The fluorescent hospital lights are gone. I’m back in the darkness of my childhood bedroom, the blades of the ceiling fan cutting through the silence.
“Steven, come on. The cows wait for no one,” Dad calls from the hallway.
My watch reads just past 6 a.m. Still in my boxers, I jump out of bed and tear down the hall. Dad’s already downstairs when I barrel past him into the kitchen and dive for the stack of photo albums.
“Whoa, what’s the rush?” Dad asks, zipping up his coat. “And where are your pants?”
“One second,” I mutter, flipping frantically through the pages. I find the one I want and shove the rest aside. “Here—here it is!” I’m vibrating with excitement as I thrust the photo between Dad’s face and mine. Back and forth, back and forth.
“What am I—”
“I remembered!” I shout. “I remembered!”
Dad’s eyes search mine cautiously then the photo. But when he realizes, they go misty, and his face lights up as he pulls me into a hug. “Tell me everything.”
I pace the room, still in my underwear, spilling every detail. The lights. The way the room smelled like a mix of iron and disinfectant. How my legs were freezing, but my arms burned from holding Emma up. How she looked…strong but exhausted, resilient, anxious. How squishy and beautiful and perfect Josie was. How the photo of Emma holding the baby looks exactly like what I remember in my head.
“She was born at 5:22 in the morning,” I say, slumping into a chair.
Dad sits across from me, glowing. “It’s like you’re telling me all over again.”
I sigh, elated, rubbing my sternum as warmth and a lightness I haven’t felt since the accident washes over me.
“Ah!” Shayna suddenly appears, shrieking. “Where are your pants?” She shields her eyes as she hurries past me and into the kitchen.
“Calm down,” I groan, too happy and weightless forher dramatics to faze me.
“So, what are you going to do?” Dad asks, pushing himself up and heading for the back door.
“I guess keep working on the rest of the memories?” I stand.
“If that’s what you think is best.” He gestures to the coveralls hanging by the door. “Why don’t you do it while you feed the herd, huh?”
The pride and elation from the dream carry me swiftly through the morning chores. I don’t even flinch when I step in manure, or when the hay bales are heavier than usual, or when I nearly trip heading back to the house.
Inside, Mom and my sisters sit around the table with coffee and muffins, the newspaper, and a photo album open between them.
“Remember this?” Tamara giggles.
“Oh my gosh,” Jay gasps.
“You both hated those outfits,” Mom adds. Her eyes are warm and focused,here.She’s here today. My joy swells, thinking of all the things I want to tell her while she is.
I sit with them as they flip pages, waiting for my chance, but Jay takes this opportunity to tell Mom about my accident first, to which Mom responds with horror. I reassure her over and over that I’m okay, I’m safe, but all morning, she reaches out to touch my hand or my arm, checking that I’m real. Then she goes back to smiling and laughing like she used to, and I find myself doing the same, touching her just to make sure this isn’t a dream.
“So, what are you going to do?” Mom asks once we’re alone, playing checkers, after I filled her in.
“I’m not sure,” I say, jumping two of her pieces.
She tsks me and the pile of her captured pieces I’m hoarding. “How dare you treat your mother that way.”
I laugh as she then jumps two of mine. “I told Dad I’m going to keep working on my memories. Maybe start from the beginning. Maybe hold all of your photos hostage.”
“Doesn’t Emma have albums?”
Fair question. Why wouldn’t I want to do all this at home?
“She does. But you have copies, so…I’ve got everything I need here.”
