The Memory

Part Two — The Memory I spent the next three days pretending nothing had happened. It was easier that way. My mother pretended too. She went to work. I went to school. We ate dinner at the same table. We discussed ordinary things. The weather. Homework. Bills. A broken tap. Neither of us mentioned the word Elena. Neither of us mentioned the room in the attic. Neither of us mentioned the cassette. But something had changed. I had started noticing the gaps. The first was my childhood. I remembered being six. I remembered being seven. I remembered my first day at school. But whenever I tried to remember anything before the age of five, my mind became strangely blank. Not fuzzy. Blank. As though somebody had painted over those years. The second gap was my name. My mother had called me Mara for as long as I could remember. But I couldn't remember the first time she said it. The third gap was my father. I remembered his face. His laugh. His hands. I remembered him teaching me to ride a bicycle. But I couldn't remember his death. He had supposedly died when I was eight. A heart attack. That's what my mother always said. But I couldn't remember the funeral. I couldn't remember the hospital. I couldn't remember seeing his body. Nothing. I began keeping a notebook. Every time I remembered something, I wrote it down. Most memories were harmless. Blue curtains. A red balloon. A dog barking. Rain. My father's watch. Then I remembered the basement. I had been there before. Not once. Many times. There was a door behind the furnace. I found it on the fourth day. The lock was already broken. Inside was a room filled with boxes. At the bottom of one box, I found my birth certificate. I expected the date. The hospital. My mother's name. Instead, I found a photocopy. MARINA VALE Female. Born June 14. The year was twenty years earlier. I stared at the paper. Twenty years earlier. The same date Elena disappeared. I was seventeen. The mathematics didn't make sense. Then I noticed the word handwritten across the bottom. ORIGINAL DESTROYED. I found another document. A newspaper article. Then another. Then a police report. I read until my hands stopped shaking. Elena Vale had disappeared on June 14. Her younger sister, Mara Vale, had been declared dead that same night. I sat on the basement floor. There were two girls. Elena. Mara. Not one. Two. I had been looking for the wrong girl. I ran upstairs. My mother was in the kitchen. “What happened to Mara?” She dropped a glass. It shattered. “Mom.” She stared at me. “Who told you?” “You did.” “I never—” “You called me Mara.” Her face collapsed. I stepped closer. “Who was Mara?” My mother whispered: “You.” The room went silent. “But I'm here.” “Yes.” “Then why does the report say I died?” My mother began crying. “Because you were supposed to.” I didn't understand. She sat down. I remained standing. “Tell me.” She covered her face. “Your father was dangerous.” I felt something cold move through me. “What does that mean?” “He was cruel.” “To me?” “To both of you.” The words came slowly. Like stones being pulled from deep water. “You and Elena were sisters. Twins.” I stared at her. Twins. The photograph. The identical faces. The girl laughing. The girl crying. “I was the crying one.” My mother nodded. “Your father favored Elena.” “Why?” “I don't know.” She looked away. “He used to say you were weak.” I couldn't speak. “On the night you disappeared, your father came home drunk.” My mother stopped. “What happened?” “You and Elena were upstairs.” “And?” “He attacked you.” My stomach turned. “Where was Elena?” “Between you and him.” A memory flashed. A door. A hand. Elena screaming. My father falling. Then blood. “So Elena killed him.” My mother nodded. “Accidentally.” “And then?” “I found you unconscious.” “What happened to Elena?” My mother's eyes met mine. “She was terrified.” “So you changed my identity?” “No.” The answer was immediate. “I changed hers.” I stopped. “What?” “You were unconscious. Elena was conscious. She believed she'd killed your father.” My mother swallowed. “She wanted to confess.” “And you stopped her.” “I couldn't lose another child.” “So you made her Mara.” My mother didn't answer. I felt sick. “All these years…” “She forgot.” “You made her forget?” “I tried to save her.” “You erased her.” My mother flinched. The word hung between us. Erased. I left the house. I went to Mrs. Bell. She opened the door before I knocked. “You know,” she said. “Yes.” “Not enough.” “What don't I know?” She stepped aside. Her house smelled of lavender and old paper. On the wall were photographs. Hundreds of them. I saw my mother. My father. Elena. Me. And one photograph that made my blood freeze. Mrs. Bell was standing beside my father. His hand was around her waist. They were smiling. “How well did you know my father?” “Too well.” “Were you lovers?” She looked at me. “Yes.” I couldn't move. “He wasn't the man your mother thought he was,” she said. “What does that mean?” “He didn't die accidentally.” The room seemed to grow smaller. “What?” “Elena didn't kill him.” “But my mother said—” “Your mother believed she did.” Mrs. Bell walked to a cabinet. She removed a cassette. “This is the truth.” I didn't want to take it. But I did. At home, I played it. A man's voice filled the room. My father's. “You're making this difficult.” Then my mother's voice. “Leave them alone.” A crash. A child crying. Then Elena. “Please stop.” My father's voice again. “You think anyone will believe you?” Then a scream. A loud impact. Silence. I heard my mother whisper: “Oh God.” Then another voice. Mrs. Bell. “Don't touch him.” The tape ended. I stared at the machine. My father had not died from a heart attack. Someone had killed him. But who? I went back to the attic. The cassette had been recorded twenty years ago. But there was something else in the box. A diary. The handwriting looked like mine. The first page said: I am writing this because I know I will forget. I turned the page. My name is Mara. Another page. Elena is my sister. Another. Dad is going to kill us. Another. Mom knows. The final page contained only one sentence. If I disappear, find the woman next door. I dropped the diary. Mrs. Bell. I went back to her house. She wasn't there. Her front door was unlocked. Inside, I found photographs. Medical records. Old cassette tapes. And a folder marked: PROJECT MEMORY My hands trembled as I opened it. The first page contained my name. MARA VALE Underneath: Subject displays severe dissociation. The second page: Memory replacement successful. The third: Subject responds to name “Elena.” I stopped. Subject. Not patient. Subject. Someone had been experimenting on me. I turned the page. There was a photograph of Mrs. Bell. Underneath it: Dr. Eleanor Bell. Psychiatrist. My mother's signature appeared on the next page. Then my father's. Then another signature. I recognized it. Mine. Except it was dated twenty years ago. I sat down. The room was spinning. I found one final tape. I pressed play. A child's voice. Mine. “If you're hearing this, they lied.” I closed my eyes. “Mom thinks she's protecting me.” A pause. “She isn't.” Another pause. “Mrs. Bell says forgetting is the only way.” The child began crying. “But I don't want to forget.” Static. Then: “If I forget, I need to leave myself a message.” The recording ended. I looked at the desk. There was a sheet of paper. My handwriting. Written recently. THREE KNOCKS. I understood. Three. Two. Three. It wasn't a warning. It was a signal. I knocked on the desk. Three times. Paused. Two. Paused. Three. A hidden panel opened behind the bookshelf. Inside was a small metal box. I opened it. There was a key. And a photograph. This time, the photograph showed two little girls. One was me. The other was Elena. But someone had written names underneath. MARA ELENA Then crossed them out. Underneath: SWITCHED. I heard footsteps behind me. Mrs. Bell stood in the doorway. “You shouldn't have found that.” I held up the photograph. “Who am I?” She didn't answer. “Who am I?” “You're Elena.” “No.” She looked at me. For the first time, I saw something like pity in her face. “You're beginning to remember.” “What happened that night?” “You killed your father.” I shook my head. “The tape says otherwise.” “The tape is incomplete.” “You lied to me.” “I protected you.” “From what?” She stepped closer. “From yourself.” Then she said something that made the room go silent. “Your sister is still alive.” I stopped breathing. “Elena?” Mrs. Bell nodded. “She's been here the whole time.” “Where?” Mrs. Bell pointed toward the photograph. “You're looking at her.” I stared at the two girls. One laughing. One crying. And suddenly I remembered. Not the night my father died. The morning after. Elena standing beside my bed. Holding my hand. Whispering: “Don't tell them which one you are.” I remembered her face. Her tears. Her fear. And then another memory came. A needle. A bright light. My mother's voice. Mrs. Bell saying: “It's better if neither girl remembers.” I looked at Mrs. Bell. “What did you do to us?” She didn't answer. “What did you do?” She whispered: “We gave you both new lives.” “Why?” “Because one of you killed him.” I stared at her. “Which one?” Mrs. Bell smiled. And for the first time, I understood why my mother had always been afraid of the truth. Because the truth wasn't that I had forgotten who I was. The truth was that someone had made sure I would never know which girl I was.