Walking in the door after work, one question persists in my mind. Searching for Damon I'm surprised it is so hard to find someone in such a small place. They have a two-bedroom apartment, why can I not find him? Calling out his name, a faint "here" comes from behind the bathroom door. I should have known he was in there, after all, where else would he be if he is not in the living room or his bedroom?
Taking a seat on the couch, my leg bounces up and down as I wait for him to leave the bathroom. What is taking him so long? I lean back on the armrest and fall on my back so I am staring at the ceiling. I take the time to think back to the therapy session that I had during lunch today. We finally made it to the point where I was ready to talk about the last year and how it impacted me. I can remember the range of emotions on her face as I went into detail about what happened. She looked shocked, scared, possibly proud. It is crazy to think about how someone's perception of you changes when they hear about some things that you have dealt with in your life. I don't think she really understood why I was going to her in the beginning, I mean, after all, all I had was neglectful parents who died and left me alone. Yes, that is a reason to see someone, but I think she could always tell there was something more.
She asked me whether there was something that could help me get my memories back, such as a journal or diary. It is important that I remember the past because that could be one of the main causes I am having these nightmares and thoughts: I have nothing else to think about aside from that because I don't have my memories.
Thinking about it, she may be right. I have my memories of Brandon, but even those are not very clear because there are still missing pieces about Damon, Carol, Dave, and Amelia.
Hearing the click of the bathroom lock, I pull my body back into a sitting up position and wait as Damon finally leaves the bathroom. It's another two minutes before Damon emerges from the bathroom, a cloud of steam trailing out behind him. I thought men took quick showers, he was in there for over twenty minutes…
"Hey, Rose. What's up? How was work?"
"Hey. Work was good. I actually have a question to ask you that is kinda important. Do you know if I kept a diary or journal that could help me get my memories back? It can literally be anything."
"You didn't have a diary, but you were writing a novel for your writing course. You were always working on it. I'm not sure what it is about, but maybe it will spark something."
Feeling hope rise within me, I ask further. "Do you know where the draft is now?"
"Your professor has it, I believe. You always carried it around and then one day you didn't have it anymore. I would try him first."
With newfound determination, I thank Damon and rush out the door. If I hurry, my professor may be there. Even without my newer memories, I know there is only one professor who assigns students a novel draft as their final project. I have had him for years now and it is very easy to navigate to his office. It has looked the same for all of my years here and it brings a sense of nostalgia. This is the office where I decided to become a writer, not just an editor, but a writer whose words could be heard and read around the world.
Knocking on the door, my professor opens it, a look of surprise on his face.
"Rose, how are you? What brings you here?"
Do people not know about what happened to me? On one hand that makes me relieved, I don't want anyone to really know, but on the other hand, it upsets me. Is everyone from my academic career just a small minor character in my life? Will I forget them in the future, the same way they will forget me? For some, I want them to travel throughout all the chapters in my life.
"Hi. I am good. How are you? I was hoping you had the draft of my novel we had to write for class. I can't find it in my apartment and I want to review it."
He's looking at me funny. Why is he looking at me like that?
"Uh, Rose? I suppose life has been crazy since you graduated and all. Uh… I don't have your manuscript. Remember we talked about getting it published? We sent it over to an editor that works in your building to see where we can take it when you finish it."
My mind draws a big blank. How could I forget that my work was in the process of getting published? I should have been working on it this whole time. I have so much to write about, I think.
"Of course! I remember that. Thank you again for all of your help with getting that done. I am really excited about getting published."
He still has this funny, confused look on his face. I don't think he buys what I am saying. I just can't believe that my work is going to get published when I finish it. I need to finish it soon. My whole life could change after that. I know it will change after that. I mean, once I am published, my words will be printed forever. I will have left a small mark on the world.
"Do- Do you need a copy of it, Rose? I can give you mine after I make a copy of it. I would love to use it as an example in my future classes. This is still okay with you, correct?"
"I'm sorry, but do you mind making a copy? I can do that if you want, I don't want to inconvenience you. And yes, I would love for you to use it as an example. It would be an honor."
"It is no problem at all, Rose. I would be happy to print you a copy. I can head upstairs now and do it if you need it."
"Yes, please. I misplaced my copy and want to pick up where I left off in the book. With work and everything I have not had much of a chance to write, but I don't want to lose my flow."
My flow is definitely gone especially since I cannot remember what the book is about, but he doesn't need to know that.
We stand at the printer for the next 30 minutes, scanning each page and making conversation about how my job is now. I tell him about how I am now meeting with some authors and we are taking the next steps to get him published. The rest of the time he talks about his new students and then asks me if I want to mentor a student of his who doesn't know what he wants to do but is a brilliant writer. I'm not sure what to say about his offer. I mean, my life is a mess right now, but maybe helping someone will then help me.
Of course, I say yes. This man has helped me with my future more times than I can count. This is my way of giving back for all of his generosity.
Grabbing the final stack of papers out of the printer, we head back up to his office where we decide to meet later this week to decide on a day where I can meet this student and get to know him better. I am nervous but so excited at the same time. Writing is my passion and even with everything going on, writing has always been my way to cope.
Walking out of his office, I scan the pages to see what I have written so far. A few names catch my eyes and I wonder if I found my diary. It seems to be my diary. But now a new question persists, why would I make my diary a novel?
My eyes continue to glance at the manuscript the whole way home and the minute I walk into the apartment, I sit in Damon's room and get to reading. A couple of chapters in and my head starts to pound as it did when I was with Brandon and my memories came back. I feel like I am learning everything about my friends again. I continue to read but have to stop shortly later when the pounding in my head doubles and I can no longer keep my eyes open. With a whimper of pain, darkness clouds my vision, a door bangs open and someone calls my name in a panic before I am pulled under.