“I met Daniel Grant in the spring of 1988.
He was wearing a stupid green jumper his mother had bought him for his birthday the same year. She was fixing his hair in front of the concert hall just as I walked past. He kept telling her to stop because it would ruin his reputation. It made me smile.
My mother was close to his mother, so they introduced us. To this day I think it was planned. Mothers know best, right? Even when they don’t.
I played my part. I behaved a bit too well. Then it was just the two of us.
He told me he could play better notes than the boy performing on stage. I told him he must have found a mighty opponent if he felt threatened by a six-year-old boy.
We laughed.
Then we kissed.
My first kiss.
My first love, too, I guess.
Back then I didn’t know what love was. Later, it became something else.
An accident.
An accidental bruise.
An accident that broke one of my ribs.
I was just falling down the stairs, right? Maybe it was my fault.
But he was perfect, Daniel Grant. And this is the memory I have of him.”
My gaze glides from the paper to the wall, and in a single breath the memories begin to return.
I had more happy memories than bad ones. I know I did. But the bad ones have a way of spreading. They seep into the good memories and stain them until that is all you can taste when you think back. A bitter taste that doesn’t fade. It just stays andsits heavily on your tongue until, little by little, everything else disappears. Until that bitterness is all that is left.
It is too early to forget, anyway. The taste of Daniel left behind still feels like poison, and it’s slowly spreading.
Another knock sounds at the door. I tilt my head toward it, hoping it is Dasha again.
Instead, a familiar face appears in the doorway, then another.
Martha and William Grant, Daniel’s parents.
William stands in the doorframe, his eyes moving across the room. His gaze settles on me, and he doesn’t move an inch, like I carry a plague. As if I wasn’t in the same car as his son. As if I didn’t survive the same accident.
Martha moves past him without hesitation.
She pulls the chair from the wall. The legs scrape softly against the floor as she drags it closer to the bed and sits beside me.
For a moment our eyes meet, then her gaze drops to her lap, as she reaches for my hand.
I close the notebook quickly and slide it beneath the blanket covering my legs.
“How are you, sweetie?” She asks.
Her hand trembles in mine. When she notices it, she pulls it away almost immediately and presses it against her mouth, trying to steady it.
“Better,” I say.
“Do you remember…?” She asks.
