Page 60 of All The Ways to Miss You

When she closes the door with her foot and crosses to the kitchen, I toss the pillow aside and stand. She settles the box on the counter and continues with her squeaky fast-talk.

“Your cousin was really cool, well, mostly weird. Seriously, she kind of scares the bejesus out of me. How are you related? The good news is she told me what I needed to know. Doesn’t matter. I’ll continue to pretend I know nothing until you’re ready to talk about it. It’s fine. I’m fine with it. Okay? Okay.” She releases an exaggerated breath.

I can tell she was nervous to confess, but now that it’s out, I release my own pent-up breath and cross the room.

“Really?” I ask. When she nods, I give her a hug, squeezing her slight frame. She grabs my hands in hers when I withdraw.

“What happened to you sucks donkey balls, and I get why you aren’t exactly eager to talk about it.”

“Thank you.” My eyes water. I find unexpected relief in the fact that she knows, and she’s not freaking out about it. She’s not even looking at me the way everyone else does when they find out. That awful pity face. In fact, she looks—intrigued?

She releases my hands. “Can you show me your scars? I bet they’re badass.” She playfully lifts my T-shirt, but I smack her hand away.

“We’ll see, stalker.” I laugh.

Aggie finds a knife in a drawer and returns. The blade gleams shiny and silver under the lights. Before she slits open the taped seam on the box, she asks, “You want the honors?”

“Can I really tell you to back off when you have a knife in your hand?”

“Good call. It might get bloody.” She waves it around with a flourish before plunging her sword into the packing tape. She saws at the seam from left to right, and the top pops open. She sets the knife aside, reaches inside the box and removes an item. Curious, she pinches her brows tight.

“An old sock turned inside out?” She looks at me for verification.

I lift my hands and shrug. I have no explanation.

She accepts this, but then proceeds to smell it. “It reeks.” Scrunching her face in disgust, she tosses it aside.

“Let me see this.” I slide the box closer. Tipping it forward, I peer in.

It’s filled with things I’ve never seen. I groan with irritation as I rifle through the random contents when I understand what this is—a test.

By giving me mementos, my parents hope I’ll find something of myself in them. That looking, touching, and holding them will trigger old memories. They’ve tried this before, several times. It’s an old tactic that rarely works.

Disinterested, I close the box and shove it away. I return to the couch and pick up my dinner. It’s turning cold, and I need to eat another plate of carbs before the night is over.

“Really?” Aggie gives me an incredulous look. “A random box of crap appears, and you have nothing to say?”

“You were right; it’s from my parents. They want me to remember.” I take a heaping bite of spaghetti and chew.

She appears disappointed. This strangely unnerves her. Or this proves she’s normal, because no one can learn about my memory loss without offering a suggestion on how to resolve it. It might be human nature, but it’s annoying.

Aggie jumps up and slams cabinet doors open and closed, looking for something. Her mind seems to have zagged to a new topic, which is fine by me.

But a few moments later, I halt in midchew when she asks, “Where are my Milano cookies?”

twenty-seven

To make amends, I promise Aggie five new bags of cookies. She argues for ten, plus I have to join her and Lou on the next three outings—no excuses.

Though it makes me nervous, I give in. I owe these two, and the more I know them, the more I find myself enjoying their company. Maybe it could be my new goal, to lower my walls and invite them in. After tonight, I have hope.

After Aggie leaves, I pick up the cardboard box and carry it to my room. I place it on my bed, biting on a fingernail as I stare at it. I should leave this alone, considering how early I need to wake for the race, but I’ve been questioning the contents ever since I saw them. I feigned disinterest for Aggie’s sake, because this is something I need to do by myself.

Still unsure of my course, I turn away to get ready for bed. I change into my pajamas but can’t help but stare at the box. I brush my teeth while staring at the box. I do three sets of jumping jacks and stare at the stupid box.

Finally, I release a frustrated groan and climb into the center of the bed. The mattress dips beneath my knees as I settle. With legs crossed, I tug the box close, flip open the top, and peek inside. Looking at the items, I find them no less perplexing.

I remove each mystery item one by one and spread them out before me. It’s easier this way—to inspect them without anyone watching and asking questions.