“Maya?” I called out, retreating from the bathroom door, holding on to the railing so hard, I thought it might snap between my fingers. “Maya? Are you home?”
The house remained quiet, not a single noise save for the tick-ticking of the clock on my bedroom wall, and the air only carried the faint smell of coffee. My panic lessened as I went downstairs and checked each room for my sister before putting on my sneakers and going outside. The door to the garage was open, and when I saw Maya moving around, I headed over. The temperatures had risen during the past few days, bringing with them the promise of a long summer, and the air was filled with the smell of sea salt and the sound of rustling leaves. All of it seemed so normal, and what had just happened in the house began to fade into the background.
Maya was at the back of the garage, dressed in her standard outfit of black jeans and T-shirt, standing over a piece of driftwood the size of my leg. Purple earbuds firmly in place, she swayed to whatever she was listening to, running her hands over the wood, her lips moving without making a sound. Because I wasn’t paying enough attention, my foot caught on a frayed, faded orange rug and I stumbled, almost crashing into the shelf full of neatly arranged tools and supplies. Maya looked up and pulled out an earbud, her face breaking into a smile.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” Her grin faded a little. “You okay? You’re really pale.”
The red bathwater images pushed and shoved, once again making sure they were the only thing I could think of. “I remembered something...at least I believe so. I’m not sure.”
I ran a damp palm over my hair. This was impossible, trying to sort out reality from dreams, fact from fiction, truth from confabulation. How could I live like this? Weren’t we humans, at least in part, the sum of our experiences? Without a firm grasp on my history, how was I supposed to move on? How could I know, or have any kind of trust in who I was?
Maya walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Tell me what you saw.”
“A blue door with a brass handle. I think it was a...”
“Bathroom.” Maya exhaled deeply. “Wow, of all the things to come back...” She grabbed my hand and led me to a green bench at the back of the room near some open framing, where she made me sit down and gently said, “You’re remembering what happened to your mom.”
“Rosalie?” I said, the name still strange and unfamiliar on my tongue.
“Yes. When she committed suicide...you found her. In the bath at home. Her wrists...”
“Christ,” I whispered. I’d found my mother, veins slashed, bleeding out in the family bathroom. It must have been terrifying, life-defining, something I’d surely wanted to forget. “That’s one thing I wish my brain had made up.”
“Me, too.” Maya rubbed my hand as she looked at me with her huge eyes. “You never talked about it much, you found it too distressing. God, I wish you could leave it behind.”
I shook my head. “I’ve already told you. I’ve got to take the good with the bad, and at least real memories are coming, bits and pieces of them, anyway. I mean, this thing with my mum...obviously it’s horrendous, but it’s also significant, surely, even if the entire memory didn’t come back.”
“Thank God. But you have to be patient. And you need to rest.”
“I am resting. I’ve barely been out of bed for more than five minutes. How the hell am I supposed to ever get back to work, feeling like this?” I looked at her. “Speaking of, aren’t you supposed to be at the restaurant?”
“This afternoon.”
“Are you sure? I could’ve sworn you told me last night you’d be working this morning.”
“Maybe you got mixed up? I’ve got to go back to Drift in a while, drop more stuff off before the weekend rush.” She smiled. “Come with me. It might help take your mind off things.”
I thought of going back to the house, where I’d no doubt do nothing other than wrestle with the revelation about finding my mother. It was an easy decision. “You’re on,” I said. “Lead the way.”
A while later, Maya had parked on Main Street and disappeared into Drift with a box of her pieces. When she’d asked if I wanted to join her, I’d passed, preferring to spend the time alone to mull things over. Barbara was on the nosy side, and last time she’d let slip she was penning her debut novel, and I had no intention of letting her use me as a character study.
The sun beat in through the window, warming my chest, and as I closed my eyes someone tapped on the glass. I turned my head. The redhead whose phone I’d attempted to steal at the petrol station stood a few feet away, smiling at me. I searched my brain for her name, remembered it was Fiona and opened the door to get out.
“Hi, Ash,” she said, her smile broadening still. “How are you?”
“I’m all right, thanks,” I said with a nod, adding, “I’m doing okay.”
“That’s great. What about your memory? Any better? Did you see the doctor?”
I sighed, leaned back against the car and shoved my hands in my front pockets as I told her about the different tests and suspicions of retrograde amnesia. “Not much has come back, I’m afraid. The odd flash here and there.”
“Well, that’s something, though. It might not be perfection, but at least it’s progress.”
I looked at her. She seemed nice, gentle and concerned, the exact opposite of her brother, Keenan, who thankfully hadn’t made another appearance at the house. Weighing my options, I decided to take a gamble on her empathy. “Maya told me about Celine and Kate.”
Her eyes widened.
