“What do I do? Go to school? Do I have a job?”
Loretta took a deep breath then smiled. I didn’t know this woman very well, but I’d seen her be emotional on more than one occasion: happy, worried, or deeply poignant. Now, I couldn’t quite make out the emotion in her eyes. It was cautious or something. I could only imagine it had to be hard for her only daughter to not know anything about herself. “You just finished high school, and you’ve been in the process of touring different nursing schools that you were supposed to attend this fall.”
“Nursing?”
I glanced around at the equipment in the room. All the equipment seemed so sterile and complicated.
“Yes. You’ve been talking about becoming a nurse since I can remember.”
She told me a little more about myself. I was a very good student, pulled almost all A’s in my high-school honors classes, and I loved animals. I was an avid reader and even enjoyed writing. “When you’re better, we’ll go through photo albums and see if that doesn’t help you remember stuff.”
I hadn’t even thought of that. I could hardly wait now. “Listen, honey,” she said, sounding a bit more serious. “Tomorrow, a police officer will be coming in here to question you about the accident. He’s already been instructed not to tell you any of the details because of your delicate condition. He knows you don’t remember anything, so all you should tell him is just that. That you don’t remember. You weren’t even the one driving, so it’s just a formality, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Is someone in trouble?” I asked, hating how devoid of any memories my mind was.
“No one’s in trouble, darling. It’s just that, because of the nature of the accident, they need to investigate. But again, we’ll talk about all that later when you’re better.”
The interview with the officer was probably one of the fastest in the history of police interviews. He asked if I remembered anything about the accident. I told him I didn’t even remember anything about me and that I had zero recollection about anything at all from my past. He wrote something down in his notebook and asked that if I did remember anything at any time to please give him a call. I agreed, he wished me a speedy recovery, and he left.
Several weeks after that, when it was determined there was no more risk of swelling in my brain and most of my fractures were near healing, therefore no more need for me to be monitored day and night, I was told I’d be released in a couple of days. But not before a psychiatrist I’d already spoken to a few times came in to see me first.
I still didn’t remember anything about my life. Dr. Esh, my neurologist, hesitated to make a solid diagnosis because he said it was too early to tell. But it appeared I had a form of retrograde amnesia. I cried when I looked further into it because it was the worst kind. While the possibility existed of me regaining some or all my memories, I read stories of many who never had.
The doctor explained to my mother and me about PTBIS, post-traumatic brain-injury syndrome. He warned that there would be symptoms and I could experience them for weeks, months, years, or even for the rest of my life. It was daunting to hear the many different symptoms I might experience.
Many of what he called more common symptoms didn’t seem too bad: difficulty with focusing, mood swings, inability to control certain impulses and urges, and emotional liability. But others sounded more alarming: seizures, behavioral outbursts like Tourette’s syndrome, and other stuff I didn’t understand. He said that tinnitus, ringing or buzzing in the ears, was quite common after a traumatic head injury.
He gave us paperwork on PTBIS with links to websites that go over all the many other symptoms I might want to look up if I experience any. He explained there is no treatment for PTBIS itself, but that some of the symptoms could be treated or controlled.
The day the psychiatrist came to see me I was surprised Dr. Esh said he needed to be there as well as a nurse. But I was even more startled when he asked Loretta to leave the room.
“What’s going on?” I asked, feeling nervous as she willingly walked out.
The psychiatrist, Dr. Patel, nodded as Dr. Esh began. “I wanted Dr. Patel here when I explained the details of the accident to you. I think you’re well enough to know the traumatic and difficult details, and I agreed to be the one to tell you because it’s still too hard for your mother to relive. She will also require therapy and is already getting some to help her deal with what she witnessed that day—something no parent should ever have to.”
This was news to me. My heart sped up. “She was in the accident too?”
“No.” He shook his head. “But she was one of the first to arrive at the horrific scene and was forced to identify the bodies for the authorities.”
“Bodies?” I asked as my insides went cold.
“Yes.” He nodded, glancing at the only monitor I was still hooked up to, the one that tracked my heart beat and blood pressure. When it didn’t show anything irregular, he continued. “There were two other people in the car with you who lost their lives: your best friend, Shelby, and . . . your sister, Madeline.”
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. Tears burned my eyes until I was crying and was handed a box of tissues. How could I possibly feel grief over people I didn’t even remember, but my heart ached in spite of that.
Even as they gently told me the rest, I continued to cry through it all. The doctor went on to explain my sister’s convertible Volkswagen Bug had gone off the side of an embankment. None of us had been wearing seatbelts, and we’d all been thrown from the car. My sister’s and Shelby’s bodies had been badly mangled, and they were pronounced dead at the scene. I’d barely been clinging to life when I was found, and they said there was so much loss of blood it was a horrendous sight. Loretta still couldn’t even talk about it without falling apart, and she’d asked not to be there when I was told. It was simply too soon for her to stomach reliving the memories.
Dr. Patel said, even though I hadn’t been driving, survivor’s guilt was perfectly normal. I should expect to feel unwarranted guilt over having been the only one to survive, but there were many ways of coping with it. He encouraged me to talk about what I was feeling now with him or any time later with my mother or in my therapy sessions. I should never hold it in. He warned that there would be a lot I’d be dealing with emotionally in the weeks to come when it all sank in and I got to see photos of my sister and best friend and learned more about them. I was given a list of websites and even local support groups for others going through something similar—not just dealing with amnesia but survivor’s guilt—and he encouraged me to attend some of the meetings.
Dr. Esh said the session had gone well. It was the beginning of a long recovery both physically and emotionally, and he was confident I’d do well with both. I was completely numb and couldn’t even fathom the nightmare Loretta had had to live through. What she was still living through and would be for a long time. At least I didn’t remember anything. How in the world had she done it all on her own?
She walked into the room after the doctors left, her eyes red and teary. “So, you know now?”
I nodded, still feeling too numb to say anything except “I’m so sorry.”
She rushed over and hugged me. “I am too, baby,” she said, her voice breaking. “I just praise God he spared at least one of my girls.”
We cried for a little together, holding on to each other, until she pulled away, wiping her tears. “We’ll be strong together and get through this. We’ve already gotten past the hardest part. Dr. Esh said he’s releasing you tomorrow.”
I didn’t even get the chance to try and regain some of my past by going back to our home in Huntsville, Kentucky, the town I grew up in, because Loretta informed me that, just when the accident happened, we’d been in the process of moving. She’d gotten a promotion, but the position was in Denton, a city over three hours away from Huntsville. But she assured me she’d take me back to visit and see the schools I attended and my old neighborhood once
she could. Only she’d already taken so much time off from work to be with me in the hospital, so it might be a while.
While it was disappointing not to get to go back and at least see if anything struck a memory, I was almost positive it wouldn’t. Loretta did point out buildings and such that I should’ve remembered such as the Little Caesar’s pizza where I worked last summer, my very first job, and the water park just outside our town that she said I had season passes to, so I must’ve spent a lot of time there. None of it sounded the least bit familiar. As we drove farther out of town, she pointed out places we’d stopped at when driving in and out of town. It was terrifying not to remember anything.
Weeks after I’d been out of the hospital, we got the okay from my new doctor in the new city we lived in for Loretta to tell me the rest of what I still didn’t know about my sister. I thought I’d prepared myself. But nothing could’ve prepared me for what she still had in store for me.
Chapter 3
Loretta said she wanted to tell me the rest on her day off. That was just another thing that should’ve clued me in on how hard the news would be. She wanted to be there with me, during and after. She did it on a Saturday morning after making us a pile of blueberry pancakes.
“I don’t think you’re ready for visuals yet, Maggie, not of Madeline, until I tell you something else about her and you let it simmer for a few days.”
That alone had me swallowing hard. What could be harder than knowing my sister had been killed in the same accident that spared my life? My only consolation was that I already knew I hadn’t been driving. Loretta had since told me she’d always hated that Volkswagen but Madeline had begged for the convertible bug her senior year.
I still wasn’t sure which hurt more—that she was dead or that I didn’t remember her. Apparently, she’d been my only sister. That meant it was just her, Loretta, and I all our lives. We had to have been close. How could I not remember anything about her?
I felt such an enormous hole in my heart, not because my only sibling was gone but because this was just further proof of the horrid reality. My life was one giant black hole, and I still hadn’t been able to recover from that fact. In hindsight, it was probably why I didn’t even think to ask if Madeline was older or younger than me. So, what Loretta said next was an even bigger shock.
“She was older,” Loretta said with a small smile, “by sixteen minutes.”
It took a moment for that to register. Madeline was my twin, not just fraternal but identical. Why these new bits of information were so incredibly painful, I wasn’t sure. All I could think of was that, if I’d been fairly certain I’d been close to my only sister, there was no doubt in my mind now we had to have been. I sobbed just like when Loretta first told me I’d had a sister. No wonder the hole I felt in my heart was so profound.
Once I’d composed myself, Loretta told me about how different Madeline and I were. Not only did we have different birthdays because she was born just before midnight and I was born afterward, we had different astrological signs. Loretta was big on that and said we fit perfectly with our signs’ depictions. Madeline was the strong-willed, extremely confident, and stubborn one. While I was the far more level-headed and reasonable of the two. She said we couldn’t have been more different, yet we got along so great we’d been inseparable.
“You know what they say about opposites,” she said when she explained this. “You two were the best of friends for good reason. You were the calm to her storm, and she was your constant and devout cheerleader whenever you were lacking confidence, something Madeline exuded.”
That only made me sadder to think I’d lost her and didn’t remember her. It took me months to feel ready to see the photos, and then I sobbed all over again. For as much as I prepared, it was surreal to see photos of me standing next to my identical twin.
That first year was harrowing for more than one reason. Seeing all the photos of my sister and me and then the home videos was beyond painful. But then, knowing I’d never get those memories back made it worse. As the weeks and months passed, I lost hope that I’d ever remember. The only thing that did come to me early on that I was eternally grateful for, was my natural artistic ability.
Loretta had shown me some of the paintings I’d done in the past and then reintroduced me to it. I couldn’t remember having learned and perfected it, but it just came back to me one day, and it was the most peaceful thing for me. It calmed me when I began to feel too depressed.
After I saw the many videos of Madeline and me referring to Loretta as “Mama,” she’d slowly become Mama to me. And as the months went on, it was finally beginning feel natural.
There were times I thought I got a glimpse of a memory then realized my mind was beginning to mix stories, photos, and home videos and recreating a memory. That was when I started my therapy. At first, I preferred treatments and hypnosis that might help me regain my memory. But after nearly a year and falling into depression, I decided therapy was likely for the best.
It’d been eighteen months since I’d woken in the hospital with no memory of my past and a year since I’d started regular therapy for my depression and to help me accept that my past could very well be gone forever. I could only move forward now. A part of me would never give up hope entirely, but another part, the most important part, had found peace in accepting I probably never would.
The symptoms the doctor had warned about were subtle but definitely there. I’d snap at Mama when I lost my patience or retorted to her worrying, which I called nagging. I’d quickly catch myself and apologize. I was often moody and, at times, filled with sudden emotion or yearnings I couldn’t quite explain. But each time I visited the website I now had bookmarked, my behavior fit right along with one or more of the common symptoms of PTBIS.
One thing I’d continued to anticipate was going back to the town I grew up in. I’d since gone back once. We were just there for a few hours. We drove around, and Mama showed me the elementary, middle, and high schools I attended. I tried not to get my hopes too high that being there would jog any memories, but as Mama said, hope was hard to kill.
Mama and I made the drive back for the second time on a Saturday morning. We stopped at a gas station in the downtown area of my smallish home town. Mama got out to pump the gas, and I got out to stretch. I glanced around at some of the quaint older buildings.
Something had me eyeing the first building, the one with a small theater. The two movies playing were Grease and The Wizard of Oz.
“Who’d pay for movies you can easily see for free on Netflix or even YouTube?”
Mama turned to me from the other side of the car, lifting her hand over her eyes. “It’s all about the experience. Where else could you get to see one of those movies on the big screen nowadays?”
This was true, and because I was interested in checking out the inside of the theater, I suggested, “Whatta ya say after we drive around today and have some lunch we catch Grease on the big screen?”
“You’re on.” Mama said with a wink. “Now that’s the spirit. It’ll remind me of when I first saw it way back in the movie theater.”
“Oh, Mama, you’re not that old, are you?” I said, laughing.
“Shut your mouth.” She giggled. “That movie came out in the seventies. I was just a little girl.”
After driving around again through the neighborhood as she pointed out our old house, the dock at the lake where she said Madeline, Shelby, and I spent a lot of time, and then some of the other places I should remember, I was back to feeling depressed. None of it sparked any kind of memory.
We ate at an old diner she said I used to really enjoy. While we were eating, one of the waitresses, not ours, approached our table. “I thought I recognized you,” she said, smiling at me. “Maggie, right?”
I nodded, glancing at Mama, who was staring at her as vacantly as I felt about who she might be. I had no clue who she was, but I nodded.
She smiled big as if I should remember her. “How’ve yo
u’ve been? I’m so sorry about your sister. I wanted to reach out, but I was in such shock over it all I didn’t even know what to say. But I did send flowers. I’m so sorry.” She shook her head. “Such a tragedy.”
“Thank you, uh . . .” Mama peered at her name tag. “Jenna?”
“Yeah,” she turned, smiling, a bit puzzled. “You remember me, don’t you, Ms. Hellman?” She turned to me. “I lived right up the—”
“Maggie lost her memory in the accident, Jenna. She never did regain it, so she doesn’t remember anyone.”
Jenna’s jaw dropped as if she had no idea, which was odd, given how Mama said the accident really rocked the town. I’d imagined she’d heard about my memory loss, but I supposed she might’ve forgotten that detail. “I had no—”
“No worries, dear,” Mama said, waving her hand in front of her. “Now, do you mind getting us refills on our drinks?”
When Jenna walked away, Mama rolled her eyes then made a face like she’d explain later. When Jenna was back with our drinks, she’d barely set them down. “Thanks, Jenna. It was good to see you. Have a wonderful day.”
It wasn’t until we were in the car that Mama explained why she’d been so dismissive of Jenna. “The girl was the town gossip. I don’t believe for a second she didn’t know you’d lost your memory. If I’d admitted to remembering her, no doubt she would’ve grilled us for all the details of what became of you.” And that was that.
We arrived at the theater where Grease was playing, and my insides immediately did the same thing they’d done the first time I’d seen the entrance to my high school. It’d done it again today when we drove by; though I still couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly. It was that same strange feeling that, somehow, I knew I’d been there before.
I stopped in the middle of the lobby and glanced around. Mama eyed me cautiously. “Remember anything?” she asked. “I didn’t bring you here very much, but I think you girls came in here often on your own.”