Chapter 1

One

Ezra

December 19, 2018

“ A re you sure about this?” My mom. Skeptical…or upset.

I peel my eyelids open, looking at the ceiling through the bleary spikes of my eyelashes.

“Yes,” a woman answers. “He woke up from anesthesia. Didn’t know where he was. There was some resistance. So that’s when we increased his sedation. We had the counselor in, and she asked…you know…about his memory.”

My heart beats a little quicker.

“He remembered being here last year…which was a good sign. But he thought that he had finished ECT. He said he was going to play football again. When we asked what year, he said his senior year. That’s how we knew,” the woman says, her voice low and conspiring. “As you know, memory loss can be very normal. It’s something we go over each time. In the consent forms. ”

I try to swallow, but my throat hurts. It feels too dry.

“Yes, well, he did that,” my mom says, sounding irritated. I hear the click of high-heels as she steps into my field of vision. We’re in an ECT room. I’m lying on my back, and my mom is talking to a nurse. “He had a standout senior year in football,” my mom tells her. “Now has multiple offers for scholarships.”

The blood drains from my face as my pulse starts pounding again. What is she talking about?

“He remembered being discharged from here last time and staying at your house. When I asked what he’s done lately, he said he has a Jeep he likes and he’s been running. Lifting weights. The memory loss can…range,” the nurse says. “He may recall more this afternoon. Or next week. It could be a month or two. Some people never regain memories of the time before their treatment. Memory loss could go back several months. It’s different for every patient. Since his memory has been affected, we’ll have Dr. Katz call to touch base with you this evening or tomorrow. We may want to discuss moving from bilateral to unilateral. On the paper assessments, he did not score at a significant level for depression. Despite what you—and he—reported. So, unilateral may be more than enough for the remainder of the sessions. Especially given…these side effects.”

I stare up at the ceiling. Popcorn ceiling. I’m so…confused. I got football scholarships?

“Christopher? Are you awake?” My mom is leaning over me now. She’s got her hair curled, and I think she has on a dress.

I frown up at her, feeling...fuzzy. I think something went wrong. The nurse said that…right?

"Did I get a football scholarship?" My voice sounds weird and raspy.

Mom smiles. "Yes, you did. Do you remember which ones?"

"Ones?" The bottom drops out of my stomach.

"Yes. You have several choices." She smiles again.

I look around the room, feeling...nothing. I feel confused. Like I forgot something that I really need to say. But now I can’t remember it. The fuzzy feeling starts to turn to pissed off.

"Why am I here?" I look at the tall nurse, standing behind Mom. "I got scholarships and I forgot about them?"

I don't even notice that I'm sitting up till the nurse puts her hand on my shoulder. "Let's not get so agitated, Mr. Masters. Going home is dependent upon you being awake and calm enough to safely discharge. You don't want to make your mother feel unsafe, now do you?"

I lie back and shut my eyes.

Tightness.

My chest.

I feel like I can't breathe.

"How do you feel? It's okay to be angry. I don't want you being physical," the nurse says in a sing-song, preschool-teacher voice.

I put my arm over my eyes. It's...like I'm falling and I want to grab something. Need to. But I can't.

"How about some more relaxant medication?"

It's better to say yes. At this place. Better if they think you're on board. You don't want to be defiant in a place like this. Even in my current state, I know that.

“We still have your IV placed, so it will be fast,” the nurse promises.

I nod.

I close my eyes after. Think of... I can't think at all. My chest is still tight. Tears build in my eyes as Mom tells the nurse she'll take me home and take care of me.

I'm too tired to be mad.

Did I really miss my senior year? Or am I dreaming?

Warm under the blankets. Someone shaking me awake. Into the wheelchair. I don't like the halls here. I don't like the gray floors, gray walls. I remember—last time. I was here before. I wanted to die .

If nothing else, I guess I didn't die.

Mom says something. I'm so fucking high. It’s funny.

She says, "Christopher, we have to get up now and walk to the car."

Not we , my addled mind thinks. Only I do.

I get up. Why am I wearing real clothes? Was I not inpatient? I don't want to tell her I'm confused. She holds my hand to go down the stairs.Blue tile stairs. Like someone stole them from a plaza fountain.

My legs feel weird...like, shaky. I feel like I might pass out.

Don't pass out.

Mom's hand on my back. Into the van. And it’s weird to be in here. To smell the rubber-wax smell. Smells like childhood.

"You can lie down in the back seat if you want to. We can skip the buckle."

I get back there—barely. Lie down. I look at myself. Blue sweatpants and a T-shirt. Nike. Feeling dizzy. Empty-headed.

I rub the inside of my elbow. Stings a little. Always with the sore muscles.

I frown down at my bicep. What's that on it? My eyes are too blurry to read. I squint.

MILLER.

I stare at the word. I can't rip my eyes away from it.

MILLER.

My brain feels like someone's pulling it out through the back of my skull. Cold sweat prickles my skin. Then I'm getting sick. I shift onto my side to throw up—nothing but bile.

My mom swerves across lanes and then pulls over. I don't want her near me, but I can't sit up. I don't want to be her son. I don't want this.

I don't let her see the word. The name.

She stops at a gas station and gets a soda Icee for me.

“There now. Maybe that will settle your stomach.”

I drink some. I look down at the name again. And look at it. I look for so long that my eyes cross. Then I'm getting sick again, the Icee everywhere, my mother cursing in a soft hiss from the front of the van. Somehow, I fall asleep for most of the drive.

Into the house, and she's holding my elbow.I can barely walk up the stairs. My whole body feels weird—as if it's buzzing. My room. Mom says, "Get in bed, dear."

Into bed with no shirt. I'll take the pants off later.

"Remember, this is very normal. You'll feel better tomorrow. Here's your drink, there on the nightstand."

When she's gone, I get the Icee. Hold the cold cup to my cheek. I don't feel well.Something tugs at my mind. The name.

I look at the name. It's written on the lowest part of my bicep, inside my arm, above the bend in my elbow.MILLER.

All caps. Permanent marker.

I tip the Icee down and have a small sip of it. Then I start to cry.