I double-check my search, because the list of results that comes up is almost identical to the one displayed when I searched my own name. It’s as if the accident was the point of intersection where our lives converged, when they otherwise wouldn’t have.
I read every article, watch every news clip I can find, and each one offers almost the same details—that he was bringing a boat into the harbor, saw the accident, and jumped in to help. They all use the same pictures, mostly blurry screen captures from the video clip. One article has a different shot, though. It’s of a gurney being loaded onto an ambulance, presumably with me on it, but it’s hard to tell. There’s a small crowd of people in the background, and I zoom in, searching for a glimpse of Walker. I find Matt, sitting on the ground with one of those shiny silver blankets around his shoulders as a paramedic examines something on his arm. I scan the rest of the photo for Walker but don’t see him anywhere at first. I’m about to give up when I spot him at the very edge of the shot. He stands alone, off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, wet clothes clinging to him. Watching the gurney as it’s being loaded into the ambulance.
And that’s it.
There are a few follow-up stories that mention an investigation into what caused the accident, but that’s all. There’s nothing else about Walker anywhere. No interviews, not one quote from him. No social media pages, or tagged photos. Nothing.
Like until the night of the accident, he didn’t exist.
NINE
THE NEXT MORNING, I find my mom bent over the dining room table, in the same clothes she was wearing yesterday.
“Did you stay up all night?”
She jumps, then turns around, hand on her chest, and I can tell by the bags under her eyes that the answer is probably yes.
“You scared me,” she says. “I didn’t even hear you come down the stairs.”
“I’m stealthy,” I say, walking stiffly over to the table. “What are you doing?”
She turns back to the table and puts her hands on her hips. “I pulled everything out last night and started putting it in chronological order, but then I ended up looking through it all. Kind of taking my own trip down memory lane, I guess.” She smiles, but she looks exhausted. “Maybe it’s time for a break. And some coffee.”
“Do I drink coffee now?”
“No,” she says. “Not anything I count as coffee, anyway.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat before you take your antibiotics.”
We walk into the kitchen and she goes to the refrigerator. “Did you sleep okay? Better than in the hospital?” She pours a glass of juice and slides it across the kitchen island to me, and I sit down on one of the stools.
I take a sip, and the images that played over and over in my mind all night—of the black water, and Matt, and Walker, and my body on the deck of his boat—flash through my mind. “I slept great,” I say, as brightly as I can. I don’t bring up the video, and neither does she.
She reaches over and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Anything come back? Now that you’re home?”
I look down at the counter. “Nothing that I don’t already remember from before,” I answer, feeling the failure in my response.
“That’s okay,” she says gently. “It’s probably just going to take some time.”
Neither of us raises the other possibility, that maybe it won’t come back at all, but I’m certain we can both feel it, hovering in the air above us.
My mom doesn’t let it hover long. “So Sam and Dad are at work already. I’ve done everything humanly possible to get someone to cover my workshop today, but no one is available, so I have to go in—just for a few hours.” She looks at me, apology written all over her face. “Will you be okay here alone? Maybe I should just cancel it.”
“Don’t do that,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
“Are you really sure? I hate to leave you at all on your first day home. Maybe you should invite Paige to come over. So you’re not alone.”
“It’s my second day home. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I don’t need a babysitter.” She looks at me carefully, and I can tell she’s still on the fence. “Didn’t Dr. Tate say something about getting back to our lives? I think that was supposed to include you too.”
I say this to make her feel better about leaving—because a big part of me wants her to go so I can be alone here, in our house. So that I can examine it like I did my room, without anyone watching.
She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “You’re right.” She looks at her watch. “Shoot. I don’t even have time to shower. You sure you’ll be okay? Really. I can just cancel. People would understand.”
“Mom. I’ll be fine. Go. I’m still pretty tired, so I’ll probably just rest most of that time anyway.”
She nods and glances at the dining room table, where the yearbooks and photos are all laid out neatly. She’s even labeled them with a different-colored Post-it for each year.
“And if I get bored, I have those to look through,” I add.
She seems reassured, even encouraged, by this, so I don’t tell her that going through years of memories I don’t have is something I’d really rather do on my own. For the first time, anyway. Like watching the video.
“Okay,” she says, nodding like she’s trying to give herself the final push to believe her answer. “But if you need anything, or if something happens, you call me—oh! That reminds me. Your dad went out last night and got you a new phone.” She smiles. “You have the nicest one of all of us now,” she says, crossing the kitchen to the counter next to the fridge. She unplugs a sleek silver iPhone and grabs the shopping bag next to it, then brings them to me.
“Here you go. He set it up already. It’s got our numbers and Sam’s, Paige’s, and . . . and Matt’s—just in case.” She pauses. “It’s a new number, so nobody but Dad and Sam and I have it yet. That way you won’t . . . get any unwanted calls.”
The way she says it makes me think that she’s not just talking about Matt. I think of the way Dad’s phone rang off the hook during dinner last night, and then of the card from Dana Whitmore, with her number on it, stashed in my dresser drawer.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the phone from her.
She eyes me carefully. “Do you . . . remember how to use it?”
I look down at it in my hand. As far as I remember, this is the first one I’ve ever had. Not that I don’t know how to work it. I flash on a memory of playing with the one Paige got as a gift for eighth-grade promotion. I remember the quiet envy I’d felt because my parents still were still digging in their heels about getting me one. I click the home button, and the screen appears. “Yes,” I say quietly. “Thank you,” I add, scrolling through my five contacts.