Zac

Finding my old phone didn't become the godsend I hoped it would be. The discovery felt a little like opening Pandora's box. Conflicting emotions waged in me. Even while I celebrated my good fortune, I hated the myriad of doubts that now threatened to unravel everything I believed to be true.

Everyone said that I'd gone back to Ashton Wellesley for a semester-long exchange program. Every time I questioned them—why did I go back in the first place?—they insisted my reasons weren't that deep. I was just being an impulsive teenage dumbass. I wanted to fuck around with the people who fucked with me in the past. That was all. I was told time and time again to focus on the future and forget the past.

The moment I started reviewing the data on my old phone and my social media accounts, however, I began questioning the half-truths and blatant lies that everyone had been feeding me. I wondered how many of the stories I had been told were actually real. I needed to separate fact from fiction. My own mother had deceived me.

What else were people lying about?

Even Cate was trying to hide shit from me. A fucked-up part of me that wanted to test the girl. To see if she would actually own up to the truth. Or ghost me again.

I needed to know where I stood with her. I needed to know that Cate wasn't going to treat me like everyone else. With my nerves on edge, I kept the tone of my text misleadingly light and open-ended: funny story.

My Always: funny... like your face?

Smirking, I wrote: what are you? twelve? anyway. i found my old phone today.

My Always: what do you mean?

I explained: you know. the one i supposedly lost at the hospital. my mom was hiding it for some reason. i wonder why?

As I pressed Send, I prayed that Cate wouldn't let me down.

***

My therapist from Iris-Cowan, Dr. Jalloh, and I had been working on accepting the missing, unexplainable gaps in my memories as the new normal. She claimed that—while it was possible for my memories to return at any time—I couldn't move forward if I kept fixating on uncertainties.

Dr. Jalloh warned, "Zachary, don't let the past hold you back in such an unproductive manner. To do so will only prevent you from making new, more meaningful, memories in the present."

I mean, I didn't really disagree with the woman. But I didn't trust her, either. Her paycheck was coming from my mom, after all.

Not to mention, I was stubborn. Stubborn as a motherfucking mule. The last thing I wanted was to let go of hope that my memories might someday return. Because then and only then would people stop treating me as though I might break if they raised their voices. Or said something, God forbid, that might hurt my feelings. I wasn't afraid of the truth, damn it. I wasn't a coward. I just wanted to know what had happened in my own fucking life!

Was that too much to ask for?

Naturally, I didn't expect my therapist to support these "unproductive" views of mine. I figured my mom wouldn't sign me up for Dr. Jalloh if the bitch's methods weren't closely aligned with her agenda. I wasn't stupid. By now, I knew my mom well enough to deduce that she had no intention of letting me learn about my past.

My mom was trying to hide something from me. Something big. I'd been given plenty of time in the last few months to mull over my situation, and, now, I felt ashamed at how quickly I had fallen into my mom's trap. No wonder she shipped me off to the Iris-Cowan Center so quickly after we landed in New York. She struck before I had time to gain proper footing from my accident.

By admitting me to Iris-Cowan, my mom took away my agency under the guise of wanting what was best for her son. Granted, I had to give my mom some credit. I was pretty sure that she wanted to help me recover. The center was allowing me to do just that in almost every way possible. However, I also didn't doubt my mom's intention to use this facility to control me. At the center, every minute of every day was being monitored by someone, and she knew, this way, I couldn't go digging into the past. Nor could I hound her incessantly with questions while we were living apart.

Well played, mom.

Well.

Fucking.

Played.

It wasn't until I checked into Iris-Cowan that I realized I wouldn't be able to find any real answers until I escaped this cage. This was why I nodded, smiled, and said whatever the hell I thought Dr. Jalloh wished to hear. I paid attention in every single one of my classes and worked hard during my physical therapy even though the exercises hurt like hell and nearly killed me by the end of each day.

I refused to give them any reasons to extend my stay.

Dr. Jalloh and my other doctors seemed to buy into my act. Hook, line, and sinker. They said I was free to go after my six months were up under the condition that I continue my therapy sessions with Dr. Jalloh on a weekly basis, via Skype, for another year or so.

Once I re-entered the real world, however, I felt like a guest in my own home. I became an empty vessel who simply had to believe the shit that people said and hope that they weren't messing with me. I felt this from my friends, my family, my acquaintances...

This perpetual state of unease often kept me up at night, and the sense of being so out of touch in my own skin made me second guess each decision every moment of the day.

***

The relief felt tangible when Cate messaged me back within the next minute: You know, I've been waiting for you to say something like this. We should try to meet up, though. To talk. I need to do this shit in person.

My eyes popped in shock.

Cate had been waiting for me?

I read her text twice just to make sure I wasn't mistaken.

What the hell did that mean?

My heart began to pound.

Why did she want to talk in person?

Shit.

Was she planning to break up with me?

No, no!

That couldn't be it. We weren't even dating. My mind reeled.

Except we had been dating during my semester-long stint in Wellesley.

Had Cate been waiting for me to get out of the center so she could put an end to our relationship in a more respectful manner?

After freaking out about this issue for an embarrassingly long amount of time, I came to my senses. I rolled my eyes and sighed at my own stupidity. I must be tripping. If a girl like Cate didn't want to be with me, I doubted we would even be texting at this point. Cate wouldn't hesitate to rip out anyone's heart if she didn't want them in her life.

I chose to stay positive. Stay optimistic. Now that I was finally free from the Iris-Cowan Center, I should have been rejoicing at the fact that Cate wanted to see me. In person, no less. For months, I'd been trying to make up an excuse to go to DC. To meet up with Cate. To hang out with her. Maybe even go on a date.

Cautiously, I typed back: when? where?

My Always: Doesn't matter. Whenever you're free. I'll go to you.

What?

She wanted to come to New York?

My mind went blank.

Fuck.

I tapped out: fuck

I hadn't expected Cate to be so accommodating! Now, I was really getting nervous.

Why did the girl want to see me so badly?

My phone lit up with another message from Cate: Sorry, am I being too forward?

I panicked.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I didn't want her to back out even though my stress levels were shooting through the roof. I quickly tried to salvage the situation by sending: fuck no... can't wait to see u, babygirl

Over the following hour, we made plans for Cate to visit me in New York City. She booked a hotel room and everything. Her flight would land on a Friday night. I planned to pick her up from the airport, and the anticipation of being with her again filled my stomach with a bizarre combination of deliriously happy butterflies and anxiety-ridden ones.

I couldn't wait to see her.

God, I was so excited!

But, as the day of her arrival drew closer, I also began to dread what she planned to say to me. As much as I told myself that I was ready to learn the truth—and nothing but—something inside me ballooned with restlessness. I worried that Cate's arrival might very well turn my whole fucking world upside down in all the best and worst ways possible.