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I look at her. “Are you saying it’s Trisha’s fault that I almost drowned? That she drowned?”
She touches my cheek. “Sweetheart, it was no one’s fault. It was an accident, okay? That’s what this is, an accident. It’s not a crime. The fact that someone’s making a case out of it is absurd.”
“But we don’t know for sure that it’s an accident, right?” I tell her. “At least, I don’t.”
I cross my arms over my chest and walk to the window.
“I still don’t remember exactly what happened that night, after all. And maybe I never will.”
I look up at the night sky. The nearly full moon gleams like a silver plate in the midst of a dark tapestry.
If only the moon could talk, maybe it could tell me what happened that night.
“Maybe you can,” my mother says softly.
“Can what?”
“Remember.”
I turn around. “What do you mean?”
She sits on the edge of the bed. “Years ago, after you had… problems with your memory, I started doing a bit of research. I found out that memories are actually never lost. Some people just have a hard time retrieving them. And some of them manage to succeed through hypnosis.”
My eyebrows furrow. “Hypnosis?”
“I was able to get in touch with a hypnotherapist. He was confident he could help you recover your repressed memories. I was about to invite him over, but that day, for the first time, I saw you smile while you were out in the garden, and then I thought it was better if you didn’t remember.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you saying you could have helped me remember what happened but you didn’t?”
So all this time that I’ve been agonizing over questions regarding the past, I could have had answers?
“You weren’t ready to remember, Cathy,” my mom tells me. “And then you started moving forward and I thought it was unnecessary, that maybe it was a blessing in disguise that you didn’t remember.”
“A blessing in disguise? Mom, you have no idea how many times I felt so broken just because I couldn’t remember how Trisha died, or how many times I thought I was a failure because I couldn’t remember my best friend’s final words.”
“Would that really have helped you?” She stands up. “Cathy, you were already living in the past, in the dark. You were already suffering so much.”
“Because I couldn’t remember!”
“So you’re saying if you remembered, you wouldn’t have suffered more?”
I don’t answer. I can’t give her the answer she wants. I can’t say that knowing how Trisha died wouldn’t have made it hurt more, or that remembering the last time I saw her, the last things she said to me, wouldn’t have made me even more reluctant to let go of her. But years have passed. I’m stronger now.
“Even if you did remember, it wasn’t going to bring Trisha back. Whether or not you remembered, you’d still have been lost and broken because you lost your best friend.”
“I know that,” I tell her. “I know that getting my memories back isn’t going to bring her back. I know that this hole in my heart is not because of what I can’t remember. Still, I want to remember. I want to know how I lost my best friend.”
Maybe I didn’t want to in the beginning, but I do now. I want to remember everything.
My mother sighs. “Fine. It seems the only way for you to believe that you’re not responsible for Trisha’s death is for you to remember what happened.”
My eyes grow wide. So she’ll help me remember?
She grabs my hand.
“Come back to bed. Tomorrow, I’ll call that hypnotherapist.”
~
“Now, close your eyes, Cathy,” the hypnotherapist tells me in a clear but gentle voice.
I obey.
“Take a deep breath and relax. Picture your heart slowing down. Picture your muscles becoming loose and limp. Let yourself drift away. Imagine your mind as a vessel, a glass becoming empty of every thought. Now, bring yourself back to the lake. Tell me, what does it look like?”
“Black,” I answer. “It’s dark. I can barely see it.”
“What do you see?”
“The moon. It’s a full moon, but it’s hiding behind some clouds.”
“Do you see Trisha?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“Beside me. She’s wearing a turtleneck and a tank top. Black. The turtleneck is white and the tank top is black. Her hair is loose. Her hand is tucked into the pocket of her jeans. She’s wearing her charm bracelet.”
“What is she doing?” the voice asks.
“She’s standing. She’s smiling. Wait, she’s talking to someone.”
“A boy? A girl?”
“A boy. A boy in an orange sweater. Orange like marmalade. He’s smiling at her. He’s touching his chin.”
“Do you talk to this boy?”
“No. I go into the water. It’s cold, but I keep going.”
“Where is the water up to now?”
“My knees. My waist. I bend my knees and the water goes up to my shoulders. It’s cold.”
