Jane was walking toward Adam’s dorm. She had thought of going to her house—of running home to Mom, and whatever comfort she might be offered—but she couldn’t bear to see the Hall house, next door, and the chance of meeting Mrs. Hall again. She had to figure out her next move, to prove that Kamala was behind the Liv Danger posts. But she needed to eat her lunch off Adam’s meal plan; she didn’t have much cash. Near the dorm entrance—which she planned to walk past and use the window into Adam’s room, as she usually did—stood a young man, late twenties, smiling uncertainly at her, walking to intercept her, calling her name.
“Aren’t you Jane Norton?” His accent was soft, not quite British, something else. He stepped a bit closer to her, still smiling. Dark skin and hair, bright smile. Handsome.
“Yes,” she said. Bracing herself.
“Hi. I’m Kevin Ngota.” He offered his hand but she didn’t shake it. After a moment he lowered his hand but he didn’t look offended.
“Am I supposed to know you?” She studied his face. It was disconcerting when people she might have gone to school with but not known well came up to her. Sometimes it felt like they were testing her, trying to catch her in a lie.
“We’ve never met, but I know who you are. I’m doing a graduate thesis in counseling here at Saint Michael’s. My particular interest is in memory recovery after accidents.”
“And of course you’d pick today to talk to me.” She turned and walked away. Fast.
Kevin Ngota hurried along beside her. “Yes. Because I thought today might be difficult, so you’d be open to a new approach.”
“Please leave me alone.”
“I believe I can be of help to you…”
At that she stopped. “Oh, thank goodness. My hero. You’re who I’ve been waiting for. Everyone else has tried to fix me and has failed. But, hurray, here you are.” She threw up her hands in celebration.
“I mean no offense. My understanding was you are not currently seeing a therapist.”
She took a step back. “So a counselor and a stalker. You’re a double threat.”
“No, no, I just asked around. I’ve never done this before. I’m botching it quite badly and I truly do want to help you.” He had a charming smile. Jane could see that but was not swayed by it.
“I’m not interested.”
“Talking it through could prompt memories…”
“And by that you mean it would give you quotes for your master’s thesis.” She turned away and then stopped, turned back to face him. “How do you even know about me?”
“I learned about your accident when I started looking for people in Austin who had traumatic amnesia. ‘The Girl Who Doesn’t Remember.’ I read those articles.”
“Yeah, not a fan of those stories. Matteo Vasquez got addicted to that headline.”
“Well, I read his articles on you. I learned you were a student here.”
“You can understand why I don’t want to talk about this. I think it’s unethical that you approached me.” She had found that nearly any shrink or doctor flinched, automatically, at an accusation of being unethical. It would normally deflect them and put them on the defensive, and then she got her way.
“It’s only unethical if you’re currently seeing a therapist, and you’re not. I honestly believe I could be of help to you. Your friend, Adam, he told me that you were no longer in therapy. This could be a new start for you.” Kevin handed Jane a note with his e-mail and phone number. “Think about it. It’s just you talking and me listening.”
Adam. Trying to help, and making things worse. She appreciated everything he did for her but sometimes she wished he’d just back off. “What, so your ears are better than anyone else’s? The doctors said if I haven’t gotten all the memories back by now, I’ll probably never remember.”
“That might be true of a physical cause. But yours could be an emotional block, because of losing your friend, and the period of your lost memories begins soon before your father’s death. Many amnesiacs regain those lost memories. In London I successfully worked with a man who had lost ten years. You only lost three years.”
He managed to make her condition sound mild, and normally she would have gotten angry, but now she laughed. After her morning with Perri Hall and Kamala Grayson, she laughed.
Bolstered by her smile, he continued: “And the memories could return if you’re emotionally repressing them, Jane. It might not be the physical damage. Wouldn’t you want to know?”
“I don’t remember,” she said, her voice flat as stone. “You can pretend my memories are going to pop back into place, but they haven’t. They won’t.”
He lowered his voice. “Jane, people said the crash was an attempt to kill both yourself and David Hall. Because of this note, in your handwriting, that was found in the debris. That you must have written it earlier that evening and then acted upon it.”
She stared at the ground. She could just walk away, but she had to find a way to discourage him. “I obviously have no memory of writing that note. No matter what anyone else suggests.”
“That’s still OK, Jane.” Kevin Ngota used her name, again and again, like it was a tip he’d gotten from a book, to create a connection. “We could try a range of approaches. You could talk about the experience of not remembering. How your amnesia affects your life, your choices…”
“There’s nothing you could do for me.”
“Hope is scary, isn’t it? It can crush you as much as lift you up.”
She didn’t answer.
“Contact me if you would like to try.”
What was she going to do after she proved it was Kamala harassing her? What was the next step in life? Couldn’t she try again? It wasn’t like her calendar was full. “Sure. I’ll try.”
The bell tower chimed noon. He didn’t make a big show of her saying yes. Mr. Persistent had turned into Mr. Cool.
“Three o’clock today, will that work? I’m in Fletcher Hall, room two-eleven.”
“Today I went to my friend’s grave. I went to the crash site. There were…people there who don’t like me at all. They still blame me. They think it wasn’t an accident. One of them tried to hurt me. The other is smearing me online.” As soon as she said it, she knew she sounded paranoid, she could hear the insistent fear in her words.
Kevin Ngota’s smile had narrowed. “Then let’s talk about that, if you like.”
She nodded. And then he turned and walked away.
If you like. Maybe she’d go, maybe she wouldn’t.
Jane pulled herself through the window into Adam’s room. He was at class or at lunch. She lay down on the bed, and Kevin Ngota’s words sent her to shivering.
Hope is scary, isn’t it? What could he know, with his nice smile and his intact brain, his sense of self never disturbed, about hopelessness?
She took off the sunglasses. She put them carefully on Adam’s side table and put her arm across her face. Beautiful darkness. No one looking at her. No one pointing.
No one blaming.
Jane opened her eyes.
Hope. Hope can crush you.
7
Jane’s Book of Memory, written in the
days and weeks following the crash