Nostalgia

Fragment 4: June 5, 2017

On the first day of senior high, I felt an impulse of wanting to feel the wind hitting my face. So instead of taking the bus, I dragged my bike from the garage and set out into the road. The sun was already peeking out from the horizon by that time, casting the small frame houses of Dawsbury in a faint yellow glow. I stopped by the Chatterbox Café for breakfast before briskly pedaling my way out the gate.

With my palms clutching at the rubber handlebars, I gently turned the bike- adjacent Aeston Freeway to my left and sparse woods and shrubbery to my right. Dawsbury is part of a series of largely inconspicuous towns, collectively known as "The Chain" (coined by the legendary Cinelli Joanne herself), these pockets of civilization separated only by the occasional farmland and small forests- red oak, maple, some spruce and pine, birch, alder, and thick brush, except where chicken coops have been placed, persist as a delicate balance of commodities. For example, most, if not all restaurants and family diners (which always seem to be on the verge of bankruptcy) are found at Dawsbury.

It's a quiet town, just a fifteen-minute trip via bike to Dolores, where much of the day someone from the around two hundred souls living there could stand in the middle of Main Street and not be in anyone's way- not forever; but for as long as one would want to stand in the middle of the street. Main Street is quite large, too. The people who built the place must've thought they were laying out the Boston of the East and needed it wide to handle the influx of traffic. The double white stripes are for show, and so are the two obsolete parking meters that nobody uses since (a.) very few actually own a car, and on the off-chance that you do, you wouldn't bother with it since (b.) you most likely have your own garage and (c.) free parking is practically everywhere.

I rode down the cracked asphalt with the progressively diminishing Dawsbury behind me. I hummed a tune I just made up. The rising sun continued to light the gradient blue sky, and the chilly morning air splashed against my face like a cold shower. A sensation ran up the small of my back and I think I felt the premonitions of what looks to be the makings of a promising day.

---

The shadows grew heavier and heavier, cascading down from the swaying elms to the park below. Nurses pushed patients on wheelchairs, the latter of which was dressed in the same mute green from the sheets of the bed. The light continued to dim, gradually draining the color from the then blue skies and subsequently replaced to various hues of orange and yellow, and after a few minutes, purple, and then, inexorably so, just black.

I withdrew the curtains from the window and resumed to my thoughts. The incessant buzzing finally gnawed on my nerves, and after the eleventh or twelfth ring, I figured it wouldn't stop. I reached for the receiver, and mustering the slightest energy I have left, said, "Hi."

"Jaylen, is that you? That's you, right?" I readjusted the smooth plastic on my ear. Although the audio cackled and was marred with static, the voice was undeniably feminine.

"This is Jaylen."

"Oh, Jaylen! Thank God," she exhaled, the air slowly passing through her lips. "I hope you're alright. I'm so sorry I called this late, I'm out of town right now and I was searching for a reception for hours. Don't worry, I'll make sure to call again when I have the chance, I'll be home in a few days."

I rose from bed and planted my one good foot on the cold marble floor. I used the crutch to leverage myself a few paces on the new "lower maintenance" room. After a few obvious exclusions (the cardiograph, some medicine cabinets, the fancy tilting bed), you would have a difficult time even noticing anything different- exact dimensions, every bit as white and bland, but was now equipped with a television set, a window, and also this phone, running across the ceiling and ending conveniently at just an arm's reach from my bed, which I am deeply irritated yet transfixed by. I refuse to have it removed.

"Hello, I'm confused with a lot of things, but I'm fine right now." I said. I paused and wondered if now was an appropriate time to ask. "Are you Jennie? My mom?"

A few seconds of crackling. A few seconds of reality settling in. "Yes, this is your mother."

I opened my mouth but didn't spoke. No words seem to be right.

"I read Erin's texts. Those letters she gave you, the ones inside that box," my eyes traveled to the foot of the bed, the box lying untouched, "she spent a lot of time on those, going around campus, coaxing people- even those who spoke with you maybe once or twice- to write the things they remembered you by. She told me that when she asked them, no one really complained. They even detailed how nice of a person you are without even knowing who you are. What I'm trying to say is, it's human nature, for people to naturally flock towards the weak and injured, and for them to suddenly care when they didn't before."

Weak and injured. The phrase echoed. Looping and repeating in the empty chasm that was once Jaylen Harper.

"Anyways- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to rant out. Too much coffee. I just called in to check on you. I'll make sure to visit. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will," I said, half-wondering what taking care of myself meant.

"We love you very much. I hope you remember that. Bye honey."

"Bye," The line was already dead.

---

Here's a brief history lesson. The Chain stretches back to the mid 90's, founded by Unitarian missionaries and Yankee promoters- incorporated under state laws but omitted from the map due to the incompetence of surveyors. The then rich farmlands' value skyrocketed once news got out that there would be a station here for the railing system that would soon be built, cutting across the interstate. To capitalize on commerce, different stakeholders ate the land up, the largest one was bought out by Delora (which I think used to be a major ice cream company, I think) and named the land Dolores, after itself. Which, come to think of it, the residents there would've been living in a town named after a soft served dessert. The groundwork for the train tracks had already been built. Basic infrastructures rose in what was practically the middle of nowhere. A few years later, just as early settlers began situating themselves in the promising community, someone in charge must've decided that the future cannot be found anywhere near here, so abruptly they called it a day, packed their bags and left town.

I exited the freeway and unto the hard, packed dirt. I rode along the side of a small elevation of gravel and soil in the field where the viridian grass has parted to reveal the abandoned tracks from yesteryear. The slightly rusted silver reflected the sunlight, giving a dull tint. I treaded through the woods, already knowing the path by heart.

Arriving at the front of DSHS, guiding my bike at the side, I took my first underwhelming step inside as a senior high student. I took a breath and paused, maybe to see if I had somehow changed as a person (I did not), and then took out two locks and straddled my bike on the rack.

"Trigonometry, Statistics, Geometry, Calculus," Peter said, his forehead against the desk. I stared at his frizzy dark clumps, awkwardly standing at opposite ends of each other, giving him the permanent bedhead hair. I sat down next to him and rummaged through my bag.

"We don't have enough Math in our lives," he continued, still not looking up. I took out the folded slip of paper and opened it, smoothening out the creases in the process. My eyes glossed over the subjects Peter mentioned, and then some.

"Nothing seems to be enough," I said.

We started the morning with the usual dose of enigmatic banter. I asked him about his break, "Started too late, ended too soon." I asked him about Alaska, the stray mutt he adopted three years ago, "Four legs, a tail, and a very wet snout. Still living, I guess." I asked him about his sketching, "My magnum opus which I now have a name for, 'A Starry Night', is about near completion." I told him that it was a bad name and too eerily similar to another, more famous painting, but he refused to listen to me. Then, over the clamor of hundreds of voices in the enclosed cafeteria, I asked him why he was looking at Erin funny.

"You realize that Jay over here has never joined anything in his life," he said.

"I joined Boy Scouts once." I nodded to Cinelli for confirmation.

"I call BS, Boy Scouts has never existed in The Chain," Cinelli said. She peeled off a chunk of chicken skin from my plate and tossed it in her mouth.

"Did not exist formally," I clarified. In retaliation, I picked up my fork and scooped some of her pasta.

I remembered Mom accompanying me up the hill behind my old elementary school where we- classmates, neighbors, a couple of kids from other towns- met every Friday to raise Old Glory, truly a satisfying moment, the triangle unfolded and the eyelets clipped to the lanyard. We passed salutes all around our makeshift organization, a summer fling concocted by mothers living in a town so small that offered so little real ceremony. Up it went, snapping in the wind, and for a moment I felt like I belonged somewhere. The feeling is short-lived, however. Why not a speech, a few maneuvers, rifle shots, some sort of prayer?

"Sorry Erin, you'll have to try recruiting again next year," Cinelli said, wiping grease off her face with a napkin. Her eyes shot to Peter across from us. "Jaylen does not join anything, for real."

"Uhm, not really. He joined the school newspaper last school year, albeit inactive, still a member nonetheless," Erin tapped at her phone and showed the screen to us. "Does this look familiar?"

I looked to where her finger was pointing. Pastels of yellow and orange painted the sky as the sun further sinks beneath the ocean. The cerulean waves were frozen- as well as the nearby palms and oaks in the midst of a breeze- caught in the middle of crashing on the rocky precipice. A massive cemented column rises from the earth, a beam of light shines at the top, constant and bright, towards the distant blue.

"Isn't that the lighthouse in Gensan City?" Peter asked.

"Yep. Stunning, right?" she replied.

I discerned the photo's details, searching to see if there was any variation from memory. "How'd you get that?"

"I found this in the archive of the submitted entries," Erin said. "Turns out it was the only thing you submitted the whole year, and for the winter issue at that. It didn't make the cut, unsurprisingly," Erin said.

Peter turned to me and proclaimed, "You joined the newspaper?"

"Shocking," Cinelli deadpanned. She took the remainder of skin on my plate.

"Well, he's technically a member," Erin said. She took the seat beside Peter. "Signed the forms and everything. Just doesn't contribute all that much, you guys didn't know?"

I raised my hands defensively, "I made the decision on a whim. It was around a year ago- Club Day- and I wanted to do something remotely interesting with my life so I figured I'd be a part of something important."

"Your life must be so dull, for you to think that," Cinelli said.

I gave her a sidelong glance and scooped up more pasta. "Your life must be so interesting then?"

"Compared to yours."

"Like when that time your father was out of town, I had to consistently wake you up and make you breakfast 'cause you'll sleep in 'till the afternoon?"

"You weren't obligated to do it."

"Yes, I was! Your dad personally asked me to! He even handed me the house keys!"

Cinelli shrugs and said, "I have no fond emotions attached to the memory, so it doesn't count."

"But seriously, this is wasted potential." All eyes turned back to Erin. "Uh, if you ask me. Jaylen should probably join or in this case, renew his membership or something."

Silence fell on the canteen table for a while. I thought about the act of attaching emotions to memories and articulating emotions, and an idea came to mind. We tended to our food- except for Erin, who was probably scrolling through Twitter- as the eventual lull in the conversation passed.

After finishing my plate, I cleared my throat and finally said, "Fine, I'll think about it." That I can at least do.

"You're thinking?" Erin chipped excitedly.

"Yes, I'm thinking."

"What is it that you're thinking?"

I looked to my left at Cinelli. Her auburn hair was blocking most of her face, but they always seem to part with the eyes so that they're always available. Reaching down, I pinched her arm and smiled up at her.

"What?" she asked.

"Those poems we traded each other?"

"Yeah?"

"Yours were genuinely awesome. So, I've come to this wonderful epiphany: Erin, I'll join your club if Cin here also joins. She's an astounding poet. As far as I can see, it's a win-win situation."

"I don't see how Cinelli wins," Peter said. Peter was dumb.

"Shut up, you dumb," I replied.

Cinelli perked up to me. "What are you talking about? I write for fun, those aren't meant to be publicized!"

"That's perfect!" Erin chuckled and said, "We'll make arrangements for Cinelli. I'll message you guys later."

"Wait, no! I don't want to join anything. I don't even write any literature, hey!" Cinelli said to Erin, who was already happily walking away.

"That's settled then. Cin, you'll be sinking with me."

She groans then shrugs, resigning to her fate. "I'll get you back soon, Jaylen Harper, and you'll regret the day you crossed me."

---

On the morning, I met my therapist for the first time. A bright and wide-eyed blonde wearing a black polo-shirt not buttoned all the way up, which was the first thing I noticed when she walked into the room. Already her attire and appearance a stark contrast from the people I see around here.

She introduced herself as Dr. Charlotte Murphy but insisted that our first rule (among what I presume to be tons more) was to skip the formalities. She insisted on being addressed as Charlotte for the duration of our indefinite therapy sessions. I said, "Hi, Ms. Charlotte."

"Please, refer to me as just Charlotte," she said, hints of laughter building beneath her throat but not quite surfacing, and rested the notebook she was holding on her lap. "So, tell me Jaylen, how've you been doing the past few days?"

"I guess I'm doing fine."

"That's good to hear. Getting acquainted to hospital life I see."

"Sure."

"So, tell me, what was it like, waking up for the first time?"

I looked up at the tiled ceiling. The memory felt so distant. It already feels like ages ago. "It felt… odd, like- how do I describe this into words- surfacing from darkness. Like rising from a pool of just emptiness but it wasn't because I came from it so it must mean something's there but not really? Am I making sense? Okay, so suddenly coming into contact with all these senses and things to interact with. I can remember vividly the state of panic I was in, not knowing what was going on and feeling powerless to remedy it, I just let myself flow, like a movie or something, and let go for a while, but then the cloud settles and you start to rationalize things piece by piece and to churn in the information given to you- which is not much, by the way, but it still helps."

Dr. Murphy nods and writes down a few notes. "This is very interesting Jaylen. And are there any memories you can recall prior to waking?"

"No, I've tried."

"You've been hearing a lot of this by now but you've been diagnosed with post-traumatic amnesia, do you understand what this means?"

"Not fully, no."

"A traumatic incident has occurred which has become a catalyst for your subsequent memory loss. Something truly horrifying must have occurred to have triggered such a self-destructive defense mechanism. Now, my working theory is that you are capable of recalling certain memories but only partly as your memories are still chained behind this trauma. Certain events might cause some memories to be pulled from that 'vault' as we'll call it that might give you a few slivers of memories, but in order for you to be truly unshackled, we must find the source of trauma and somehow overcome it. That's what we'll be trying to do here, do you understand?"

I nodded.

"For the next few days, we'll be taking a series of activities that'll help you regain your cognitive skills. For today I'll just run a quick set of questions, answer truthfully now, okay?"

"Yes."

Dr. Murphy flipped a few pages and guided her index finger through the lines.

"What do you think nostalgia is? Have you felt it before?"

---

Fragment 5: June 9, 2017

Mr. Hyde was busying himself on some test papers splayed across the table. One hand under his stubble chin and the other scratched his chalk-dust hair. He briefly glanced at the wall clock from the other end of the room, and then, perhaps for confirmation or just from habit, looked to his analog wristwatch. He collected the papers and nestled them under the desk's drawer, cleared his throat, and rose from his seat.

"Quiet down everyone," he said in his thick wet voice, akin to someone having a throat illness. I half-expected him to start checking for attendance but he briskly walked outside the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Mild confusion fell on the class.

"What's up?" I nudged Peter, who was sketching something on the corner of his yellow pad paper.

He shrugged. "Not a clue."

Mr. Hyde reentered the class, followed shortly after by a student wearing our uniform- a white polo with sharp collars and a smooth gray vest with the school's logo emblazoned on the left chest pouch. His features were lean, his fitted pants lightly hugged his evident leg muscles. His wavy blond hair bounced as he semi-jogged behind Mr. Hyde, who appeared small next to him

"Before we start homeroom, I'd like you all to meet our new transfer student coming all the way from California," Mr. Hyde said. He motions for the boy. "Please, introduce yourself."

He awkwardly waved at the class. "Hi, I'm Joshua Averill. I like all forms of media; gaming, watching movies, reading- my favorites are from Al Martinez and Thomas Starling."

Something was particularly odd about Joshua. There's something in me that is tingling, like he might be someone familiar, somebody I know.

"Joshua," I said quietly, testing if the name had any resonance.

"Joshua, Joshua, Josh," I repeated. "Josh?" A millisecond passes. A few heads turn.

"Yeah, uh, hi," he said, nodding to me. I studied his face to make sure I wasn't mistaken. Our eyes lock. Another millisecond passes.

"…Julian?"

"Uhh," Peter sounded between his lips, his mouth slightly ajar. He looked between Josh and me.

"It's Jaylen," I said, my voice small.

"Jaylen?" he asked. "Jaylen. Jaylen!"

It was a freakishly small world.

---

"Nostalgia, isn't that the longing for the days that have already passed? I'm a victim of that, but I only long for the days that never happened."