Chicago, Illinois, USA
April 2019
I gasp. I stare up at the ceiling as my heart rediscovers a steady rhythm. My hair is plastered to my neck, and the sweat dripping down my back is almost painful. I scan the room, spread my hands across the huge bed.
For a moment, I forget why I bolted awake, and then I remember the dream and Camila's words. Do you like it?
Do I?
No. No, of course not. All I have to do is remember that girl's thoughts. No, I don't like it.
Except... last night Will was in this room and I did like it - at least some of it. The way he touched me. His cool breath on my skin.
But it didn't feel real. It felt forced. Not by him. He seemed clueless.
Like I was swimming through a dream. Kind of how I remember Cami and that girl. Nina. I could see it playing out, and I was definitely taking part, but I wasn't actually in control of my movements like... like...
God, I wish my brain would just work! If I could remember the word. Those dolls that are held up by... yarn? No, string? They move. They talk. But they don't have any power. Puppies? No, pop, pop...
Lilith.
I blink. Just as quickly as the word appears, it vanishes. I squeeze my eyes shut to focus. Lilith. There it is! But what does it mean?
God, I'm going crazy.
Okay, okay. Breathe. Just breathe. Think.
Focus on the positive. What I know. Those dreams about my past. I can't know for sure, but I'm pretty sure those were memories. Camila is my sister and that little girl is me. Which means, I remember my name.
Nina.
I stretch my neck, my shoulders. Relax. Relax. I close my eyes and say the name out loud.
"Nina." It doesn't sound entirely unfamiliar. "Nina."
Something flashes. I see... I remember something.
That bed again. The screaming woman. Except she's not screaming anymore. She's lying still, sleeping. She looks peaceful. There's a man. I think he's crying. His hands cover his face, so I can't see. His shoulders are shaking. "Vale, Vale," he weeps.
I shudder, try to relax my tensing shoulders.
I breathe again.
I see a woman. She walks slowly, cradling something close to her chest. She is old, and I can't tell if she's walking slowly due to age or because of the weight or value of what she is holding. She stops when she meets another woman. She is taller and younger. The old woman tells her something I can't hear. The other woman nods and nods. Shakes her head, her eyes downcast. She nods again. The bundle is passed from the one woman to the other.
That's it.
I think. I focus. Try to make the memory continue, but it just loops back to the beginning and the woman lying in the bed.
I give up. I press my palms to my eyes, enjoy the warmth and security of the blankets covering me for a moment longer, and then sit up. I'm instantly cold. I hurry over to the dresser and sift through the items before picking out a few things. I dress quickly into shorts and a tank top, only afterwards registering that I'm wearing all black. Huh.
The bedside clock reads 7:42, but I realize that I don't know what that means.
I get the sense though that I'm late for something. I concentrate on the numbers and remember something. Me, rushing out of a room. It's a small room, and I'm with a girl. My age, maybe. Not Cami. This girl is a lot taller than I am. Has light brown hair that falls to her shoulders. I know I've seen her somewhere.
Suddenly it comes to me. The book.
No, no, that's not exactly right. The face book. That thing that Will showed me. The picture of the girl. Christie. Yes, Christie!
A wave of relief rushes over me. Christie. I remember her. She was my friend. But more than that. The person I lived with; I can't think of the word. I scratch at my neck in frustration.
No, just concentrate. Think. Think.
Roommate.
I almost cry with joy. I remember. We shared a small house. No, not a house. In a building with other people. An apartment?
I'm not sure, but I don't even care. I'm remembering and it feels incredible.
I take my time in the bathroom. I wash my face and brush my hair. I peruse the cabinets. I find makeup in one drawer. I have the feeling that I don't use makeup often. It doesn't feel natural touching the items, but I do take pleasure in opening them up and discovering all the different things.
By the time I leave the room, it's well past 8:00 and my stomach is growling. I reach the staircase when I hear a door open behind me. I look back and Will stops mid-stride, his hand still on the doorknob of what I assume is his room.
Shit.
All the excitement from the past half hour goes poof and the events from last night come back to me.
I don't realize I've moved back until I feel the step below me and I catch myself just in time before I fall. Will starts forward as if to help, but he's too far and by the time he reaches me, I'm safe, leaning against the wall.
I put up a hand. "I'm okay," I breathe.
He nods, gets my meaning and steps back. Twice. Stuffs his hands in his pockets.
Shit.
We stare at each other in silence. It's so awkward.
"I'm..." he starts, eyes on the ground, but I raise my hand again quickly to cut him off.
"Do not apologize for last night again."
His eyes shoot up to mine.
I shake my head. "Let's just forget about it, okay?" I speak firmly, hoping he'll understand that I don't want to talk about it.
He nods. His brows furrow, but he doesn't say anything further.
I need a subject change. Quick.
"Ummm," I scratch my arm. "I think my name is Nina."
"Nina?"
I nod, faking confidence. I need a name, whether I'm sure or not. But my honesty gets the better of me. I shrug. "I don't know for sure."
He reaches out to me. "Are you starting to remember things?"
I look down at his hand on my arm and he swiftly pulls away.
"Sorry." Another step back.
Immediately I miss his touch.
"I don't know," I say again. "I've been having these dreams. And who knows if they are real or not, but they kind of feel real."
"About what?"
"I..." His face is so distracting. Gah, this is so pathetic. The concern in his eyes is palpable, and it's urging me closer to him. I crave his touch, to feel his arms around me, comforting me.
I swallow and stand my ground.
"My family. My sister. I'm remembering when I was younger. Not much aside from my sister, Camila. I call her Cami. And she calls me Nina."
"That's great."
"Maybe. Yeah, no, it is. It's just weird, because it was a dream so I can't know for sure. But sometimes I just feel a certain way. Like when you asked if I have a sibling. I just said yes without actually remembering."
"What about other family? Your parents? Do you remember anything about them? Or where they are?"
"I don't think I have parents. Or that I ever knew them."
"What about you and Camila? Who did you live with?"
"Her family. Her parents. They were my parents, in a way."
"Your adoptive parents?"
I nod, not sure, but it seems good enough.
"Was there anything else in the dreams that you remember? Like where you were? Or maybe what happened that made you end up here?"
Only too much.
He notices my hesitation. "What?"
Can I be honest? "What if I don't want the dream to be true? Because, well, what if there are things about me, what if I've done some really terrible things?"
"Like what?"
I can't tell him. There's no way I can tell him, right? "Forget it." I turn back to the stairs.
"Nina." The way he says my name stops me. That and the sudden feel of him.
He steps closer until he's right behind me. "Is it okay to use that name?"
I don't respond. He's so close now that I feel his breath on the back of my neck.
"I don't think you need to worry about that."
I don't move. His closeness feels so good, so safe. "But you don't know."
"No. But I've seen how scared and alone you've been this past week. And how you haven't let that affect you. How kind you've been to the staff at the hospital. How open and patient you've been about getting your memories back. That doesn't seem like someone who does 'terrible things.' "
"Maybe it's an act."
"Okay, maybe," he chuckles.
I want to believe him. After everything I've remembered, I want to so badly. "But-"
"No," he whispers against my cheek. His fingers lift my chin; he turns my face and his lips touch mine.
I could pull away, but why would I. He tastes so good. Like peppermint. And shelter.
Eventually he's the one who pulls back. Slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, watching, waiting for me to back away.
Something is different. There's no fog. His eyes seem alert. And I feel alive and real.
This isn't over. I realize we're still connected; my hands are fisted around his t-shirt. I use that to my advantage and tug him back to me. I breathe him in, the scent of shower on his jaw. His wet hair. My knees weaken; my stomach tightens. He holds me like I'm worthy of his touch. Not someone whose body has been used by many before him. Not someone who is dangerous. I let him curve his body around mine, press his hands against the wall until he's flush up against me.
Inside, I feel it bubbling up, that need to be wanted. Like she's smiling. And then she backs away, knowing I've given in so easily. But I don't care. I don't want to fight. I like the feel of this man up against me. His mouth on mine, his warmth spreading across my skin. Maybe she knew all along that I'd give in because I cannot survive otherwise.
Maybe this is what it means to be me. To take men so easily. But when Will looks at me, I can't help but believe that he wants me for me. On his own terms. Without control. Mine or his. And it's too hard not to want that feeling.
I'm so afraid of what this means.
My hands shake. I press them to his face and hold steady.
* * *
Everyone is seated and already eating when I come down a while later. After too much time had past, and his family would surely notice our absence. He went first, and I counted to twenty. Or higher. I kept losing count, remembering the softness of his lips.
I try not to cringe when I walk into the room to five sets of eyes greeting me. If only I could turn around and bolt right back up the stairs.
I catch Will's eyes and feel a tiny bit better. I don't know what is going on between us, but I'm trying not to think too much about it, or try to define it. I have more than enough in my life that needs defining. His presence is comforting, and right now, I need that more than anything. That does not mean thought that I want his family knowing. It would just complicate things.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat. "Morning," I manage.
"Good morning." Mrs. Tamayo grins as she rises from her seat. "Why don't you sit down? What can I get you? We have pancakes and French toast on the table. Eggs and bacon are on the counter."
I sit, taking a deep breath to try and calm my nerves. "I'm fine, thank you." I glance at what is already on the table. "Uh... the pancakes look delicious. I'll have some of them." I study the two platters set in the center of the table.
Pancakes. Which ones are the pancakes?
I know what cake is, but neither looks particularly more cake-like than the other. Will must notice my dilemma, because he reaches for the red platter and serves me two round golden circles. Sort of like tortillas, but softer and thicker. Pancakes, I assume.
His hand slips smoothly onto my thigh - I chance a look around to find that, thankfully, no one sees - and offers me a pitcher of dark liquid. "Syrup?"
"Ummm, yes?" I answer, shifting my leg away from his touch, afraid someone will notice.
He takes the hint, and removes his hand. I'm sad to feel it go.
Still he smiles and pours a little puddle of syrup beside my pancakes. I watch with wonder as the liquid comes out gooey and lighter than when in the pitcher.
"It's good. Maple syrup. It's sweet."
Mrs. Tamayo returns to the table with two large pitchers in her hands. When she mentions coffee, I excitedly agree to some, but right away am disappointed by the taste. It's like it's been watered down and quite tasteless. I can't imagine Mrs. Tamayo lacking in coffee beans or needing to make the coffee go farther.
I try a piece of the pancake. It's definitely softer and moister than a tortilla, and very sweet. I understand now why it's called cake. I dip the second piece into the syrup. A little too sweet, but not terrible.
"So, um, this is kind of a weird question," Aimee says. "But what do we call you? Do we just continue to call you Jane Doe, like in the hospital?"
"Oh, uh," I glance at Will. "I had a dream last night. I can't know for sure if it was a real memory or not, but, anyway, I think it's Nina. My name. Or, well, I'm not sure, but I guess it's better than nothing."
It feels weird assigning myself a name when I am not entirely sure, but what other choice do I have?
"Awesome," Aimee grins widely. "That's such great news. I'm sure the dream was real. It's probably your body's best way of helping you remember things. Cara and I are going shopping today; you should totally join us."
"We don't have school today," Cara beams.
"Spring break," Aimee explains.
Spring break. Those words mean something to me, I think.
Spring break. School. I remember being at school.
A small room. I'm not alone. The other girl is there. Christie Beckman. She's getting ready to leave. There's a big bag resting against the door.
"Call me if anything happens, Nina. Anything." There's something in her tone - fear or sadness. "I wish you'd come home with me. You know my folks would love to have you."
I shake my head. "Pamela would be so hurt."
"Fuck, Pamela. I swear, if Max even looks at you funny, you have to call me. Promise me, Nina."
"Nina."
"Nina."
I blink and find the entire Tamayo family staring at me.
I shake the memory off. "Sorry, sorry. I was just-"
Aimee places a hand on my shoulder. "Did you remember something? You had this weird far away look, like you were daydreaming or something."
"Yeah, yeah," I breathe, still trying to climb out of the memory.
"Well, what?" she asks anxiously.
"Aimee," Will admonishes. His hand finds its way to my leg again. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," I repeat, resting my hand against his under the table. I wrap my fingers around his. I'm not entirely lying. I am fine. It was just so strange. How quickly the words brought the memory on.
Mrs. Tamayo yanks on Aimee's arm. "Maybe give her some breathing space. I'm so sorry, sweetheart, you're going through this. But it's great to know you're remembering some things. Though you are under no obligation to share the details with us." She turns and speaks the last words to her daughter.
She gestures to her other children. "I'd love some help getting these dishes back to the kitchen."
Will squeezes my hand gently before standing and following his mother's orders.
Mrs. Tamayo softens her voice, like I'm a wounded child. I guess, in a way, I am to her. "You're more than welcome to stick around here if you're still a bit tired. Maybe take a nice mid-morning nap. I'll be busy preparing for Sunday, so I'll pretty much be in the kitchen all day if you need me."
"Sunday?" I ask.
"Sorry, Easter," she answers. "It's a religious holiday."
"Oh, yes." Easter. The word sounds familiar.
Aimee returns to clear more dishes. "Come on, mom, I'm sure shopping would be so much more fun that cooking all day. Anyway, prom's a month away and I still haven't found a dress I like."
I picture the closet and dresser upstairs, full of unnecessary clothes. This would be the perfect opportunity to do some major store returns.
"Yeah, sure, I'll come with. Actually, I could use your help with some errands of my own."
Mr. Tamayo lowers his newspaper. They all peer at me curiously.
"Top-secret," I joke, but I'm not sure they get it.
I sigh, and turn back to the table to help clean up.
* * *
"Somehow this seems backwards." Aimee shifts the stuffed bag onto her other shoulder. Cara and I follow behind with our own overloaded bags. "Sneaking out of the house to return clothes as opposed to sneaking in."
Cara rolls her eyes. "It's not like they never find out when mom gets the credit card bill."
Aimee drops the bag to the ground to open the car trunk. "They're the ones who gave us each linked cards." She tosses the bag in the back of the car.
Cara and I take turns dumping more bags in. In all, we've stuff enough clothes to fill three large bags.
Aimee slams the trunk shut and rounds the car for the driver's seat. "Too bad none of these are my size. You are so dang tiny. I definitely would have generously taken a few pieces off your hands."
Cara climbs into the back, immediately leans forward, and sticks her head between the seats like a curious turtle peeking out of its shell. "Hey, you never told us what happened. But I'm guessing, since we're going out, that Darius asked you."
Aimee slides the keys into the ignition. "You're as bad as mom. Mind your own business."
Cara huffs. "You know, I could have asked in front of her, but I didn't. I deserve some info for that restraint. Besides, you expect me to come along to shop for dresses, but I'm not allowed to ask questions?"
"You can ask. Doesn't mean you'll get an answer." Aimee pulls out of the driveway and heads down the street. "It's really not a big deal."
I can tell that it definitely is a big deal to her.
"He hasn't asked me yet." She purses her lips and punches a button on the car. Music starts blaring. "I don't even know why I'm trying to find a dress when I'm probably not going to end up going anyway."
"Do you really need a date?"
I am wondering the same thing, but one look at Aimee's expression, and I steer clear of agreeing with Cara.
"Fourteen-year-olds," Aimee sighs. "Yes, I know. The feminist in me would say, hell no. But there's just this little rule about having to actually be a senior in order to attend prom. Crazy, I know," she mutters, I'm assuming sarcastically. "So the only way I'll get to go is if Darius asks me."
"If you want to go, why don't you ask him yourself?"
"No way would I ever have the courage to do that, especially since it's his prom."
Okay, so I know I'm really the last person who should be giving relationship advice. I say as much, instead of what I really want to say, which is that she's acting pretty pathetic, hoping for this guy to ask her.
"Obviously I don't know much about the situation," I continue. "But does he want to ask you? I mean, how do you know he's interested?"
"Are you implying he's not?" she gasps, then grins. "Totally joking. I get it. I know. But yeah, we're in a few classes together. History and advanced chem." She rolls her eyes. "We're not lab partners or anything like that, but we do talk. We've worked on a few projects together in the past."
"What about outside of class?"
"Yeah, we're in the same study group." She concentrates on the road, but I catch a glimpse of a flush in her cheeks. "Last week, after everyone else left, it was just us at the library, and we were talking." She glances in the rearview mirror; squirms in her seat. "There was a moment; I thought maybe he'd kiss me." She holds her hand up and goes on quickly. "Forget it. I'm probably making this all up in my head."
"Maybe, maybe not."
"You think?"
"My opinion? And I know it's not exactly reliable, but I think you're overthinking it. Just enjoy spending time with him. That's the point, right?"
She turns onto a busy street and a shouting rushes into the open windows. A crowd of people with large posters huddles outside a building.
"What's that about?" I ask, staring out at all the men and women shouting. The rhythm of their pleas makes me cringe for some reason.
"Some protest, I guess. I don't know what they're saying. I think they're speaking Spanish."
"Spanish?" I listen closely.
"Fewer hours, equal pay!" they chant.
I realize then that though I understand their words, they are definitely not speaking English. I understand Spanish?
Slow down." I lower the window as far as it will go and listen. But we pass them and their voices fade.
"What?"
"I think I understand them."
"Yeah? What were they saying?"
"They were demanding fewer hours with equal pay."
Just when I thought things were getting clearer, something fogs it up. When the protesters were shouting, it didn't register as another language. I just heard the words and understood them. I think about what they were saying and I can't even begin to figure out how I would respond. I simply don't know how. How can I understand a language but have no clue how to speak it, even a little bit.
"Are you okay?" Aimee asks.
"I understood what they were saying, but I don't remember ever speaking anything but English."
"Maybe you studied it in school? Or maybe you have relatives who speak it and you've learned from them. Our grandparents speak Tagalog and we understand them, but we don't speak it."
I think back to the few memories I have. If I didn't even realize the protestors where speaking Spanish, is it possible that I've been dreaming in Spanish without knowing it? I have this gut feeling Mexico means something to me, and if so, I would know Spanish, right?
I think about Cami and Christie.
No, I know I wasn't speaking Spanish with Christie. That I'm sure of. I remember the words she used. Fuck, Pamela. Promise me. But with Cami, I don't know. It's possible.