If You Forget | ✓

Chapter 4

The pleasant smell of fresh food tickles my senses, waking me up from my slumber. I slowly blink, trying to adjust my eyes to the morning light, only to see my mom quietly closing the door of my room with one hand, while holding a tray full of food in another. When she sees I'm awake, she smiles and brings the tray to my bed.

"Morning," she says as she sits on the edge of my bed. "I didn't want to scare you. I brought you some breakfast."

I look at the food, and my mouth waters at the sight. There is a plate full of delicious-looking waffles and some fruit. I thank her, and she leans in and leaves a kiss on my forehead.

"Do you want to make some paper crafts with me later?" she asks me.

I think about it for a second. It's something I'm supposed to like, something familiar to me. Maybe if I do so, I will remember something; be a step closer to the truth.

"Sure. Is there anything in particular we'll be making?"

"Not really, unless you have something in mind." She gives a glance to the interior of my room and its bland, almost empty walls. "We could make something for your room, though. It wouldn't hurt to add some colors in it."

"Oh, of course," I reply after a minute of contemplating. "I don't really have a preference."

For a split second, I catch her melancholic gaze, but the moment is over before I have the time to soak it in. "I thought it might remind you of something, maybe refresh your memory."

I wonder what to say to that, but decide to change the topic in the end. "I'll come downstairs after I eat and get dressed."

"Sounds good. I'll be in the living room in the meantime." She nods quickly, before getting up from my bed and leaving the room.

As I promised her, I finish my breakfast quickly and head downstairs with the tray she brought me, now lighter of the food that was previously placed on it. I stop by the kitchen to leave all the dishes in the sink, impatient to join my mom in the living room.

Once I step inside, I find her on the couch, surrounded with a bunch of colorful papers, scissors, and tubes of glue. She looks completely in her element as she carefully cuts a piece of paper, her eyebrows furrowed in a concentrated expression.

I feel a prick of guilt when I look at her like that, because it's clear how much she likes art in any form. As a museum curator, she was surrounded by art all day, but she took a month-long leave from work so she could take care of me. Unlike her, my dad is a manager of one of our local stores, so he can't take such a long leave whenever he wishes to.

"Oh, you're here," she says when she finally notices me standing here and watching her. "What are you waiting for? Come here." She moves her art supplies, and then pats the freshly decluttered space on the couch.

I walk over to her and grab a baby pink sheet of paper from a small pile. She explains the process to me, and after a few minutes, I already have a couple of small stars laying in front of me. As it turns out, this isn't hard to make, so maybe not all hope is lost.

My hands pick up the pace on their own in no time, so I let my thoughts wander freely as I work with the paper. This feels like a perfect morning, and I wonder how many times we went through this same scenario in the past. I may not remember it, but it seems that my hands do. When I was in the hospital, Dr. Brennan—a psychiatrist who treated me—told me that the skills I had should stay intact despite my memory loss, and now I believe she was right, at least about this.

"We already have a lot of stars, do you want to try something else now?" Mom asks me, interrupting my thoughts.

I nod and move all the stars we made aside. She wants to teach me how to make origami, so I sit and carefully soak in all of her explanations. We decide to start with a simple cat, and after a lot of her guidance, I manage to make almost an exact replica of hers.