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Lakin: Now
My fingers stall over the laptop keyboard. My hands are trembling.
Where did that come from?
I never remembered Cam saying that to me in the hospital before.
He has to pay.
“It’s not real,” I say out loud, so I can reiterate it, so I can believe it.
Memories are tangling. I’m filling in blanks. A writer tends to do that—to create the best story possible in place of fact.
I delete the page and yank the USB drive from my laptop, then clip it to the fob on my key ring. I don’t want to read that passage again.
Then I do something I’m ashamed of, but that I’ve done too many times before. I pull up my Facebook app and type Cam’s name into the search.
The deeply buried psychologist in me detests social media. That’s why I don’t have a personal account. I have one for my pen name that I only use to cross post to my author page when my publisher needs me to update fans.
For thousands of years, people have lived without documenting their daily lives. I wonder how the younger generations will fair later in life with a constant reminder of every single day of their existence. When the pop-up pic displays, showing each day with a happy memory—because most people only post the happy ones. Not the truth.
The pic taken with the bestie in front of a wine bar, all smiles, was also the day that you discovered your boyfriend sleeping with another woman. Or the day your parent died. Or the day you railed on a coworker, saying horrible things. Or the day you did some despicable thing that you’d rather forget…
But your timeline won’t let you.
Humans were designed to forget. Our brains are not meant to retain every day of our lives. It’s the only way we can come to terms with and reconcile our past; accept the life we’ve lived.
The brain as a whole compared to a computer is supposed to have faulty memory chips. That’s how we’re able to move on.
I scroll through the profiles until I find her. I knew Cam moved to West Melbourne a while ago, but…
A breath lodges in my throat, strangled at the base of my neck. I force myself to breathe past the constriction.
Cameron’s most recent post shows her engaged in a loving embrace with her husband, Elton, his arms wrapped around her swollen belly. The post proudly states: We’re pregnant!
I stare at her smile, perfect, bright, and wonder what worries lurk behind her happy image, if it’s a facade. What memory will Cam recall when this pic resurfaces a year from now?
I close the app and set my laptop and phone aside on the sofa. Rhys is still down at the hotel coffee shop, so I indulge in the few minutes I have alone. I head to the bathroom, where I stand before the full-length mirror. I place my hands over my stomach, the pads of my fingers instinctually connecting with the beveled scars beneath my shirt.
Ten stab wounds. One deep laceration. Overkill is the term Detective Dutton used. It only takes one perfectly placed knife to the heart to kill…and yet my attacker didn’t go for the kill.
They went for pain.
Majority of the wounds were inflicted to my abdomen. During the many operations to keep my newly revived life afloat, my uterus and ovaries were removed, along with part of my intestinal track. Damaged beyond repair, is what the surgeon had told me when I became conscious.
I allow myself one moment to feel the pain, then drop my hands.
In college, I had proclaimed that I didn’t want kids. Like many young women, I had no real clue what I wanted. But to have the decision made for me…to be stripped of the chance…the choice…
That’s a wound that will never heal.
The room door opens, and I cross to the sink and turn on the tap. Cold water flows over my heated palms. I splash my face, waking myself from the past, chasing the bitter nausea away.
“You get enough writing in?” Rhys asks from the room.
“I did. Thanks.” I find it difficult to write around others. Rhys knows I’m easily distracted and do my best work alone, and though not easily swayed, he agreed to give me half an hour to myself in compromise to my sharing his room.
I should’ve used that time to work on Joanna’s story. Instead, some needy part of me craved to open my book. Maybe it was the fact that Joanna didn’t have many friends that made me desire to revisit Cam, to dissect that moment between us in my hospital room.
