I wake up with the feeling that I’m falling, fast and hard out of a dream. My body feels weak and underused, as if all I’d been doing my entire life was lying down and wasting away. My name is Eli, my favorite color is hunter green, my birthday is May 5th – Cinqo de Mayo. I sort of chant these facts over and over again to myself to keep the hysteria bubbling in my feet from erupting. I feel overwhelmingly lost, as if I’d waken up in another country during another time. I rack my brain for any understanding of where I am, why I’m there, who I’m with. I find nothing.

I’m supported by a mattress that is quite comfortable and familiar; my head nestled in a pillow filled with down feathers. The blankets covering my body are soft and plain in color, and I toss them aside as I swing my legs to stand up. The room is not too large, but not small. It’s painted blue, the nursery decals bordering the walls shoddily covered up by a thin layer of white. The floor is carpeted and the air smells roughly of chips and soda. Somehow I identify with all of it.
I step closer to the wooden dresser that matches the bed frame; it’s lined with papers and books. But what catches my eye is the pictures tacked to the board above the dresser – there’s so many of them. I recognize myself, partly because I’m basically wearing the same thing in each picture: a t-shirt jeans and sneakers. But I can’t place a lot of the people I’m with in the pictures. They’re strangers to me, yet I’m smiling like an idiot next to them.
There’s a picture in the center of the collage, but it’s different from the rest. It’s labeled, starting with me, Eli, and then it reads: Mom, Dad, Jonas –little brother, Heidi –older sister. We’re all smiles and linked arms in front of what looks like Disney world, and although I can’t recall ever visiting Disney world, I don’t know why this picture is labeled; of course I know who they are. It doesn't make sense.
I slam my fist into the wall next to the bulletin board in a flash of rage, surprised to see that a hole has already been made in the exact spot my fist has landed, molded to the shape of my hand. What?
The door swings open and I instantly recognize the voice before I turn around. “Eli, you’re awake. Wow, it’s pretty early for you.” It’s my mom, her voice as light and airy as the smile lighting up her face. Her easiness calms me a bit, making my anger subside. At least I know something.
“Why don’t you come down stairs? I’ll make pancakes for you.” She says, holding that genial smile steady on her face, as if everything was normal, as if I weren't on the verge of a mental breakdown.
“Sure.” I’m startled to hear the sound of my own voice. She smiles brighter in response before shutting the door.
I look back at the bulletin board, my brain running on overdrive, trying hard to place the people, the scenery, and the events that I was so happy to be a part of in the pictures. I must have stood there for ten minutes more. I couldn't pull anything out of my memory, other than my family.
And then, just after I sagged my shoulders in exhaustion, one particular girl caught my attention. It was just her and I in this one picture – I don’t know how I missed it before. We were hugging each other, our cheeks mushed together, silly smiles plastered on our faces. She was pretty – with smooth looking olive skin, long jet black hair, and deep brown eyes. Her name was Liv according to the label on the picture.
The more I looked at her, the more memories faded into my mind. She’s my best friend, and we've been friends for a really, really long time. I can remember so much of her – her love for Oreos and puppies, her fear of the dentist, her favorite shoes, but above all of it, I remember that I was secretly in love with her.
“Eli, pancakes are done!” My mother yells from the kitchen downstairs.
“Coming!” I yell back.

I take a quick glance back at the picture of Liv and I. There is something about the picture that makes my stomach grow sour, something that makes my heartbeat slow with anxiety. I can’t place it. But of course, I can’t place half of my life right now.











*


The pancakes are soggy, but I don’t complain. I know that they’ll taste alright, because I know that I’ve had them like this before, plenty of times. They’re soggy because my mom likes to drench them in maple syrup prior to serving them to me. She says it’s better that way, and I have no reason not to believe her.

“You know, today is your birthday.” She says nonchalantly as I sit at the dining table, stuffing the pancakes into my cheeks to try and forget that I feel completely wrong. I almost choke – just when I thought things were getting clearer.

“It is?” How could I forget my own birthday?

“Yup. You’re officially eighteen.” Her voice is slightly wistful.

I stare at her back as she bends over the sink, scrubbing at dishes. Eighteen? When in the world did that happen? My mom notices my silence, and she turns to look at me. “I guess I shouldn't have told you that.” She says so softly that I just barely hear her.
I look at her closely. She appears worn down, even as she tries to forge a smile. There are bags underneath her eyes, lines creasing her forehead. Her hair looks brittle, like it’s starting to gray. “I’m sorry.” She says.
I shake my head, dismissing her apology. Why is she apologizing?
“Would you like some more pancakes?” Her tone shifts from melancholy to gentle in a quick second.

I hold my empty plate up for her to take. I don’t know how many pancakes I’ll eat until I finally feel like myself.










*

My room is a lot like a foreign country. France. Or maybe Belgium. I spend the rest of the day pent up in here, looking for anything to jog my memory. I found things I swear I've never even dreamed of buying, but they all were distant to my memory. They were all pointless objects that didn't really belong to me, inside a room that wasn’t really mine.

My dad came into my room with my little brother earlier, and they both said ‘Happy Birthday’, but I could tell that their enthusiasm was botched, especially my brother. It was almost like they were acting in a cheap movie, and I was the video camera that they were lying to. I still can’t understand how I didn't remember my own birthday.

My sister didn’t knock on my door before entering, and she doesn't say anything once she’s inside. She looks like my mom but younger, college-aged. She has the same auburn hair and olive green eyes as my mom, but she lacks a congenial smile. “Happy birthday, dork.” Heidi says, placing what looks like a home-made double chocolate cupcake on my desk. I smile for the first time today. “It’s your favorite.” She murmurs.

We stare at each other for a couple of odd beats of time, and then – randomly – she walks over to me and hugs me tightly, like we had been reunited or something. She lets go and places her hands on my shoulders, her head bowed momentarily. When she looks up at me, I’m startled. Her eyes are watery, her face slightly red. “Happy birthday.” This time, her voice is quivering.

Heidi leaves unceremoniously, and I’m left in the middle of my room.

That’s when I start to cry.










*

I’m driving and it’s late at night, maybe eleven or maybe even midnight, but I don’t care. Everyone in my house was sleeping when I left, and when I left, I had no idea where I was going. I knew the streets in my neighborhood so well that driving them – even in the midst of a thunder storm – was frighteningly instinctive. My memories hovered over me like ghosts, transparent but relevant as I navigated through the dark roads, high-beams on. I was pondering when I learned how to drive in the first place – I knew I had a license, but something just wasn't fitting. It was like I was trying to connect the wrong puzzle pieces together all day; something just was not fitting.

I stop and park the car in front of a brick house. It’s Liv’s house – I noted this right off the bat. It was Liv’s house, but it looked different from what I remembered of it. Her house used to look like it was on the cover of Home & Garden, like it was alive and happy. I remember Liv’s Aunt, whom she lived with, along with her twin sister Della. Liv’s Aunt would always be tending to the garden in the front lawn every day, waving at me as Liv and I would go inside.

But now, the house is grim, gloomy, and dead. All of the blinds are shut, curtains pulled. The lilies and the rose bushes are wilting. Cobwebs are forming on the wind chimes that Liv and I made together.

Thunder roars, and I realize that I’m standing in the rain, staring up at the house. I run up to the front door and bang it, yelling for Liv because I need her right now. I ring the doorbell aggressively until I see a light turn on in the window.

The door flies open, and there, wrapped in a bathrobe, stands the dark-haired, brown-eyed girl from my picture. “Liv…” I barely breathe out her name, trying to register everything at one moment.

“Elijah?” The girl says. I drop to my knees.










*

“Well, where is she?” I screech, knocking over the glass of water I was given. It hadn't been Liv that answered the door; it had been her twin sister, Della. She invited me inside and sat me down in the dimly lit kitchen.The inside of the house is worse than the outside; it’s messy and papers are piled high on every available table surface.

Across from me, Liv’s sister, Della sits calmly. She reaches for napkins to wipe up the spillage. She doesn't say anything until she’s cleaned up all of the water. “I can’t believe your mom let you come here.” Della says. Her back is to me as she puts the empty glass into the dishwasher.

“She doesn't know I’m here. I need to see Liv. Did you know that it’s my birthday?” I’m pacing the floor of the kitchen, my hands shaking.

“Eli-“

“Why didn't she call? Is she sleeping? I’ll go wake her up.”

“Eli!” Della’s voice is urgent, a trace of something terrible hidden beneath it. I look into her eyes, alarmed at her sudden outburst. She looks absolutely terrified. Her chest heaves, and tears roll down her cheeks. “You really got messed up, huh?” Her fingers flutter across her chest- it was the same thing Liv used to do when she got nervous.

Della pulls out a chair from the table and sits in it, holding her head in her hands. “Eli…” her voice is trembling. “Liv…Liv is dead.”

“What?”

“She’s dead.”

I shake my head. “That’s not true. Where is she? Let me talk to her, that’s all I need is just to talk to her. C’mon. That’s not true.” Hysteria tightens my throat. “Where is she?”

“Eli. A few months ago, you and Liv went driving to the movies. It was late. On your way home, a drunk driver hit the car you two were in.” She speaks slowly, hesitantly.

No.

“You suffered serious brain trauma, and you developed something called Anterograde Amnesia. You can’t form new memories, but you can remember old stuff, like your family, and your personality, and stuff like that. Liv… Liv wasn't so lucky.” Sarcasm is loaded into the word ‘lucky’. “She died. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. You’ll only forget all of it tomorrow.”

The drive home is hazy. My memories flash into my mind – the screeching of rubber against cement, the smell of burning metal, the pain – but they’re fleeting. Just small glimpses into the past I can never fully remember…











*









(The next day)
I wake up with the feeling that I’m falling. I remind myself of the facts: my name is Eli, my favorite color is hunter green, and my birthday is May 5th.