All of that happened. I have proof.
So why would someone—and let’s be clear here, there is only one someone capable of doing this to me—why would they prevent me from accessing anything but the sanctioned story of Indie and Nate?
That’s why I want to go backwards. That’s the missing piece here. It’s Nathan.
Something about him is wrong. I just don’t know which part.
Was it the way we met? Was it the way we spent our days? Was it the love? What? Which part is the lie?
There has to be a lie in there somewhere. That’s the only way this erasure makes sense.
And I need to know this. I will not die before I get these answers. And this is a tricky thing. Because no one knows when they’re gonna die. It might happen today. I could… I dunno. Trip and fall down the fucking porch steps and hit my head so hard, my brain swells up like Adam’s did when I hit him with the candlestick. Or hell, someone could hit me with a candlestick.
I will not die without figuring out the boy next door.
I refuse.
Because I miss him. And I want him back, even if it’s just in a memory. And now that I know someone has fucked up my head about Nathan, I can’t trust any of those memories.
Except the one where I kill him, of course. That one seems to be one-hundred-percent accurate.
I try not to think about that too much because I know there’s no way to change what happened that day. There is no way to take it back and make him real again.
But it hurts to think about Nathan. And every time I try to write in that journal and his name comes out the end of that pen, it kills me.
It kills me.
But no matter how hard I try, I can’t go backwards. Not even in my own mind.
And that’s just not right.
It needs to be fixed.
I place a small digital recorder on the table in my new living room and wait.
Donovan shoots me a quizzical look. “What’s all this?”
Getting him over to this part of the house was a process in patience. Adam and McKay are outside in the pavilion watching TV with Maggie. We had dinner out there, then I asked Donovan to come inside and help me clean up. And after we finished, he was just about to head back outside, and probably leave for Pearl Springs, when I stopped him in the hallway and asked him to come with me. And that’s how we got over here.
“This as in”—I cock my head at him—“this room? Or the recorder?”
“What’s going on, Indie?”
I huff out a little breath. “Well, this is my new space. Do you like it?”
He looks around the room, takes it all in. “Hmm. It’s OK, I guess. Kinda hot in here.” He tugs at the collar of his button-down shirt to prove his point.
“I know. I just turned the AC on this afternoon. But it’ll get better soon.”
“So… why do you need space? And why are we recording this conversation?”
“It’s not on yet. But the two go together, actually.”
“OK.” His eyes narrow down at me. “Do you plan on explaining that?”
I let out another long exhale. “I need more answers, Donovan.”
“About what? I gave you all the tapes I have. I didn’t hold any back. I’m not going to be Adam’s scapegoat. I’m not hiding anything from you.”
“Adam’s not going to make you the scapegoat. And that doesn’t even make any sense. We’re all to blame here. You aren’t any more responsible for this mess than the rest of us. We all played our part.”
“That’s how I see it too. And I’m not saying he’ll blame me right away, but he’ll get around to it eventually. I’m done treating you, Indie. I’m not qualified, I’m not—”
“Stop it. Just stop it. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”
“Doubtful.”
“It’s not about anything we’ve already covered. It’s about… before, Donovan. Before Adam and McKay. Before the snake cage. Before all of that. I don’t remember much of it. Actually,” I amend, “I don’t remember any of it.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Some things are better left buried.”
“I don’t believe that and neither do you. We all need the truth eventually.”
He shakes his head a little, disagreeing. “I think looking backwards is a bad idea.”
“Oh? Then why do you disappear to your office in Pearl Springs every chance you get, hm?” I raise my own eyebrows back at him. “I know what you do there.”
He frowns at me. “Is that right?”
I nod. “Yup. You’re looking for answers about your past too. I broke in and snooped. Don’t worry.” I put a hand up to stop his outrage and protest. “I didn’t read your files or listen to your tapes. I’m not an asshole. It’s just pretty clear that you’re looking for answers. You’re kind of OCD about labeling shit, Donovan. You should probably stop doing that if you don’t want anyone to know what you’re up to.”
“It’s science, Indie. I need accurate records of things. Labeling is an important part of that process.”
“Hey, I’m not here to confront you, OK? I’m just saying that we both have missing parts and it’s not fair. This isn’t normal, Donovan, and you know that. That’s all I’m saying. You feel it too and that’s why you’re searching for answers.”
He inhales sharply, then walks over to the window and looks out at the untended garden. He turns back. “Do you know anything about it?”
“About what?”
“My past.”
I laugh. “You’re asking me, Donovan? I know less than anyone about everything.”
He turns to the window again. “Sometimes I feel that way too.”
“You do?”
He nods. “Yeah. Shit doesn’t add up, Indie.”
“What kind of shit?” I’m keenly interested in this. I have never thought much about Donovan’s childhood before. None of them, really. Maybe Adam’s a little bit because he grew up here at Old Home like me, so we have that in common. But it was all very casual and in the moment. I don’t sit around wondering about people other than myself. Which doesn’t say much about my capacity for empathy, but what can I do? This was a default setting programmed into me a long time ago.
Donovan turns back and walks over to a dusty, overstuffed chair covered by a white sheet. He takes the sheet off and drops into a heap off to the side, then sinks down into the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him and sighing deeply. He plays with his lip a little, kinda pinching it between his fingers, looking around randomly.
He exhales again. “Carter,” he says. “Mostly.”
“I wish I could help you. I’m not just saying that, either. I really do. You helped me a lot over the years, whether you think so or not. And I know I was kind of a bitch to you that night I listened to the tapes with McKay, but I was wrong to yell at you like that. I was wrong to blame you. I’ve listened to that tape like a hundred times since then and I really do believe you were scared.”
His eyes find mine immediately. They are dark, like his hair. He’s different than the rest of us in that respect. Not part of the same gene pool, obviously. “I was afraid. I had been for a long time before… everything fell apart.”