Town With No Memory

SAMANTHA

I steer into a cul-de-sac. It’s the kind of neighborhood with manicured lawns and identical houses. I could see myself living in one of these carbon-copy homes.

This is where you find forced grins and backyard barbecues. Where your neighbors know your name but nothing more. It’s a place to blend in, and only that.

I park at a charming little family-owned store and grab some snacks for the road. As I head back to my car, the jingle of an ice cream truck grabs my attention.

Kids abandon their games of hopscotch and foursquare, spilling out from every corner, darting into the street without a second thought—or glance—with their mothers trailing behind.

A woman with soft brown hair chases after her little girl who’s sprinting from their yard. The girl, in shorts and a pink top, has long curly hair and a glittery, pretend butterfly tattoo.

She races ahead, not waiting for her mom. She hops up and down, trying to peek inside the ice cream truck. Her mom finally catches up, scoops her up, and settles the girl on her hip.

My mom used to do the same with me. She’d chase after me almost as fast. She’d lift me up, and after a little debate about which treat to pick, we’d always settle on Dilly bars.

We’d dash back through the gate and into the backyard, as if we were hiding our loot. And we’d enjoy our ice cream on the old, crooked swings.

It would melt down our hands and we’d have to lick our fingers clean. All smiles and sticky fingers.

For once, I’ve recalled a happy memory. It feels good to remember a time when I was happier. But even a good memory is still just a memory.

With that thought, I toss the Pringles onto the passenger’s seat and hit the road. Again. Maybe I’ll never find what I’m searching for.

Maybe it’s something I’ve conjured up. Maybe it’s impossible to forget. I’ll probably always be searching. Always running from my fears.

It almost feels like I have to keep searching. Like there’s nothing else for me to do. Nothing else I can do. Even if I drive around the country for years, it wouldn’t be so bad.

***

I’ve set my sights on New York. I want a tiny apartment where you can sit in two rooms at once. I’ll eat takeout every night.

I’ll spend my weekends in Central Park, having little picnics. I’ll be stuck in a dreadful job in a tiny office and gripe about the boss to my coworkers.

I’ll lead a normal, charming life. But for now, I’m still cruising down this winding road.

Whenever my mom and I baked, we’d dance around the kitchen. She was more clumsy than me, my silly mom. She loved baking more than cooking.

We’d whip up cookies, brownies, and cakes. She always added her secret ingredient, and when Dad came home, he’d be so proud of us.

I shake my head, trying to physically dispel this feeling. My mind is a dangerous place. It’s like navigating a minefield.

Everything seems clear. You’re walking on flat ground when suddenly, your leg is blown off. Your heart races.

You hear screams but don’t realize they’re your own until it’s too late. You’re already lying in a pool of your own blood.

This time, it takes me back to the last time I tried to bake something. It was for my mom’s birthday. I don’t seem to have the energy to fend off the memories today. Boom, there goes the other leg.

I hear him pull into the garage with a loud crash. He must have hit something. I stand in the corner of the kitchen, trying to hide as best as I can.

I pray he can’t smell Mom’s birthday cake in the oven. It’s the only gift I’m giving her this year. I’ve outgrown making her a card and we stopped exchanging gifts years ago.

The least I can do is bake her a cake.

He storms in. “Come out here, bitch.” He doesn’t even wait for her to come down. Instead, he bounds up the staircase, taking two steps at a time.

I’d learned by then to stay out of his way.

I quickly take the cake out of the oven while I still can. I’m frosting the cake in her favorite color when he comes back down half an hour later.

He slams down at the table and lights a cigarette. “And what the fuck are you doing?” he asks. His red, bloody knuckles don’t surprise me or go unnoticed.

“B-baking a cake,” I whisper.

“For who? That lazy ass whore upstairs?” he bellows, rising from his seat. “She doesn’t deserve a damn thing!”

“It’s her birthday today,” I say, foolishly looking away from him.

“Did I stutter? That dumb cow doesn’t deserve to get anything until I say so!! No one in this house does anything unless I say so!” he says before he snatches the cake from the counter.

He hurls it at the wall behind me. Then, he throws me down on the ground onto the shards of glass. He grabs me by my hair and pins me to the wall.

“That goes for you too! Don’t ever cross me.” I try to stay calm but I can’t breathe with his hand around my neck. My hands instinctively try to pry his hand away, but to no avail.

“Don’t ever forget who’s in charge here,” he says, tossing me back to the ground. I gasp for air as I curl up protectively in the corner.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter, feeling a bruise forming around my neck.

“Clean this fucking mess up,” he slurs, throwing me against the wall one more time. He leaves the room as I collapse onto the glass.

I can still feel the cuts on my knees from the shattered dish.

Right now, I can’t see past my tears and I’m forced to pull over. No matter how hard I try to brush them away, fresh ones take their place and I can’t hold back the sobs any longer.

I surrender, curling up with my knees to my chest, letting the pain out in loud sobs while tears streak my face.

I was already lying in a pool of my own blood.

Sometimes, things that break stay broken. Sometimes, you learn to move on, to exist in a world with one less leg.