But not really. Sydney slept in this same bed. He stared up at this same poster. I flew more than three thousand miles and I’m still in his shadow.
I look away from the poster, open my bag, and start unpacking. With no idea how long a trip this would be, or where it would lead, I figured a week’s worth of clothes would suffice. I slide my blazer off, hang it up in the closet. It’s not unlike the Ted Baker suit jacket that Joan mentioned Syd wearing on one of his visits.
I remember when Syd first modeled the suit for me in our bedroom. Distinguished was the word, the way it complemented his salt-and-pepper beard and silver temples.
I can specifically recall his Ted Baker suit only because Syd had such a limited wardrobe. His closet was as barren as a SoHo boutique. I envied his restraint. I also loathed it. It only highlighted my clutter.
I try to recall more about that particular day. Try to visualize Sydney posing in front of our floor mirror, but the picture’s too blurry. That one day doesn’t stand out from the others. Nothing abnormal or extraordinary happened. It was just a regular day and those are the easiest to forget.
And now I’m doing it again, allowing myself to be sucked into the past. For what purpose? It’s true there’s a brief thrill that comes with digging up what’s been lost, like the strange joy one feels when poking a tender wound. But when the thrill passes, the wound still remains.
7
The next morning, after I’ve written down twenty good song titles, like “Time Traveling” and “A Song to Dance To,” and after I’ve filed down my crooked pointer nail so that my chords sound smoother, and after I’ve hopped onto the computer to check where the walrus is swimming (Hilton Head, South Carolina), I walk into the kitchen and see Mom and Gavin sitting at the table.
I slap my journal down so everybody knows I’m here and I open the cabinet because I’m thinking it’s another English muffin day.
“Gavin bought bagels,” Mom says.
Gavin reaches into a paper bag and pulls out a fat bagel. “Your mom said you only like plain.”
I can’t lie, it feels pretty exciting that Gavin knows which kind of bagel I eat. I give him a thank-you nod and pop one bagel half in the toaster oven. I notice Mom touching my journal and I grab it off the table.
“Relax,” Mom says. “I was just looking at it.”
I take the journal with me to the bathroom. As I’m leaving the room, I hear them talking about me.
“Ever since Arizona she’s been keeping a diary,” Mom says. “She goes through a new notebook every month. Apparently it’s pretty common for people with her condition.”
The doctor I saw in Arizona, Dr. M, says I’m the only kid he’s ever heard of who has highly superior autobiographical memory, or HSAM. The rest are grown-ups, about thirty of them, and Dr. M thinks that makes me pretty special. Most of the time I don’t feel special, just lonely. I’d rather everyone in the world have HSAM, especially my parents and my friends, so we could all see the same memories.
When I’m finished in the bathroom, I stop in the hallway because they’re still talking about me. “I remember Syd saying you were reluctant to have her see someone,” Gavin says.
“It’s true,” Mom says. “But I’m glad we did it. It’s just now we have to deal with all the phone calls.”
“Phone calls?”
“I made a mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we got back from Arizona after Joan was diagnosed, I posted something about it on Facebook. It was an innocent thing. I was just relieved to finally have a name for what she had. But then the study she took part in was published and HSAM started getting attention in the news, and even though they never released her name, I guess someone found my post online. Suddenly strangers were trying to friend me and I was getting random phone calls from universities, pharmaceutical companies, you name it. It’s still out of control.”
It’s true our phone rings a lot, but I never knew those calls were about me. Mom said it was people trying to sell us stuff we don’t need.
“I wish I’d handled it better,” Mom says. “Ollie and I just want her to have a normal life.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Gavin says. “She’ll be fine. There’s no such thing as normal anyway.”
It gets quiet for a minute so I come back into the kitchen and rush over to the toaster before my bagel burns. I take a seat at the table next to Gavin and I realize I’ve never once sat next to a person who’s been on TV.
Gavin looks at me. “I like your outfit.”
Mom thinks I dress like a gypsy. I hate wearing the same thing twice because it reminds me of another day when I wore the same thing and then I get stuck thinking about that day instead of living the day I’m in. Since Mom doesn’t want to keep buying me new clothes, I have to come up with different versions of the stuff I already have. Today I’m wearing a T-shirt that I’ve worn before (June 11, a Tuesday, when I smeared almond butter on it at lunch), but I’ve never worn it with this black vest (April 26, movie Friday) and these jean shorts (June 24 and June 25). But it’s okay because Dad says the guitarist for the Rolling Stones looks like a gypsy, and he’s a rock god.
I notice that Gavin is wearing the same bracelet Sydney used to wear. Now he’s looking down at my plate. “No butter or cream cheese?”
“I hate cream cheese.”
I want to tell him why I hate it—because it smells like shit—but I’m not sure how Gavin feels about cursing. Dad’s rule about cursing is this: If it’s been in a song, it’s okay, as long as the song is good. Bob Dylan and Pink Floyd say shit in good songs, and Johnny Cash says son of a bitch in a good song, and John Lennon says the worst curse in a great song called “Working Class Hero.”
Mom slurps the rest of her coffee, which she has in a travel mug even though she’s not traveling anywhere. She picks up Gavin’s regular mug and says, “More coffee?”
Gavin is busy with his phone. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
He stands up and he’s wearing shorts and the hair on his legs doesn’t have a color, which is spooky. He opens the front door and walks down to the studio.
The bagel on Gavin’s plate has only one small bite in it and Mom takes it away so she can make room on the table for her big textbooks, which means she’s got students coming today. You would think she loved kids because she spends so much time with them, but actually she gets very annoyed when we’re out somewhere like a restaurant and there are kids around. She’s always talking about needing more adult time.
What I need today is writing time, so I stand up and grab my journal.
“Excuse me,” Mom says. “You left your plate.”
I guess she was pretending to be my waitress only for yesterday and now she’s ready for everything to go back to normal, which is okay by me if it means Dad will keep the studio and we won’t be going on any vacations. But the way she’s smiling I don’t think she’s ever going to shut up about Costa Rica until we’re on the plane and the lady tells us to put away our iPods for takeoff.
“Where are you going?” Mom says.
“Downstairs.”