Artifice ♛ Scott McCall

Remember Me

"So, wait a sec. So, this woman "Lenore," she conjured up her dead son?"

Lydia was explaining to my father what happened back in Canaan. I don't understand why she's telling him this though. Especially since she keeps zoning in on Caleb.

"She was the only one left. She had to fill a void. So she filled it with her son." Lydia said cryptically.

"And you saw this kid?" My dad asked.

"We all did." I spoke up. "He was real. A little demonic, but real."

"But..." Lydia stuttered. What is she trying to say that she can't put it into words?

"But what?" I ask.

Lydia looked at me before looking at my father. "She was there when everybody was taken. She saw it happen. But she didn't wanna believe it. She wanted to believe in her son."

"What are you trying to say? You think Claudia is not real?" My father questions. I look over at Lydia to see if that's what she meant. "You think I made up a phantom wife?"

"You're afraid to remember him." Lydia says.

I let out a sigh. "Lydia, I understand you want to save Stiles. I do. But saying my mother isn't real, that's taking it a bit too far."

"You said it yourself that you two had a different block than the rest of us. This could be it." Lydia told me.

"She's a flesh and blood woman. She's real." My father raised his voice slightly. "Everything else here is just... Is just speculation. Conjecture. It's just, it's a theory based on a... On a ghost town."

I think back to mine and Scott's conversation. We came to the conclusion that my dad and I had the same block that was keeping us from remembering Stiles. Something that was different from everyone else's. Could it possibly be my mother?

I look back at the memories I have of my mother. Growing up, I was always with her except for when I was at school. We did many things together. My favorite was reading. The amount of books that we went through could probably fill a library. We would also bake together. We would make things that weren't too sweet because I don't like really sweet things. Dad would always complain about the lack of sugar, so we'd always make a separate batch just for him.

I continue to rack my brain. It feels like a big chunk of my memories with her are missing. I also didn't have any pictures with her past the age of 8. Why wouldn't we have taken a picture during all of this time? I have plenty with my father. So why not her?

"Evan, are you actually believing this?" My father asks me in shock. I look down at my feet as something hits me.

"What do we do every year on November 23rd?"

His look turns from anger to confusion. "How is this relevant?"

"I'll tell you when you answer the question. What do we do on November 23rd?" I repeat myself.

"We go out to eat at our favorite restaurant a few towns over." He answers.

"Just us?" I ask. He nods his head.