“That I could save you the pain,” Mom says, touching her hand to her cheek in anticipation of tears to come. I can see that I’ve exposed an old wound. A very deep, painful one.
“Something terrible happened to him a long time ago,” Mom begins, glancing at me every so often but mostly watching the patterns in the carpet, as if they’re feeding her lines. “Your brother was taken. And killed.”
I inhale sharply. “Who did it?”
“We never knew.”
My mother’s shoulders are heaving now, and I’m the parent for a moment as I walk over to the couch and hold her in my arms. She cries on my shoulder for a brother I can’t remember.
I want to know more, but I can see that talking about it is devastating to her.
When she composes herself, she pulls back, hands on my shoulders.
“I wasn’t trying to deceive you, London, you have to know that,” she says, looking right into me. “You lost your memory of the past, and I saw that as the one bright spot in all the darkness. You wouldn’t have to know the pain of loss. I could protect you from it. That’s what I’ve tried to do all these years.”
When she says it like that, though I may not agree, I can understand. A little.
I break free from my mother’s grasp and move to one of the cushiony chairs opposite the TV. I fold my legs up under me, even though I’m still wearing the shoes that carried me through the cemetery.
The notes told me that my mom has been keeping secrets, but I’ve been keeping them, too. It’s time to come clean.
To ask for help.
“Mom?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“I want to know all about Jonas. I know it’s hard for you, but I want you to tell me everything. It’s important.”
I grab the tops of my shoes and pull my feet closer to my body.
“I know it is, London. I know you want to understand your life.”
Taking a deep breath, I look into my mom’s dark eyes. For the first time, I understand the tinge of anguish that will always be there, even during happy occasions.
I don’t remember him. I don’t remember anything. But she remembers all of it.
“Mom, it’s more than wanting to understand. I think I need to hear about him. I think it might help me.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, confused.
Finally, I share with my mom what’s been building, what I know from notes that I’ve kept from the one person I should have opened up to long ago.
“I want you to tell me everything, because I think it might help me remember my past,” I say.
My mother sighs and rubs her eyes.
“London, you’ve been to doctors who have tried to jog your memory. I even took you to a hypnotist once. Why do you think that my telling you the story of your brother’s death will change things now?”
And here it is: the moment of truth. I check the clock on the wall for no particular reason. Then I shift in my seat, and pull myself tighter into a knot. I take a deep breath, and, finally, I tell my mother what she needs to hear.
“Mom, I remember Jonas’s funeral.”
Written 2/19; include in notes every night.
This morning I woke up remembering a memory I’m sure will stay with me forever. It’s a funeral… it was my brother Jonas’s. It’s the one past memory I have.