Town With No Memory

SAMANTHA

I’ve been on the road for about a week now. It’s been mostly quiet, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And let me tell you, my thoughts aren’t the best company.

I try to keep my mind on the bright side, but it’s like there’s a black hole in my brain that keeps pulling me in. Thoughts lurk in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

And when they do, it’s like a stampede. They don’t stop for hours. They trample everything in their path.

This is my reality: a private war. One I don’t even know how to fight.

Images flash before my eyes. I crank up the music, hoping to drown them out, but it’s no use. I wince as certain memories claw their way to the surface.

A wave of dread washes over me, and I start to think that maybe this is all my fault. Maybe all the terrible things that happened the day before I left were because of me.

And now I’m making things worse. Now I’m running away from my problems, but maybe I can’t outrun them because maybe I’m the problem.

What was I thinking? I don’t deserve a second chance.

Please, please don’t do this! Not again! I can’t handle another night. I’m crying on the floor, leaning against my door. I can hear her, wailing. She’s crying over nothing.

I know this because she doesn’t feel anything anymore. Years of drinking have numbed her. She screams. She probably fell, but I can’t bring myself to check on her. Again.

Please stop. If he comes home early again, he’ll be furious. His fists will be hard and ready for a fight. It’ll be a long night. And when her cries finally stop, he’ll come upstairs.

He’ll probably knock. Because that’s the polite thing to do, but there’s nothing polite about what he’s going to do. He’ll yell. He’ll spit.

He’ll throw a lamp or maybe a glass where my head will be if I don’t move fast enough. He’ll grab my hair and throw me into the wall—that’s his signature move.

Then, when the blood has dried and the bruises have been iced, he’ll tell us he was out of line. As if he could even see the line. He’ll apologize.

And mom will pour another drink.

So I get up off the floor and crawl into bed. I cover my ears with a pillow and pray he’ll be out late tonight.

My chest tightens as the memories play out. I close my eyes and clench my fist until my nails dig into my palm.

Don’t let your mind wander. Tears well up in my eyes, but I wipe them away and bite my lip.

***

In the morning, I try to convince myself that yesterday’s memories were just a relapse. Everything is fine. I’m fine.

I only had one nightmare last night, which I take as a sign that the further I get from them, the better. I’m refreshed and ready for something new.

For breakfast, I find a small diner. I knew before I even walked in that it would smell like burnt coffee and grease. But I need coffee, and I haven’t eaten since yesterday.

The coffee is as burnt as I expected, but the diner surprises me with the best omelet I’ve ever had.

A jukebox in the corner is playing “Hey, Jude,” and two kids are arguing over crayons in a booth.

I try to keep my nose in a book I bought, but I can’t help but look up when a man walks into the diner. Everyone looks up when this businessman walks in.

Maybe they’re not used to seeing men in suits, or maybe it’s his commanding presence that demands attention.

Either way, the diner goes quiet, and the kids stop arguing and sit up straight.

Unfortunately, he makes eye contact with me and heads straight for the seat next to me at the counter. I pray he doesn’t want to chat.

I’m not the type to strike up a conversation with a stranger. Especially not this kind of stranger.

The waitress comes over immediately, and he tells her he’s here to pick up his order. She scurries off to the kitchen.

If I was trying to blend in before, now I’m trying to disappear.

“Excuse me, miss.” He clears his throat. I roll my eyes so hard I can feel it in my soul, then I look over at him.

I size him up again and decide he’s the type to send his socks out for dry cleaning.

“You’re John Hills’s daughter, aren’t you? I think we met once at a business lunch. What brings you all the way out here?” he asks, enunciating every word.

“Just passing through.” This is not how I wanted my day to go. And this is not someone I wanted to see again.

I remember him from some of our dreaded annual Christmas parties. He’d always get drunk and hit on my mom within an hour of arriving.

“How fun. So how’s your father?” The waitress comes back with his order, giving me a moment to recover from his question.

Hasn’t he watched the news? Read a newspaper? Even out here, the news would have reached him by now. Then he smirks at me.

He knows the news has been broadcasting updates on the case. He knows what’s happened to my family, and now he’s rubbing it in my face.

“Why don’t you go ask him yourself,” I snap, turning back to my plate. I refuse to play his game.

“I should give him a call. It’s been ages since I’ve seen him. We used to have such good times together.” He laughs mockingly as he stands up to leave.

“Good to see you again, darlin’,” he says on his way out. Darlin’, my ass. He doesn’t even know my name.

I paid and stormed out. Why does life have to be so cruel? Can’t I just be invisible? I yanked at my hair and sat down. Why would anyone want to know my father?

And if you did know him, you definitely knew what was going on in that house. He couldn’t have been that bad; why didn’t he do something?

Why didn’t anyone? Maybe my life would have turned out differently if someone had.

Now it’s clear that I need to put as much distance between me and home as possible. Because I never want to run into anyone from there or remember anything about that godforsaken town.

Isn’t it strange what can remind you of home? It can be the most random thing. A smell. A car horn. A woman’s dress. For some people, those things might be comforting.

They might take them back to a cherished childhood home. But for me, every memory is painful.

That night, I drove for hours, trying to put as much distance between me and there as possible. It rained, and it was beautiful. By seven, I found a bustling city with on-ramps, traffic, and skyscrapers.

I imagine a person could easily get lost in a city like this. Lost in the crowd.

I walked around to take it all in. I thought of a boy I knew in high school who wanted to be a journalist.

He once sat by a bonfire, cigarette in hand, rambling about how he wanted to treat places like people.

He wanted to travel and interview buildings and get main streets to tell him their stories. People told him to shut up, but there was something beautiful about his passion for his dream.

As I looked around that bonfire, I knew that most of us would end up as gas station attendants, cashiers, and teen moms. But not him. Out of all of us, he was the one who could make it out.

Sadly, I lost touch with him in the chaos of high school and I don’t know what became of him. But I can picture him sitting on a bench, listening to the stories being told.

As I walked, I tried to do what he wanted to do by asking a stop sign what drives it, and a glass building how it stands day after day. But I got no response.

Then, as I walked past a storefront, a newsreel started playing and caught my eye. The story was about a new case of domestic violence.

About how an innocent man was on trial for murder, and how the only witness, his daughter, had run away. There was a picture of her and a number to call.

But as usual, the media got it wrong. He wasn’t innocent, and his daughter didn’t run away. She escaped.

So I got back in my van as calmly as I could and drove through the streets and avenues until I found the on-ramp. On to the next town. Maybe I’ll never find what I’m looking for.

Maybe it’s all for nothing and I’ll die on the road, unhappy and alone. I want a fresh start. Is that too much to ask?