“You’re saying memory is cumulative,” her uncle said. “That it? You’re saying remembering changes your memory. Changes the memory. Is that it?”

“Yes!” She rolled her head around, took in a deep breath. “Exactly.” She turned to her left, looked at her uncle, nodded, and smiled. “You said it better than I did.”

Her uncle pushed his legs out, rocked back and puffed out his cheeks, rolling his head, thinking.

She continued. “So here’s why that’s important to me. And I’m telling you this, this is true, I don’t think I ever mentioned this to anyone, I don’t know why. Anyhow, when I got sick, not right away but pretty quick, I don’t know how this happened, but everything that happened, it seemed like I could remember it exactly like it happened. All of it. Everything. To this day, to right now, I think I can remember exactly what happened. And I replay what happened in my mind      all the time. I can remember, like, years ago. Conversations and how I felt listening to them, and what doctors said and what nurses did. What my mom and dad were like. Those things are like crystal clear, or they were, until I heard that stuff in that movie.” She wiggled, pushing herself up in the lounger, hands on the arms, then stretched out her back. She turned to her uncle and he was squinting, thinking.

“Now I’m not so sure about my memory, and I think I’m disappointed.” She made a face and rocked her shoulders. “No. That’s not true. I am disappointed. Because, for a long time, I saw my memories as really helpful. Really important. Reassuring, maybe, so that I have always felt I had some kind of control. I mean, I don’t know how much control I ever had, really. Not much, I guess. But when I would recall things, conversations or feelings or some doctor’s visit or some kind of test, or maybe some stay in the hospital, I figured I was … I don’t know … I figured I was involved. Participating, that’s a better word. Like I was actively doing something to get better.” She swallowed, waited for her uncle to look at her, and made a face. “Now I wonder if it was just me, trying to make sense.” She looked at her uncle and made the same silly face again. “This sound crazy?”

Bill Piatkowski shrugged and did not make a face. He was interested.

“If I said everything fell into place when I was remembering stuff, would that be weird? Because it did. I mean, that’s what it felt like. It was all new and was coming really fast and I know I was scared and nervous. I was crying all the time. I tried to hide it and I don’t know how good I did. I cried a lot. I couldn’t help it. But I was always thinking back to when the doctor said it was cancer.” She paused. “I was trying to figure out what …” Vanessa stopped, rolled her head back, and held up an index finger. She glanced at her uncle, rolled her head back further, and sneezed. Another quick glance, and then she sneezed twice, and rubbed at her nose.

“It’s always in threes,” she said. She pulled a hanky out of her pocket and wiped at her nose. “I sneeze three times whenever I sneeze. And you know what, I know other people and they say the same thing. Or like, they sneeze twice every time. Weird, isn’t it?”

Uncle Bill shrugged. “I’m a three-times guy, too.”

“You are?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Would I lie about something like that?”

Vanessa ran a finger under her nose, sniffed, and swallowed. “Where was I?”

“You were about to tell me about when the doctor told you it was cancer. You were crying all the time. And hiding it, or trying to.”

Vanessa Hoffman felt tired. All of a sudden. Sometimes she was actually tired, and sometimes she was just tired of herself. This time was a bit of both.

“I don’t know why I talk about this stuff,” she said. “It’s hard to explain.” She blew up her cheeks and exhaled. “This is hard to say, and I don’t even know if what I remember now is what really happened, but when the doctor said cancer, it took a while, I don’t remember how long, but I knew I was headed somewhere. You know how you see your life? Like it’s a routine or it’s all scheduled out for you, and you’re not even really thinking about it. It’s all, you know … everything is okay. But then I got sick and I was … I think this, and I don’t know if it’s right or if it’s selfish or if it’s me being a baby, but I was knocked off course. That’s what it was like. Like everything I was supposed to do, and everything I was doing, that was all gone. Right away. I don’t know how else to say it. Everything changed. My life changed, and I think my remembering is right. I really do. I remember thinking everything turned different. Felt different. Everything. And here’s what’s weird. I think about this sometimes, too. Everything changed inside my head. Really, Uncle Bill, that’s it. Think about it. But nothing changed outside my head, right? That didn’t happen.” She huffed. “Except I got cancer. I guess that’s a big change, huh?”

She got quiet, and the two of them sat quietly for a moment and then a moment longer. Bill Piatkowski was thinking, considering what his niece told him. She always surprised him. Her brothers always surprised him, too. He admired them. He admired the whole family. But this thing, this thing with Vanessa. He couldn’t remember if it was Ethan or Taylor that said Vanessa was out there, way out there, ahead of the family. Whoever said it was right. Vanessa has been out there. Regardless of what the doctors say, regardless of what her family thinks, she’s been way out there, alone. Seeing something no one else can see.

Vanessa looked at her uncle,      and      he was watching her, and her expression changed;      she’d gone inward, and there were tears brimming in her eyes, and he leaned over and was about to speak when      she said “Wait.” He kept his eyes on her.

“That’s how I’ve been thinking about stuff,” she said. “That’s how I think all the time.” She swiped at her eyes, looked away, and then looked back at him. Tears were squeaking out, and she kept brushing them away. “I’m sorry, Uncle Bill. I am. Really. I don’t want to be like this. And right now I don’t know why I’m crying and this happens and there’s nothing I can do.”

About the Author:

Victor Kreuiter’s stories have appeared in EQMM, Halfway Down The Stairs, Bewildering Stories, Tough, Frontier Tales, Del Sol SFF Review, Literally Stories, and other online and print publications.