“Whatever, Mom,” I reply curtly.
“What made you think of this?” Mom asks, ignoring my tone.
“Anatomy,” I reply. I take a bite of chicken and then continue. “Ms. Harris talked about storing different memories in different parts of the brain. Easy stuff, like knowing your name or riding a bike or math, goes in one place; experience-type memories go in another.”
“I wouldn’t say math is easy,” Mom jokes. It annoys me.
“It is for me,” I say sharply. “Maybe your math is stored in the harder part. Anyway, that’s not the point.”
“Sorry,” Mom says. “Go on.”
“Obviously that means that only one part of my brain is messed up. Not all of it. So I’m wondering if I can have the messed-up part fixed.”
And then I’ll know what happened in the past, I think, but don’t say. And maybe I’ll stop remembering what’s going to happen in the future, too.
“I don’t think it works that way,” Mom says quietly.
“Why do you think that?” I demand.
“Because one of the experts we’ve seen is a neurologist. Do you know what that is?”
“I’m not dense, Mother.”
“London, I’ve about had enough of your tone. I was just going to say that he had an MRI done on your brain, and nothing looked out of the ordinary. He said that your brain is perfectly healthy. No parts are ‘messed up.’ ”
“Whatever,” I say defensively. “I’m finished.”
I push back from the table, take my plate to the sink, and leave my mom to finish eating alone, which only bugs me every step of the way upstairs.
24
“Okay, I’m ready,” I whisper, even though whispering isn’t necessary. We are totally alone.
Nearly inaudible music plays from Luke’s bedroom stereo, and the late-afternoon sun is on the other side of the house, making the room dim.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Luke asks. The hairs on my arms stand on end.
“Yes,” I answer quickly. Then I add, “I think so.”
“There’s no rush,” he offers. “We can wait.”
“No, it has to be today,” I say, in a bossier tone than I mean.
Luke laughs and picks up his cell phone.
“Okay, here goes,” he says.
He dials the number from the scrap of paper, and I bite the fingernail on my right pointer finger in anticipation. I imagine one ring, then two, then…
Luke’s eyes widen and his posture stiffens. Less than one second later, he relaxes again. He makes a face as he disconnects the call.
“Wrong number,” he says, disappointed.
“Like the voice mail was for someone else?” I ask, needing clarification.
“No, like the number was disconnected. It might have been your dad’s number way back when your parents divorced, but he’s changed it since then.”
As if on cue, muffled squeals erupt from the direction of the kitchen, and Luke and I instinctively move to sit in beanbags. We know—him from experience and me from my notes—that his mother will come in without knocking to see what we’re up to. Innocently crank-calling my estranged father might look questionable if we’re doing it from Luke’s bed.