Not any of the neighbors, who blissfully ignored her regardless of whether she was an extraordinary or a troubled woman with a drinking problem. But her own deep brown eyes in the reflection, the strands of tangled black hair, and the barely present face around it, lines etched all around from fatigue and worry and sheer lack of care.
Her phone chimed, not FoodFast, but HorrorDomain, the free movie app that only had free “classic” horror films in the public domain, blasting a notification for their pick of the week, Lo-Bot: Samurai Cyborg. She’d seen the first half of that 1970s sci-fi slasher flick before, and it sounded enticing enough to sit on a beer-stained carpet and finish the movie, but then a different chime rang out, a single bell while words flashed across the screen.
Reminder: San Delgado Memory Loss & Dementia Support Group
She’d lurked at that support group a few times, kept the time in her phone just in case. It didn’t make it onto her detective board because looking for clues felt easier than listening to people talk about losing their memories. Was her condition a form of dementia? Did amnesia and extraordinary strength go hand in hand? It’s not like she could show up and open up. The memory loss. The day drinking. The crime fighting/getting her anger out. None of it.
But maybe it was something. Just to go and listen.
Or maybe more than just listen.
It wasn’t like her life was exactly working.
5
OUT THERE, PEOPLE CALLED Jamie the Mind Robber. But in here, all of that was stripped away. Jamie looked at the faces, the eyes.
A sense of calm washed over him, something he hadn’t felt all day. He never talked at these things, but somehow just sitting there created a sense of ease. The other members of the group didn’t judge. They didn’t suspect. They simply brought empathy. But that always happened when he came. He’d justify and bargain and deny himself when the reminder appeared, but on the odd week he forced himself, it always wound up feeling right. Even if today was only because the police had come to his door.
And someday, he might even speak. Someday. For now, he listened.
“I’d like to welcome everyone to the San Delgado Memory Loss and Dementia Support Group. As always, we are sponsored by our friends at San Delgado General Hospital. Their guidance and medical support helps all of us. Whether you’re a caregiver, family member, friend or someone who experiences symptoms, you’re in good hands.”
Same speech as always. And soon, others would begin sharing their stories, either brain exercises they’d done to maintain the memory sharpness or the horror spawned from the chasm where thoughts and feelings used to exist. Sometimes during those stories, Jamie got the urge to blurt out, “But what if the memories were bad?” He never did, of course, yet the urge always danced on the periphery.
Jamie sat, reminded himself to keep moving forward, control only what he could.
“So, a few ground rules. My name is Ian Bradley and I’m the moderator, but that doesn’t mean that I’m the leader. I’m just directing the conversation and keeping things going. We have an open sharing forum for the first thirty minutes or however long you need, then we’ll discuss specific topics—this week’s is new research released on the latest in dementia prevention.”
In the room, a mix of people nodded. Jamie wondered who they were, whether they came because they faced growing pockets of missing memories or because they worked with people who dealt with that kind of mental reset on a daily basis—the kind of reset he’d experienced two years ago.
But really, what happened to him was unlike anyone else here. Amnesia, sure it happened, but coupling it with extraordinary abilities probably wasn’t in any textbook. Not for the senior citizens, some of whom sat with their adult children, and not the handful of people who showed up in hospital scrubs. And certainly not the Asian woman with slightly disheveled hair and deep bags under her eyes, seemingly decades of weariness on her despite probably being only in her late twenties. Jamie thought he’d seen her at a previous meeting, perhaps once or twice in passing, though he was pretty sure she’d never shared before.
She, like him, probably felt safer lurking. At least that’s what her posture said, her slumped shoulders and downward gaze more appropriate for a child in trouble than a medical support group.
“I see some new faces today. Remember, some people are caregivers and some are suffering from this disease. Because of this mix, I’d ask you to refrain from using last names. This anonymity allows us to be honest. It’s a safe space here.”
A safe space. The mere idea tickled Jamie in a way, igniting feelings that he...well, most people would have compared them to some sort of idyllic childhood or precious moment. Those didn’t exist for him. But it felt good. Around the dingy meeting hall of the San Delgado East Side YMCA, people opened themselves up, one by one. José, who was an Alzheimer’s researcher and explained how he had to counsel doctors on working with patients. Billie, who had lost four years of her memory following a car crash and battled depression despite the support of her husband and teenage son. Chung, who broke down while trying to explain that he had to introduce himself to his father every time he visited.
“Anyone else?” Ian looked around the room. The only response came in the form of the occasional cough and squeaking of chairs. “Last chance before we move on to our topic of the week.”
Across the room, the quiet woman flicked her eyes up. From Jamie’s angle, he could see her glance at the moderator before they met gazes. Jamie tried to offer a welcoming smile, but she dropped the connection, blending back into the harshness of the room made only bleaker by the fluorescent lighting. Everyone sat silent when the lights suddenly flickered; it went black for a good second or two, and Jamie swore he saw a bright blue flash before the lights came back on.
“Last call for shares. Going once? Going twice? And—”
“I’d like to say something,” the woman said. She shuffled in her chair, as if her coat would swallow her whole. “My name is Zoe. And I suffer from memory loss.”
“Hi, Zoe,” Ian said. “I’m sorry to hear that. Take as much time as you need.”
“Well, I...” Her voice was dry, the sound barely escaping, though her sigh filled the room. “I’m sorry, I just don’t talk about this. But I can’t remember much of my childhood. I can’t remember much of my life really.”
“Zoe, I have to tell you that we are a support group, not a diagnostic clinic. Most of us are caregivers or friends or family. We are all sympathetic to your situation, but we can’t offer medical advice. We are, though, here to listen.”
Zoe’s black hair swished back and forth as she nodded. “Right, right. It’s cool. I’m not, like, looking for a cure. It’s just...hard, you know. You feel like there’s something behind the curtain, something there, something holding you back. My memory, it’s like a black hole. It just sucks me in but it’s too strong and you can’t see anything. It’s just there.”