The Insistence of Memory

When I open my eyes, my gaze meets a washi window shade. Aglow with sunlight, it tells me I’m not at home. Even with this reminder, I need a moment to place myself. It’s been just over a week now, but I’m still not used to starting the day in Meora’s guest bedroom, under this thick orange comforter.

Once situated, I remember to turn off the alarm clock on the nightstand. Like all my mornings here, I’m awake before it’s gone off, and I have to make sure the alarm doesn’t start blaring while I’m in the kitchen. Meora needs her sleep more than ever. I reach over and press the button atop the alarm clock’s glowing numbers, then consider not setting the alarm anymore. So far, it has been an unnecessary measure to ensure that I’m up before she is, but I’ve continued to set the alarm because I imagine (often) that if I were in her situation, I would want someone available to explain why I can’t remember anything, to offer some reassurance—even if the note beside the lamp on the nightstand has eased the inevitable disorientation. Getting out of bed, I decide to decide at the end of the day, setting or not setting the alarm based on when I go to bed and how exhausted I am then.

I plod into the kitchen and start the coffeemaker, then combine familiar ingredients in a metal bowl: flour, eggs, milk, baking powder. I’ve held off on making pancakes for the past week, but at this point, I’ve had all the other breakfast foods the two of us enjoy—omelettes, oatmeal topped with berries, bagels and buttered toast with jam. This morning, I want soft, fluffy pancakes drizzled with maple syrup, and as expected, I’m now confronted by the exact reason I’ve been avoiding them: memories of breakfasts with Lumina, vivid in my mind’s eye as I mix the ingredients in the bowl with a wooden spoon. I made her so many pancakes, her favorite comfort food, and the last time I made them for her was the last time I saw her, a time when I had a role like this one: caregiver to a convalescent.

When I did all the errands she wouldn’t. When I made sure she had hearty meals every day so she wouldn’t binge on chips or cookies. When that wasn’t enough and her psyche lost its grip on this world and slipped into another—when I saw her gazing quizzically at me from her sofa and knew it was no longer her there on those mossy corduroy cushions. When I felt betrayed and abandoned, despite knowing that no matter how close, a friendship cannot prevent heartbreak—can at best only forestall it.

Those final days with Lumina seem so recent, their visceral imprint on my being fresh as ever while I stir the contents of the bowl, the mixture turning thick and sticky, the spoon straining against the growing viscosity. I look out the window above the counter, casting my gaze up into the pale winter sky and wondering where in the vastness of the universe Lumina is now.

Once the batter has a smooth consistency, I ladle some into a small bowl for myself then get Meora’s memory suppressant from the cupboard. I shake a single blue capsule from the orange pharmacy bottle into my palm, then smile at the fanciful thought that I could take another for myself, for a respite from thoughts of Lumina and the entirety of the past. Of course, it remains just a thought, and I place the bottle on the counter. Holding the capsule over the metal bowl, I twist apart the two halves, and its powdery contents spill on to the beige, glistening batter. With the spoon, I swirl the batter until the medication has vanished, like it did in the jam and cream cheese.

Picking up the pharmacy bottle to put it back in the cupboard, I notice how much lighter this little plastic container has become since last week. I jostle it and hear the light rattle of only a few more days’ worth of medication. An audible reminder that soon the responsibilities I must perform here will end. But while the exogenous memories continue integrating with her own, I’ll keep looking after Meora, getting treated like a stranger, which I sometimes prefer. She’s more considerate and attentive, on her best behavior—though never anxious, maybe because she feels something familiar (soothing?) about me. Or because my demeanor inspires trust. Perhaps because trusting her always came easy; it seems unnecessarily more work to doubt her ; why go through the trouble of being skeptical or suspicious—what would be gained?

I put away the remaining medication and pour some coffee into the white ceramic cup I’ve been using here. Sitting down at the kitchen table with the steaming coffee, I start in on the crossword puzzle at the back of yesterday’s newspaper.

When she finds me there, Meora does not startle at my presence. She takes the chair beside mine and once more, simply accepts the explanation I give for her amnesia.

“Only about half a week left now,” I add this time. “Then you can remember everything, and this discombobulation will be over.”

“Great. Thanks for helping me through this transition,” she says.

It sounds so formal, like something I’d hear at work.

“Maybe it’s good that you won’t remember any of this,” I muse. “Otherwise, you might feel awkward about these days later on.”

“Why? Is there something about us that makes this… ironic or peculiar?”

She folds her arms on the table.

“No, it’s just that we’re not normally like this when we’re together,” I answer. “I’m not usually micromanaging your daily life, making your meals, reminding you to brush your teeth or telling you that you already did.”

“That sounds rather parental, and obviously we don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“Right. I thought I’d be more of a lifeguard here, in the background watching you, but this has been more akin to childcare, and I don’t know how fondly you’ll look back on that.”

“What about you? You’ll remember all of this.”

“I will, but me remembering this is different. I won’t have the kind of perspective shift you would. It’s like when you’re a kid, too young to know better than to, oh let’s say run around without clothes on. Then later, when you’re older and wiser about social norms, you feel embarrassed about that, embarrassed for your naked younger self.”

“OK, I can see how the lack of embarrassing memories has advantages. Thanks to your interesting choice of example. Is it purely hypothetical? Have you seen me naked?”

“No, not recently. I mean, you still remember how to practice good hygiene. You just don’t remember whether you’ve showered or not, so sometimes in the evening I have to tell you to take a shower.”

“So you have seen me naked.”

“Well, we have spent many hours sweating in saunas together.”

“That sounds nice. I can imagine us in a sauna after all this, you telling me about these days in some sanitized way that doesn’t risk too much embarrassment.”

“I can picture that too, but it will never happen. I can’t tell you about this time in any way. Even a vague explanation could compromise the procedure. If you’re aware that you underwent a memory graft, you might become distrustful of your memories. Even if that happens only at an unconscious level, it could have serious consequences.”

“That makes sense. You must have told me that before.”

“I have,” I admit.

“So maybe it is [for the] best that I won’t [be able to] remember these days. They must be repetitive, full of me asking for the same explanations. Has that taken a lot of patience?”

“No, not really. Who you are without your episodic memories still piques my curiosity. I’ve never seen you or anyone in this… state, and it keeps surprising me.”

“Like how?”

“Oh, like how you’re never sure if you’ve ever eaten a particular food before—like nagaimo, okra, lychee or smoked salmon. Then once you’ve tasted that food or even just caught a whiff of it, you know. I’m guessing that’s because the experience of a food’s flavor and texture is pleasurable, and feels like it’s always been that way.”

“I can see how that would be interesting.”

“It is really eye-opening to see who you are when you’re not fully you—not as tethered to the past.”

“And soon you’ll see the opposite. Maybe your curiosity will be piqued by who I am when I’m tethered to a modified past.”

She leans towards me, the table creaking as her forearms press upon it.

“That’s supposed to be a better person, I assume,” she adds.

“Well, sort of. The graft is supposed to improve… your emotional state.”

“Tell me more. You can give me the full explanation, right? Because I won’t remember any of this. In like ten, twenty minutes, I’ll have no idea what we’ve been talking about.”

She must feel my reluctance because she quickly adds, “Have I asked you before? You know how I’ll react?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I’ll react differently this time. You said I keep surprising you.”

“Good point,” I answer, quieting the insistent thoughts that tell me her reaction has always been the same: dismay at what she finds out about her childhood.

She looks at me expectantly. I lift my cup and gulp the last of the coffee.

A moment later, the cup is back on the table, along with my hands which rest to either side of it, and I tell her, “The graft is a constellation of memories that inserts a childhood friend into your past.” The summary in its most succinct form yet.

“Sounds nice, though hardly necessary. Why would I need that? It seems cosmetic, like a beautification of my past.”

“Beauty can be a necessity. Everyone needs a beautiful friendship. It can be lonely going otherwise.”

“I can’t be that lonely. I have you, a sauna buddy willing—committed to see me through over a week of mandatory amnesia. Or is that just some fabrication? Are you just paid pose as someone I’ll trust so it’s easier to take care of me as I recuperate?”

“No, I’m definitely a fixture in your life now, but there’s little I can do about the unshakable loneliness of your childhood. You were a petulant kid, and that kept others at a distance. You’ve always held that against yourself.”

“So the idea is that this fictitious friend changes my idea of who I was as a child.”

“Yes. And spontaneously remembering her should remind you of early experiences with acceptance and validation.”

“Then ultimately… this new childhood friend makes me what, less insecure or rueful?”

“Her name is Lumina, and she imparts to your younger self a measure of patience and kindness, especially towards yourself. You play together after school in city parks and at her house. Sometimes on weekends, you sleep over there, and she shares with you her secrets.”

This is the story I now have for the intersection of my childhood with Lumina’s—a narrative synopsis of what had before seemed like an eternity together—and that story is timeless, always in the midst of happening.

Then, turning from the past to the future, I add, “She will give you greater faith in people.”

Gazing earnestly into mine, Meora’s eyes encourage me to say more. At their urging, I tell her what I’ve revealed only once before.

“I know she will. Because she’s the real deal. Lumina was my actual childhood friend. But now you need her more than I do. And really, I got lucky meeting someone like her. She would have liked you too.”

I wait for her to cry; to become sad that my childhood is now emptier; to feel undeserving of this portion of my life; to feel the way she never would if it weren’t for the medication. But her eyes don’t fill with tears. Instead, her arms unfold towards me, and she grips each of my hands in each of hers.

Is it because I’m closer to her this time—my proximity prompting her to take my hands—or are the memories taking hold, asserting themselves? The pressure on my palms and fingers seems like it could be coming from a fourth-grade Lumina, but I can’t remember if she ever squeezed my hands like this. What remains in my mind of Lumina as a child is mostly a schematic idea: the precocious kid from a stable family who all the teachers liked—a way of remembering her that’s estranged from who she later became.

“I’ll take care of your memories of her,” she assures me.

Good, I think, nodding. I couldn’t anymore.

My heart twinges with the envy that in Meora’s mind, Lumina will never grow up, never become disillusioned.

“Well, let’s have some breakfast,” I say. “Help me make some pancakes.”

And some new memories, my thoughts add.

“Of course,” she says, then looking at my empty cup adds, “You must be hungry.”

________

Fascinated by the ways in which the literary arts can serve as a mode of metacognition, Soramimi Hanarejima writes innovative fiction that explores the nature of thought and is the author of Visits to the Confabulatorium, a fanciful story collection that Jack Cheng said, “captures moonlight in Ziploc bags.” Soramimi’s recent work can be found in The Best Asian Speculative Fiction 2018, Book XI and The Esthetic Apostle.