Page 35 of Townshipped
The ending of the song lands on the high notes, a fairy-like and wistful closing.
My family sits stock-still until my father begins clapping softly and then, of all things, Sawyer belts out, “Bravo! Bravo! Where did you learn that? I take lessons but I only learned the ‘Ten Little Indians” so far. Do you want to hear it?”
Em looks slightly dazed as if coming out of a trance. She looks around, seeming to come to herself incrementally. When her eyes find mine, a shy smile graces her face.
“I don’t know,” she says. Then she recovers herself and says, “I’d love to hear the ‘Ten Little Indians.’”
Em stands from the piano and makes room for Sawyer to take the bench. He starts to play what sounds like a war song. I can picture the dancing Native Americans as he plays. It’s rhythmic and rudimentary and he pounds the piano like he’s got a grudge. Such a boy. The contrast between his gruff, unpolished approach to the instrument and Em’s sophisticated, refined familiarity couldn’t be starker.
Em stands over him, smiling. When he finishes, she asks, “Do you know this one? Scoot over.”
Sawyer complies and Em takes her spot next to him. She begins to play the lower register of “Heart and Soul.” “You just play here,” she tells him.
“I know this one!” he says. He plays the upper register, not quite keeping her tempo, so she slows down to accommodate him.
When they finish, everyone claps.
Lexi returns to the living room carrying Poppy. “We’d better go,” she tells Trevor. “Poppy needs to sleep, and I want to put her in her cradle at home.”
“More than likely, she’ll fall asleep in the car seat,” Mom tells them. “And when my children did that, I brought that car seat into the house. Cardinal rule number one of parenthood: never wake the sleeping baby.”
Lexi nods like she’s been given the keys to the kingdom. Then she turns to Em. “That was beautiful. What you played earlier. I loved it.”
“It’s called ‘Cristofori's Dream.’ It’s by David Lanz.”
Em claps her hand over her mouth and then drops it. She looks at me as she exclaims, “I remembered!”
“You did!” I say with equal enthusiasm.
Everyone else doesn’t seem to know how to respond. They haven’t been schooled in Amnesia 101 like Em and I have. We’ve had a crash course. No pun intended. Celebrating a memory is our normal.
Ours.
“Each memory that comes back is one step closer to Em regaining her whole memory—and her life,” I explain to my family.
A wave of mixed emotions floods me as the reality of my statement washes over me.
I do want her to remember.
At least I should.
13
“EM”
Iwake in the middle of the night again, only this time I’m not screaming. I saw the whole scene—me playing in the front of my childhood home. Looking past our large green yard onto properties down the street, my whole neighborhood came into view: luxurious houses set on expansive lawns with lush green landscapes. It’s nothing like the neighborly feeling of Aiden’s childhood home.
My mind flits from the front yard scene to an image of me sitting on a side chair when my piano teacher walked into a stately room with high ceilings. He came to give me my lesson on our grand piano: Mister Ennis. He was a kindly man with round teashade glasses and a tweed jacket. His face, peppered with scruff, would warm, and his eyes would crinkle at the corners when I got a song just right. I remember sitting next to him on the bench, like Sawyer sat next to me last night at Aiden’s parents’ home. Mister Ennis’ jacket always smelled faintly of pipe smoke, nutty and mellow.
Then I see my mom—the same woman from my Christmas memory, only she’s a little older and her hair is shorter, in a tamed mid-length wavy bob. It’s a different memory. She’s sticking her head into the piano room, telling me to practice songs from my books and stop playing the ones I already know. The floor-to-ceiling windows look out onto our sprawling backyard. My swing set seems to call to me, but I can’t play until I finish practicing.
I can’t coax any other memories to materialize, but I saw so much I feel wide awake and unable to settle. It may as well be noon. My mind stirs with energy. I throw back the covers and pad into the kitchen, turning on the light under the microwave. A small beeping sound accompanies the light.
I’m not really hungry, but I open the refrigerator. I absentmindedly shut the door. Maybe I’ll make something hot to drink. I grab down a mug and some tea Aiden keeps just above the mugs.
Filling the cup with water, I place it in the microwave for three minutes. I lean back on the cabinet, reviewing my dream memory like an actor memorizes their most critical lines. I don’t want to lose one detail of the scenes that unfolded for me.
I jump when Aiden comes down the stairs and toward the kitchen. He’s only wearing his pajama bottoms. His chest could be the subject of an art class in the study of the human form, defined and ridged in all the right places. My eyes lift from his torso to his face, and I blush when I realize I’ve been caught ogling him.
