Forget Me (Hampton Harbor) (19 page)

My mom made it sound like we live in Chicago, so I’m surprised
when our drive crosses us right over the Indiana border. It’s almost
eight-thirty when Ted pulls off of the highway, following signs to a town
called Clinton Hills.

Clinton Hills, Indiana.

 
When we pull into
town, and the main sign looms over a series of rose bushes and brick walls,
several images flash through my mind. It’s though I’m driving past this sign
one hundred times over, and I realize that I’m remembering other times I've
driven past this sign.

The town is small and quaint, with old brick buildings and bright
streetlights adorned with colorful banners. I feel a sense of familiarity, both
from my past life and the life I lived in Hampton Harbor. 

We drive straight through town, which takes five minutes at the
most, and pull into a neighborhood on the outskirts. The houses are all large
Victorian style homes, with flowers cascading over their white porches, and
perfectly trimmed hedges surrounding their gated driveways. We drive deep into
the neighborhood before pulling into the driveway of a white home with red
shutters.

"Saturday we'll have dinner with the family," my mom
starts talking as we climb out of the car. "And then on Monday we'll get
you an appointment with the best doctors in Chicago. We'll drive up there for a
few days and get this whole
amnesia
mess
sorted out."

She talks about my memory loss as though it’s a bad rash. All I
need is some good medication and an ointment and everything will be okay.

Jason leans back against Ted's car and I pause in the driveway,
watching my mom and Ted hurry toward the walk. My mom turns around when she
sees that neither of us has followed.

"Well, aren't you coming?" she asks.

I look at Jason and then back at my mom.

"Do we live here too?"

My mom laughs. "Of course not, I just thought it would be
best if you stayed here while you recovered."

I feel aggravation seeping into my mind, and I feel the same anger
and hurt I felt in all those memories with my mom. I remember her coldness and
her need for control. I can envision a dozen times where she cut me down for
not being good enough, or took control of my life without giving me a choice.
It’s strange to suddenly have memories and just know what happened in my life.
It’s hard to imagine not knowing these events, and I struggle to recall ever
not
remembering.

"I think I'd rather just go home," I say defiantly. The
only memories I have so far do not stretch past high school, so I feel myself
reverting to my sixteen-year-old self.

"Don't be silly." My mom steps toward me but I back
away.

"I'm married and I have a home... you can't make me stay
here." I say to her.

I feel movement behind
me and Jason steps
into my view.

"We'll be back for dinner on Saturday." He takes my hand
in his and pulls me further from my mom. "Goodnight, Grace."

I didn't notice the car before, but Jason leads me to a black
sedan parked on the far side of the triple wide driveway. My mom is glaring at
us from the walkway, and I think from here I can see the veins in her neck
bulging. Jason grabs my black bag from Ted’s car while I slip into our own.
There is a Clinton Hills Highschool parking pass hanging from the rear view
mirror, along with a set of purple beads.

I run my fingers over the shiny plastic of the beads, fisting them
in my hand. Jason ducks into the car and I peer over at him.

"We got these at Senior prom," I say. "They did a
Mardi Gras theme."

He stares at me, his eyes wide. "You remember?"

"Not everything," I say quickly, not wanting to give
false hope. "I’m slowly starting to get glimpses and pieces of my life.
Like how horrible and controlling my mother is."

Jason chuckles. "She isn't easy to forget. She leaves quite
the impression on everyone."

I drop the beads as he puts the car in gear and backs out of the
drive. My mom and Ted are gone from the walk, and there are now lights on in
the front window. Jason pulls out of the neighborhood and turns back toward
town.

"How long have we known each other?" I ask. "I
mean, I remember being with you in high school, and according to my mom we’re
married, but how long have we been together?"

Jason works his jaw and his fingers grip the wheel tightly.

"I'm sorry," I say before he can answer. "I'm sure
it's frustrating that I don't remember. I just.... I don't know how else to get
answers."

"No, it's fine." His grip loosens and he glances at me.
"It's just strange, that's all."

He turns at the stoplight in the middle of town.

"We met in science class in eighth grade." His voice is
wistful, and I realize that he is remembering too. These are events he probably
hasn't had the need to think of before now. "We were partnered up to
dissect a frog and I was so mad at Mr. P.
So
mad. I didn't know how I was going to dissect a frog with a
girl
 for a partner, but you stomped
right up to my desk, pulled on your gloves, and grabbed a knife."

I laugh at the image, trying to remember it. I think I can almost
picture myself, with brown pigtails and a red dress.

"You dissected that frog ten times better than I ever could
have," he says with a laugh. "I couldn't even admit that the smell
almost made me vomit."

He turns onto a small side street. We aren't in a neighborhood,
just in a section of homes right within the town. They are older, and small,
but they have a sort of character that I feel I can appreciate.

"We absolutely hated each other for the rest of the year, but
then we went to the same summer camp. Up in Michigan, near the lake."

I can picture it somehow. The trees, the lake, the cabins, and the
canoes.

"Camp Creektrail," I say.

Jason's smile grows large. It’s the first genuine smile I've seen
from him since our reunion in the airport.

"Yes, Camp Creektrail," he says. "We both seemed
older that year, more mature. Maybe it's because we were about to head into
high school, but you were no longer the bratty, pig tailed girl from science
class. You were cute and funny, and you had a love for practical jokes that I
could really appreciate."

I laugh loudly. "I stapled cups of water together and put
them on my counselor’s bed. We also hung one of the boy counselor's underwear
up on the flag pole."

Jason nods. "I didn't realize until the end of summer that
you were acting up so much to piss off your parents. They were getting divorced
that summer, and your mom's moods were worse than ever."

I can picture the summer well now, and I can feel the same
emotions I felt when my dad told me that he was leaving. I begged my mom to
send me to summer camp, just so I could get away, and surprisingly she obliged.
Of course, I had to enroll in a full course of activities for the week: soccer
camp, horseback riding, and band.

"We had our first kiss that summer, under the weeping tree
near the canoe shack." I add.

I can picture the big tree in my mind. I remember how it drooped
into the water each morning, heavy with dew, and when it would rise back up
over the lake, large droplets of water would slowly roll down it's branches and
onto the ground. That’s how it got its name.

Jason is silent now, and he pulls into the driveway of a small,
light blue home. There is a large porch off the front, with two rocking chairs
sitting off to the side. 

"This is ours?" I ask. For the first time tonight,
memories don’t pour into my mind.

"Home sweet home," he says without a smile. He climbs
out of the car. 

I do the same and shut the door behind me, walking slowly toward
the house. The color of the siding feels out of place in this town, but I know
that had this house been built in Hampton Harbor, it would have fit right in.
The steps up to the porch are wide and thick, and there are two white lights
lit on either side of the door. Jason steps around me and slips a key into the
front door, pushing it open and motioning for me to enter.

My hand instinctively swipes the wall to the left when I step
inside, and the room lights up. There is a set of stairs to my left, but the
main floor in dominated by a large, open living room. The foyer area is set in
a light wood floor, and it stretches into a dining area at the front of the
house, before turning to carpet half way back. There is a fireplace in the
corner, and mismatched furniture is placed around a flat screen TV. The wall
along the stairs runs behind a long, tall table. There are picture frames
trailing across it but I can't bring myself to look just yet. I walk past the
dining area and the sitting area, and turn left into a small kitchen. The white
cabinets sit over yellow walls, and there is a large window behind the sink
that overlooks what I assume is the backyard. The room reminds me too much
of
Charles and Marie’s kitchen, and my breath hitches in my
throat.

Everything about this home feels like me, and I know that I've
poured myself into this place. The color schemes, the curtains, the decorations.
I've taken an old home and made it our own. However, I see no signs of a child,
and I struggle with whether or not to bring it up.

I walk back into the main room and find Jason still standing in
the foyer, watching me carefully. I feel like a stranger rummaging through his
house, and I'm struggling through exactly how to feel right now. I wrap my arms
around my midsection and try to hold myself together, closing my eyes and
willing the memories to come back. It would be easier if I could just
remember
. I step over to the table along
the wall and pick up the first picture frame.

A younger, happier version of myself has her arms wrapped around
the neck of a younger, happier version of Jason. I'm wearing a white gown and
he’s wearing a tuxedo. I grasp that this is a picture from our wedding day. My
dark hair is piled on the top my head and the picture shows my side profile.
I’m staring up at Jason and I can tell by my posture that he is hugging me
tight. His smile is
wide
as he looks straight at the camera.

I'm crying now. Tear drops splash onto the table and a few hit the
glass covering the picture.

The frame is taken from my hands and Jason is reaching for me, but
I back away. 

"I'm sorry," I say when I see the hurt look on his face.
"I can't..." 

"Mel, come with me," he extends his hand again, and
gives me a hesitant look. The sound of his nickname for me hits my ears and
runs down my body in a wave. I know that my mom hates when he calls me that,
and I know that he has been calling me that since that first summer at camp.

"Where are we going?" I'm sniffling as the tears
continue to fall.

"I'm going to take you up to our room, your room. It's been a
long day." His eyes shift to the stairs. "I'll sleep on the couch
tonight."

"No, you don't have to do that," I stumble through the
words. "I'll sleep down here."