Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time (4 page)

I shake my head violently, ignoring the blast of pain shooting through me. “I don’t want to!”

“I understand that Olivia,” she presses, “But—”

“Look at me.” The weird guy cuts her off. “You said you recognize my clothes. Look at my face again. We’ve known each other a long time. You can trust me.
Look
at me.”

I grip the water glass, wanting to throw it in his face. But I also open my eyes. A feeling wriggles in my belly when I stare at his soft face, but the feeling is too hard to categorize. Familiarity? Recognition? Should I know him? Or is he tricking me? They can’t all be tricking me.

I shake my head again and cover up my face. My anger and confusion turns to tears. Lots of them. And everyone lets me cry. No one says a thing; no one moves or seems to breathe. The only sound in the room is my sobs and they are so pathetic and they wrack my pained body. I try not to feel sorry for myself, to calm down, to think about things. I’m reeling in emotion and confusion and there’s nothing I can do.

I fall asleep, and when I wake up, the light in the room has changed drastically. I see only blackness out the window, but there’s a soft, yellowy-orange light in the corner. The man and the woman from earlier are huddled together on a chair, staring at a magazine. The little girl is sitting on the floor, playing with a doll. The weird guy is slouched in the chair, but his eyes are on me.

I look away. When I try to sit up, he grabs my arm gently to help. I allow it, only because I’m weak and pain is screwing with my mind. The man and woman and little girl come over instantly, setting down their things, and stare at me with matching expressions of worry and hopelessness. I feel like a caged pet, like they’re waiting for me to do a trick.

“What happens now?” I ask, my voice groggy with medication.

“You’ll see a neurologist tomorrow,” the man says. “To do a scan and run some tests. You might have to see a physical therapist as well, to make sure your brain isn’t messing with your muscles and stuff.” He shakes his head. “The doctor explained it a lot better than I am, sweetie. I wish I’d written it down.”

“Hopefully we’ll get you home soon,” the woman says, patting my hand. I want to ask her
what home
? There is no home. But I know that would upset her so I keep the thought to myself. “The doctor said you’d do better to go back to your normal life as soon as possible.”

The thought of going home with strangers sends goose bumps to every pore in my body. “What if I don’t want to?” My voice is scared and sounds young.
How old am I?

The woman’s face falls.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” the man says, wrapping a comforting arm around his wife. His voice has gone patient and soft. “Until then, you might need some introductions.” I don’t understand his upbeat tone, but maybe he’s trying not to scare me. It’s not working. “I’m Dion...” he continues. “‘Dad,’ and this is Cora...’Mom.’” My stomach rolls. “That’s your sister, Natalie, and that young man over there is...”

“Wyatt,” the weird guy finishes for him.

I’m not sure, but when the boy says his name, some recognition wriggles in my belly. “Who are you?” I ask, my throat constricting. “To me. Who are you to me?”

A long silence falls on the room—deeper and wider than the Grand Canyon. “I’m your...” he plays with his neckerchief, looking over to Dion and Cora. They nod. “I’m your...” he wipes his palms on his pants. The girl—Natalie—walks over and places a hand on his shoulder. “I’m your boyfriend.”

Chapter Four

Third Grade

I was partnered up with Wyatt Rosen, who the entire third grade now called Tartar Sauce, and I was about to throw a fit about it. Our names had been pulled out of a hat together, along with the assignment: a visual presentation of the life of a specific amphibian or a reptile.

I had to sit down next to Tartar Sauce and share a piece of paper that listed choices for this presentation. Wyatt leaned over, perusing. “Which would you rather do?” he asked. “An amphibian or a reptile?”

I leaned back, shrugged and crossed my arms in front of me. I wasn’t going to work with him, so I couldn’t care less. As soon as Mrs. Martinez finished talking to Phillip Marteen, I was going to go right up to her desk and complain. Working with Tartar Sauce on this single project would give my friends, Lacy Willems and Ashley Feldspar, enough to tease me about for years. And I wasn’t having it.

Wyatt, pretending not to notice that I was miserable, kept talking, “How about...the painted frog? Or the giant salamander?” He smiled at me. I looked up through my eyelashes at him, but said nothing. “Hmm. Not an amphibian fan, huh? Okay...what about the snapping turtle? Leopard lizard? Albino python?”

I wanted to do the albino python, but wasn’t going to tell him that. I would do that with whoever Mrs. Martinez put me with next. I would have even taken Leslie Duncan if I had to. She wore her mother’s broken eyeglasses tied with a neon shoelace around her head, but she wasn’t bullied as much as Tartar Sauce. She didn’t smell like fish or accidentally wear Cub Scout socks to school with soccer shorts.

“Pick what you want,” I told him.

So Wyatt chose the painted frog and I got up to complain to Mrs. Martinez, out of Wyatt’s earshot. She chastised me, told me I wasn’t being the nice Olivia she knew I was and sent me back to my nemesis.

And I was stuck with the painted frog and a guy who’d probably get his fish smell on me.

I made him do every ounce of work—the reading, the research, even all the writing, telling him I was allergic to paper and couldn’t touch it. But I promised that I would do the oral presentation to make up for it since he stammered when he got up in front of the class. This deal seemed to please him and got me out of sitting with him. He could do his work away from me.

When it was our day to do the presentation, however, I’d complained to the teacher in front of the entire class that I’d done all the work and Wyatt was supposed to give the presentation.

Wyatt grew very still and even Chloe, who I’d told about my plan, got a concerned expression on her face, like a pair of underwear had just slipped out from my sleeve or something. (Which actually happened to Leslie Duncan in the beginning of the year when she was doing her
Little House on the Prairie
presentation.)

Wyatt didn’t put up a fight, probably because I was daring him to with my eyes. He had no idea what I would do to him if he fought me on it. Heck, I didn’t even know. But it would’ve been great. And awful.

He ended up licking his lips and opened his mouth to say something. He closed it again, looking at me desperately. Still, I said nothing as he stammered through the entire painted frog speech. His face turned red. He choked on his words. He kept pronouncing “frog” “fog” and the class snickered into their hands. I stood idly by, smiling, because he deserved it.

He got months of extra bullying after that and Chloe was pissed at me for weeks. Said she couldn’t believe she was ever friends with me. Said a little teasing between only us was okay, but outright hurting someone that deep was despicable.

Chapter Five

Now

“This may be difficult for you,” the neurologist says. “But you need to see past the cuts and bruises.”

She lifts a mirror for me to see myself and she’s wrong. It’s not difficult; it’s impossible. I can’t see past the cuts and bruises because that’s all I am: black, blue and yellow splotches with bright red scratches on my cheeks and forehead. It’s like someone dropped a wild cat on me while I slept. The biggest gash is under my collarbone and it’s been sewn up with thick black stiches, thick and bumpy like a hill. I count them. Twenty-six. Maybe that’s where the vehicle struck me. I touch the cut. It’s tender and the stiches don’t feel like I thought they would. They are plastic-y and a little waxy.

Dr. Olafson is patient with me, letting me stare at the mirror as long as I want. So I do. I don’t have an opinion of my appearance—good or bad. I’m just shapes. Oval eyes. Triangle nose. Heart-shaped mouth. I’m all edges and sharp angles. Not familiar or unfamiliar. For some reason, this depresses me the most. How can I not recognize myself? I look like a younger version of Cora, not an entirely separate person.

I cup my cheeks in my hands, brush my dark hair away from my face and stare into empty dark eyes. This sinking feeling settles inside me. This isn’t me. This is Olivia Christakos and that person isn’t me. It can’t be me. But if I’m not her, who am I? I feel like I’m in one of those science fiction movies where aliens take over human bodies. It’s comical to think about, but it could be just as viable an explanation as anything else. I shake the thought out of my head; it’s crazy. But I am virtually nobody. I don’t exist. An empty shell with confusion and anger stuffed inside. “I’m done,” I say, waving the mirror away. “I don’t want to see anymore.”

She sets the mirror on the little table between us and I stare at it as if it’s something evil. I want her to put it back into her bag so I don’t have to look at it anymore.

“Anything you recognized?” she asks. Dr. Olafson is dark skinned, slight and wears a retro secretary bun.

“No.” I’m growing angry and annoyed and I want her to leave. I avert my eyes and cross my arms, signaling that I’m done with her. Hopelessness has taken over every other emotion and I don’t want to answer any more questions. I will not answer any more questions.

The rest of the testing was similar to the questioning the first doctor did with me. The neurologist asked me personal things—all the way from what I liked to eat to what I thought my eye color might be. At first I’d told her I didn’t like chicken broth or Jell-O, but she was quick to dismiss those answers because they were my new memories. I am on a liquid diet and had those things for breakfast. I didn’t get the eye-color question right, nor the ones about school, friends or relatives. Not even the one about my own age.

Apparently, I’m twenty. I don’t feel twenty. I guessed I am between sixteen and eighteen. I wonder what this says about me.

But when Dr. Olafson asked about the presidents, colors, animals, I got all of those questions correct. She asked me about current actors and actresses. I was easily able to identify all of them from a magazine, but couldn’t tell her which were my favorites or what TV shows and movies I’d seen. She told me I’d probably been interested in celebrities and movies before the accident because not even she would have answered all those questions.

When a nurse walks in to deliver my medication, I notice a figure walking by the door to my room. Wyatt—head down and hands stuffed into his jeans pockets—disappears on the other side. My annoyance grows. I don’t want to see him. This is supposed to be private time with the neurologist—she made even my parents leave for a few hours—but now I’m ready to be by myself.

I swallow the medicine with water, wishing for the half hour before it kicks in to fly by. I could use a nap after all this testing. It’s left me mentally fatigued, like I’ve been in a boring lecture all day. Not that I remember what that feels like. Or if I’ve even been to a lecture.
Do I go to school?

Dr. Olafson stands. She’s wearing a blue skirt with a light silk blouse that looks super cute together. She’d brushed subtle gold shadow that works wonders for her eyes on her dark eyelids. I wonder why I even noticed how she’s dressed, why I care. Was looking good important to me?

“My official diagnosis is similar to what your doctor has already told you,” she says. “Retrograde amnesia with episodic memory loss.”

I push the table that the mirror still sits upon away from me and lean back against my bed. “So I don’t remember anything about my life.”

She nods.

“Will I be this way forever?”

She looks at the CAT scans or MRIs or whatever they’re called that she’s stuck on a light-up board. She explained earlier that I am lacking certain brain function that normal people have. I can faintly see what she’d pointed out. Normal people’s brain scans are red in the frontal lobe, showing memory. Mine is all purple and blue, showing it isn’t functioning correctly. “The scarring and swelling...it’s severe. I would say some of your memory might return as the swelling goes down—bits and pieces. But it’s unlikely that you will gain your memory back entirely.”

She stares at me, gauging my reaction. I can’t think or speak. She pats my hand. It’s the first time she has touched me in three hours, so I allow it. “Go home with your parents. Talk to your friends. Slip back into your life like nothing is different.”

“You want me to go home with those strangers?” I scoff, feeling repulsed. An annoying alarms blares somewhere outside my room and it mirrors my mood.

“They aren’t strangers,” she says, her voice a bit lecture-y. “I think, even though you don’t remember them, you know deep down they know you. Give them a chance.”

Wyatt passes by again, coming from the other way. He doesn’t look into the room. I think he’s trying to be a concerned, sweet boyfriend, but his persistence is grating on my nerves.

“I don’t know if I can,” I say. “How can I trust people I don’t know?”

“The same way you trust policemen, firefighters teachers, and—” she smiles “—medical staff. None of us would be here if we didn’t care. Your family cares about you. I can promise you that.”

How can someone promise such a thing? It’s not like she knows them. No one can say how another person truly feels.

Wyatt appears again, this time with a sideways glance into the room. Dr. Olafson notices me watching him, her smile widening. “And you better let that boy in here before he paces a ditch into the floor.” She picks up the mirror, stuffs it into her bag with the magazine and other materials and disappears out the door.

I can sense Wyatt, even though I can’t see him. He’s stopped pacing and remains hidden beyond the door, waiting. I don’t want him to come in. I want to roll over on my side and cover myself up with my thin, scratchy blankets and ignore him. I close my eyes. He can’t stand out there forever.

I don’t want to know my family and friends right now. I’d rather get to know myself before anyone else. I don’t want to make stupid small conversation and pretend everything is fine in my head and everyone is so wonderful for sticking through it with me. For hovering. For being at my side every goddamn second. I don’t want them—any of them—right now.

But, after a few minutes, I swear I can hear him breathing. I can’t concentrate on anything else. Maybe I could placate him for a few minutes and then ask him to give me some space. Like, for weeks. Reluctantly, I sit up in bed. “Come in, Wyatt.”

He peeks in at first, his expression tired. “I don’t want to push you.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t hover.” I can’t help the bitchiness in my tone and I wonder if that’s my default personality or if my stress is doing the talking.

“Sorry,” he says, slinking in the room. He sits next to me, not meeting my eyes. He stares out the window. I wonder what this whole thing feels like to him. Does it feel like his old girlfriend is dead? Is he in mourning? Or does it feel like she’s been abducted and he has to deal with this bitchy, confused replacement until he can figure out where his real girlfriend went?

“You’re not wearing your Cub Scout uniform anymore,” I say, noticing most of my earlier hatred and resentment has vanished in its absence.

He nods, still not looking at me. “We had our final meeting of the season this morning and we don’t start up again until the fall. I only went to the meeting because I had to. But then I came right back to see you.”

“Did you visit me often?”

“Yeah.” Finally, his eyes sweep over mine. “I’ve been here since it happened. Only went home a few times.” His voice is small, like he’s walking over a minefield, and if he’s too loud, they’ll all blow. I wonder if it’s because he can tell I’m short-tempered. “The doctor thought leaving you alone for a few hours today would be good for you—and me—but I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be here for you.” He blushes and it warms my cold heart just a little.

“Do you live close by?”

“A couple of hours away.”

My eyes widen. “Well, thank you,” I say. “For coming all that way...”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t that bad. It’s not like I drove it every day or anything. I’ve slept in the waiting room the last few nights, surviving on hospital food and bad coffee. I didn’t want to go home because I thought you’d wake up at night. You were always—” he pauses, looking for the right words “—more awake at night. A night owl, I guess.”

“You slept here?” My heart warms even more, but my mind says not to discount that resentment from earlier. It could mean something.

He smiles—the first one I’d seen on him. It’s nice. “I got used to it. I craved their stale biscuits and gravy this morning.”

I pause, looking him over. His lanky frame to his slight brown stubble to his blue Converse sneakers. Nothing strikes a chord. “Why do you do it?”

“What?”

“The Cub Scout thing. You said ‘...because I kind of had to.’ Do you not like doing it?”

“Oh, no. It’s not that. I meant I didn’t want to leave you. But I had to go to the final meeting. I had badges and stuff to give out to the kids.”

“But...” I pull the blankets over me, suddenly realizing I’m in a hospital gown with no bra underneath. “Why do you do it?”

He shrugs. “Because it’s fun. To do my part, I don’t know.”

“To do your part?” The question comes out unbelievably bitchy and it makes me wonder if I’ve never done a single nice thing in my life. Is it so hard to believe someone would donate their time? But the bitchiness presses on. “So you’re just doing it for the kids? Really? There’s no secret selfish reason you do it? Like you’re trying to impress someone or you were sentenced to community service?” I don’t know why I have such an aversion to the Cub Scouts. Maybe it had annoyed me to see a cute guy wearing the uniform. It isn’t exactly flattering. The khaki shirt, the olive green shorts, the blue neckerchief. He’d even worn those long wool socks that go up to his knees.

But Wyatt doesn’t look fazed. Maybe I
am
usually this bitchy.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks, challenging my attitude with his coolness. A little ice water to my fire. “I could get you some magazines or some veggie chips or something?”

“Veggie chips?” What I could use is a double cheeseburger and large fries, but I’m not allowed anything solid right now. I sigh. “No thanks,” I answer with a sour expression. I might have liked veggie chips before, but something about the words
veggie
and
chips
being in the same phrase repulses me.

A silence settles over us. I have nothing to say to him. I don’t know this guy, don’t have any feelings for this man who’s supposedly my boyfriend.

I have a million questions, but I don’t feel like answering them yet. Like,
how long have we been together?
How many times have we kissed?
Had sex?
This thought makes me shiver. I hope we never did it while he was wearing those God-awful socks.

He’s the visitor and should be the one to start up the conversation, so he should say something. But the silence stretches on, each of us awkwardly breathing and fidgeting. My eyelids droop. I fight it, wanting Wyatt to be out of the room while I sleep, but the medication wins.

My mind softens and my body grows heavy.

I’m kissing someone. He has these thin little lips and he keeps pecking me like a chicken. He’s cute, even though I can’t make all of him out. He has a head full of unruly blond hair and tanned muscles over every inch of him. We’re making out in a beige room—beige walls, curtains, carpet—but I can’t get over his kissing. His thin lips. The boy pushes me away, suddenly, and I get a look at his face, but it’s all blurred.

My dream shifts, to me standing in a street.
Headlights charge towards me
,
flooding my vision
,
and I jump out of the way just in time.
The movement wakes me with a jerk and I sit up in bed. Pain flies everywhere. My entire body feels sticky and wet with sweat. I couldn’t have been out more than a minute.

Wyatt’s eyes grow wide and concerned. “Are you okay?” He tries to grab my hand, but I pull away, shaking my head.

“Don’t.” My chest heaves up and down. The dream plays over and over in my mind. The boy. The headlights. Does one of them have to do with the other? I try to make a connection. I close my eyes, willing the images to come back. To clear up. But if anything, they soften. After a deep breath, I analyze Wyatt and his lips. They are full and wide. His hair is dark and longer than the boy’s in my dream. Definitely not him. Maybe I was dating a boy before Wyatt. “How long have we been together?” I ask, forcing my breathing to slow.

“Five years,” he says without pause.

I’m both surprised by his quick answer and because of the answer itself. No wonder he’s been so persistent. Five years? That’s some serious history. But that answer doesn’t help me figure out my dream. “Who else have I dated?”

This question takes him off guard and he takes more time to answer. “No one else.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “No one with blond hair?”

His eyes widen an infinitesimal amount, I think, but can’t be sure. He shakes his head.