin. What does this man have to be so happy about? “Have we had the return of any memories?”

“We have not,” I say, unable to keep the snark from my tone.

Mom’s eyes widen in a glare, telling me to play nice.

I sigh. “I’ve had a few strange dreams, but no memories.”

“That’s not uncommon.” He shines his light in my eyes, close enough that I know that Dr. Strouse had tuna for lunch. Stepping back a foot—thank you, Tuna Breath—he holds up one finger. “Follow,” he says, sliding his finger from one side of my view to another. “Good. Your coordination and eye movement are still normal.”

“Does that mean⁠—”

“It means your brain is working properly and there’s no damage to the cranial nerves.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m about to come into six years of memories?” I flash him back one of those obnoxious grins he’s always giving out.

And he laughs—like we’re in this together. “No, I’m afraid not.” He sits next to his computer. “Listen closely—ring, barnacle, Elvis Presley.” He winks. Oh, Dr. Strouse, you’re killing me. “Can you tell me what you had for breakfast yesterday?”