Remember Me - Part 20: Remembering My #life was becoming one, boring routine. After my last trip to the treehouse, each day just seemed to roll into the next. Weeks went by, and the only thing I remembered was how my ceiling looked each morning: dull and white. My dad went back to work, and the guys didn’t stop by as much. I felt like a zombie or something, like I wasn’t really living, just existing. And, the weird thing was that I didn’t really want to put effort into anything I did. I had been trying to before the scene in the cafeteria, but it didn’t really feel satisfying in any way. The guys had asked me to hang out after school a few times this past month, but I always said no. I don’t know what it was, but the idea of not having a past made me not want to appreciate anything in the present. I tried my time with various, little projects in the house, like taking up photography, and my dad said I got some really good shots, but I didn’t have any deep passion for doing it, and I didn’t get any happiness out of it. I felt hopeless, worthless... and I just had to wait it out until I regained my memory. It was the beginning of March now, and I felt like it was time I took care of the treehouse. A few days ago, I wrote in my journal what I wanted to do to the treehouse and its components. I went through our shed looking for good tools to do the deeds with. I found a few, but I felt like I needed better ones. Yesterday, I asked my dad where Mr. Dan lived so I could “give him a visit”, and he gave me directions. Mr. Dan was working in his garage when I arrived, building some type of contraption. I told him I wanted to make some modifications to the treehouse and needed to borrow some tools. Before he threw them in a wheelbarrow and sent me off, I got a few quick tutorials on how to use them, because I mentioned it had “been a while”, and I needed some “refreshing” on how to use them. After grabbing a few matches, my tripod, camera, and journal from inside, I went out to the shed again and grabbed a few plastic paint buckets. I lugged them out to the spot in the woods where I had hid the wheelbarrow yesterday and started off. Dangling from the handles of the wheelbarrow, the buckets clanked against each other as I tried to keep it steady. It wasn’t that heavy, but it wasn’t that light, either. I thought it would be easy getting it all the way to the treehouse, but I was mistaken when I got to the Hill. I had no problem pushing it through the forest, but after a few steps up the Hill, the wheelbarrow kept almost tipping over. After a few minutes, one tip-over, and a clean up, I was on the top. Finally able to see it, the treehouse was still trashed from the last time I visited it. I was glad Miranda hadn’t come back to clean it up. I wondered how she’d react to it once I was done with it for good. I really, really hoped she’d be upset. I pretty much ran down the Hill, as trying to hold the wheelbarrow back was too much of a struggle. The momentum kept me wheeling on through the meadow after passing the Hill’s base. I stood there, in front of the treehouse, and thought about how it would be the last time I got a good look at it. A few paper lanterns were still on the ground, but most of them were gone. The pieces of broken plank were still there, however. My camera hung down from around my neck, and I lifted it up to take the last picture of our beloved Treehouse. I figured I’d take photographs of the whole process of tearing the thing down since we had liked to document everything. I smiled as I lowered the camera, then I picked up the tripod I had tossed in the wheelbarrow and set it up a little bit closer to the base of the Big Hill, facing the treehouse. I set the timer, then ran next to the wheelbarrow, picked up the axe from it with one hand, and flipped off the camera with the other. After I heard the shutter, left the camera there, tossed the axe on the ground, and scaled up the ladder. I wasn’t saddened or sicken with emotion after stepping through the door this time. I felt a wave of relief rush over me as I stepped inside, knowing that what I was about to do would get Miranda back for everything she’d done to me. I was so ready to finally get revenge on her. After this, I thought, I might go back to school just to see how long it takes for her to figure out what I’d done. I wondered if she would try to get me back for it, but I couldn’t think of anything worse she’d be able to do. This would be the ultimate payback. I was ecstatic at the thought that I would be on top after this stunt; she wouldn’t be able to measure up. This would be the end of everything, and it started right now. I started along the left wall, tearing each and every drawing off of it. I stuffed them against my chest as I went, shuffling back and forth across the floor. I ended on the side where the door was, so I started plucking from that wall. As I kept going, I looked at the Christmas lights in the corner of the room. I wondered how long it had taken to put them up; there had been a lot of hooks hammered into the walls to hold them. It only took me a matter of seconds to rip them apart, though. After finishing that wall, then the right wall, I began plucking from the back. The string of photographs got in the way, so I ripped the one end near me loose and tugged the other one off the wall. The whole line fell to the floor, and I carelessly stepped on the photos as I made my way down the wall. All of a sudden, I felt a slight shake from the floor. Then I heard the sound... Creak, creak, creak, creakcreakcreak. Someone was coming up into the treehouse. I heard the pin lock rattle and turned around. The door flew open with a loud bang. “Locke!” the girl cried before running over to me. I didn’t have enough time to look at her before she threw her bag on the floor and crashed into me with a hug, knocking all the papers out of my arm and onto the floor. It was like she didn’t even notice. She looked up at me and grabbed my face. “Oh, my gosh, you’re here!” she shrieked. I looked into her eyes, blue. I knew her. She was the girl in my dreams. She pulled my head down and kissed me. Without thinking about it, my arms wrapped around her waist. I pulled her in closer. She slightly moved her head around, and as her lips moved, mine followed. Her hands slid from my face, down my neck and rested flat against my chest. After a moment, she broke away and inhaled, smiling. We were still holding onto each other. Her long, dusty blonde hair had fallen from behind her ear and covered her left eye. Her eyelashes were full and thick, and her cheeks blushed the slightest shade of red. Her thin, pink lips parted. “Tell me,” she said, looking directly into my eyes, “do you remember me?” I did. I broke out into a huge, teethy smile. “Yes,” I laughed, pushing her hair back behind her ear, “I remember you.” She smiled back, biting her lower lip. She bounced up and down in my arms. “What’s my name, then?” she grinned. “It’s Lazy Melinda,” I said. “Duh.” She laughed and reached up to kiss me again, but this time slower. Her lips sealed around mine, which gaped open just a little. I slowly slipped my tongue into her mouth, and she pushed it back into mine with hers. They flicked back and forth as our heads tilted side to side. Our bodies synchronized together in perfect harmony; as she moved, I moved; and as I did, she did. I slid my hands gently up and down her back, her body heat warming my cold hands against her soft, knit, pink sweater. As our tongues continued fighting, she gripped her hands closed, yanking a little on my hoodie. A few seconds later, she relaxed them. Slowly, she broke the kiss and leaned back. She just looked at me and smiled with delight in her eyes. She was so beautiful. And I had forgotten all about her. She looked down at my chest and rubbed her fingers in circles, smoothing my hoodie out. Then she looked up at me. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said softly. “I am, too,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” “I know,” she said. “It’s okay.” She wrapped her arms around my neck and gave me another hug. I squeezed her tightly. We stood there for another moment before she completely broke apart and took a few steps back. “So,” she said, looking around, confused, “what IS going on here, anyway?” I crossed my arms, then ran a hand through my hair. “Weeeeell,” I said, “I was going to completely destroy the treehouse,” I looked up at her. Her jaw dropped and she looked like she just saw a cat get run over. “Oh, my gosh!” she shrieked. “What?!” “Yeah,” I said, “I was going to tear the Memories off the walls, set them on fire in the meadow--along with the photos--then I was gonna go down and chop one or two of the legs with the axe until the whole thing fell down. If it didn’t completely obliterate itself after the fall, I would’ve hacked it up into pieces. Of course, I would’ve taken pictures the whole time, too. Then I would’ve gotten them developed, brought them back, and hammered them into the tree trunk. All for you to discover.” She looked like she was about to cry. She just stood there a minute before shouting: “Oh, my gosh! You’re psychotic!!! Why on Earth, Who- what-? What?!” She was breathing really rapidly and shaking her hands. “Why?!” I put my hand on my forehead and dragged it down my face. “OK, this is going to sound bad. Really bad. I’m sorry, Melinda,” I took a breath. “So, after I busted my head, I found my journal--hold on,” I said. I went past her, out the door, and climbed down the ladder. I ran over to the wheelbarrow, dug through it and plucked my journal out. Then, I scurried back up the ladder and opened the journal in front of her. “And I found this,” I said, pulling out the photo. She was about to say something, but I cut her off. “I had a nightmare before waking up and hitting my head. It was about Miranda. You remember Miranda.” She nodded. “Miranda was in your room, and she was putting that oil stuff you have in her hair, and there were the lollipop wrappers all over the joint,” I said, pointing to the little, tin, monkey box on the crate. Anyway, I woke up and found my journal,” I continued. “Found this picture, and I knew it was the same chick in my dream, so I tried to figure out who it was. The guys eventually told me it was a girl named Miranda.” I paused, and looked at her, seeing if she’d catch on. She just stood there, waiting for more. I snapped the journal shut in my hand and held it in front of her. “Right, Melinda?” I laughed, “This entire thing is written all about you!” I was cracking up, but Melinda wasn’t finding it funny. “The guys told me I used to date Miranda a few years ago, which is right. So, finding the picture in the book, I thought the entire thing was written about her, which is wrong.” She crossed her arms. My dad told me all these stories about me and the girl in the book, who I thought to be Miranda. I thought Miranda and I built the treehouse. I thought Miranda and I did all of this stuff together,” I gestured around the room. I looked down and smiled before looking into her eyes, “You know what I thought?” I asked. “What?” she asked, not really amused. “Because of all of this stuff, I thought me and this girl,” I held up the book, “were meant to be together.” Her expression softened. She looked away, and then looked back with a tiny smile. “So you went to Tif’s party and told Miranda you loved her so much you would die for her.” I laughed, with a mix of sadness and happiness in my voice. “Yes,” I said. She started laughing a little. “Then I got beat up by her boyfriend at school,” I said. She stopped laughing. “Then you, ‘Miranda’, came up here and wrote about it in your notebook like it was the saddest thing,” I said. I put my hands on my chest and spoke in a fake, sad voice, “Like you actually cared about me!” She smiled again. “And while I was recovering at home, she looked through my kitchen window,” I said, and picked her up, hugging her. “And all she wanted to do was hug me!" I cried. "But she couldn’t, because she knew I wouldn’t remember her.” She laughed again. I put her down. “So I was pissed off because I thought she came back to the treehouse to write that, knowing I’d see it, just to spite me,” I said, and threw the journal on the ground. “So I said ‘FUCK HER!’ and I was going to tear it down to spite her back, for good.” “Oye-yoy-yoy!” she yelled. She threw her hands up then whipped them down, “Psychotic!” “Tell me about it,” I said. “Let’s pick these up.” I walked over to the massive pile of Memories and kneeled down. She kneeled next to me. I started making a neatly stacked pile, when I thought to ask, “Why no years, anyway? In your notebook and on these drawings--I never noticed before, but they would’ve made my #life so much easier.” “Dates are too specific,” she said, “and years make time seem too fast. That’s why I like the hyphens. So it’s like, ‘oh, on this day I did this,’ just like a little reminder. Not a huge date that drags you down.” It was weird how she explained it, but I understood what she meant; kind of like when my dad told me about the way he felt when Melinda explained things to him. “Oh. Makes sense,” I said “Mhm,” she said. The photo of Miranda must’ve fallen out of my journal because she picked it up from the pile. “And do you remember how this ended up in your journal?” she asked, holding it up. “Uh,” I started, trying to remember. “Remember? It was one of the last weeks you were still you--before the hockey incident in November?” she asked. I shook my head. “Well, you had asked her if you could have all of your photos back, the ones she kept after you two broke up. Three years ago.” I looked at her intently. She laughed. “She came to school, and gave you one. This one. And said ‘So you can remember me’, then left.” I started laughing. “Oh, yeah, I can’t believe it,” I said. I reached over for my journal, opened the back cover, pulled out the little, folded piece of paper and showed her. “ ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get them back’ ”, I read. “I forgot about that.” She took the note from my hand, “In Science class that day. Right after it happened, you went to class and told me the story, then Wilcott started talking, and you wrote it and slipped it under my folder. Then I wrote on it and gave it back.” She flipped it over and read the part she had written, “ ‘”Remember me” -- I bet that’s exactly what you’re gonna do’ “ I smiled, then chucked. “It’s exactly what I tried to do.” She smiled widely. She got up and went over to the crate. Pulling out a marker, a piece of paper and a glue stick, she made a new Memory. She rubbed glue on the back of Miranda’s photo and slapped it on the paper. “When Locke...tried to...remember...Miranda,” she announced as she wrote, “And almost...destroyed...the Treehouse. 3-1.” She tossed the marker and glue back in the crate, pulled out the tape and tore a piece off. She stuck the paper on the wall. “Perfect.” “Yeah, and I can add the photo I took right before I came up here. Of me, the treehouse, the axe, and my middle finger.” “That sounds quite fitting,” she said, tossing me the tape before rejoining me on the floor. “You know what you told me you were gonna do with her photo?” she asked. “Hmm?” I asked. “Burn it,” she laughed. “That sounds quite fitting,” I laughed back. “Guess I didn’t want to lose it, so I stuck it in the journal.” We started picking up Memories and taping them back on the walls. “Why did you come up here, anyway?” I asked. She paused to look at me, as if I should’ve known the answer. Then, she smiled devilishly and continued picking up papers and taping them on the wall. “Well?” I asked. She smiled wider, then pointed her nose to the ceiling, and said in a snooty tone, “Your answer is in the pages,” she gestured to the sea of papers. “Ugh,” I groaned. I knew I wouldn’t get my answer until later, if at all. After a little while, when we were a little over halfway done, she stopped. “You know,” she said, looking over her shoulder at me, “You’re lucky I’m not like Miranda.” “You can say that again,” I joked. “I’m serious,” she said as she turned back to the wall and continued taping. “Remember when you got amnesia the very first time?” she asked. “Uh huh,” I said. “Remember how you were still with Miranda when you got it?” she asked. I said yes. “Remember how I met you in English when you still had it? And how Miranda broke up with you at lunch after seeing you and me in the hall talking after you got your memory back?” I nodded. “You just wanted to tell me you got your memory back, but she took it as flirting. Then you explained how you and I had just become friends in English class, and she was like ‘O.M.G. YOU’RE CHEATING ON ME.’” “Yeah, and?” I said. “Well,” she continued, “if I was like Miranda, I would have dumped you on the spot after having heard you were telling her you loved her and crap at the party. But I didn’t, because I knew you had amnesia and wouldn’t have remembered me anyway. I would’ve just ended up hurting myself.” “But if you had said something about it, maybe I would’ve realized you were the one the book was written about, then I could’ve apologized and fixed everything,” I said. “Like I was even thinking about your journal,” she guffawed, “let alone that picture of Miranda in it, screwing with your head. I didn’t even know you put it there!” “Yeah, well--“ I started. She cut me off. “The difference is that Miranda didn’t care if you had amnesia or not--you were still her boyfriend, and anything you did YOU were held accountable for. Not your amnesia. I didn’t hold you accountable,” she said. “You considered dumping me before I even DID anything!” I said. “ ‘But I have today’,” I recited. “Locke,” she said in a serious tone. “You were in the hospital. You COULDN’T do anything. You,” she paused. “You were a zombie.” She turned around to face me. “Every time I walked in,” she tried to go on, but couldn’t. “You wanted me to remember you,” I finished. “I’m sorry.” She was trying to hold back from crying. It broke my heart. Poor Melinda. What she had to have gone through. And she couldn’t even bear to go say hi or to take me flowers with kids from school because she knew what would happen as soon as she walked through the door. Nothing. In a broken, half-voice, she said, “It hurt really badly.” ​ “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said again as I walked from the over to her. I gave her a big bear hug. She was so small, so short--she almost disappeared. I liked how she was like that; it made me feel extra protective over her. I rubbed her back. “Maybe you should have kissed me before,” I said, a little muffled because my face was in her hair. “Huh?” she asked, still a little sad. I turned, resting my cheek on the top of her head now. “Walking through the door does nothing. You gotta act. You walked through--barged through--the door today, and I thought you were gonna attack me in my own treehouse.” She laughed a little, “maybe if you were whacking the walls with an axe, I would’ve.” “Good thing I hadn’t gotten there yet,” I said. “Good thing,” she said. She unlatched herself from me and walked over to where my journal lay open on the floor. She picked it up and skimmed through whatever entry it had landed open on. "Oh my gosh," she said. "You wrote about how I had ignored you that day after school. When I told you at lunch we should hang out after school. You waited for me, and I walked right by you with my friends. How stupid was I?" "Honestly, I probably wouldn't have hung out with me either if I were you. That was the day Miranda had blown up at me in the hallway after she saw me talking to you." "I guess you're right. Dang. You had never told me you had a crazy girlfriend!" she said. "I didn't really have to. After all, we were 'just friends'" I said with air quotations. She rolled her eyes. Within ten minutes, we were done. Even though it was March, the sun still liked to set early. It was getting a little dark outside, and it was getting hard to see inside. She got a little angry when she realized we couldn’t put the Christmas lights back up because I had ripped the hooks out of the walls. She said we had to improvise, so we spread them along the edges of the floor, instead. She said she was glad I didn’t rip the cord itself in half, or the lights wouldn’t have even worked. She picked up the crate in the corner, between the beanbag chairs. Lifting another few removable planks, she exposed a little metal box with a hole in it that was the battery for the electrical stuff. She wanted to make sure it still worked, so she told me to pop a CD in the boombox, and I did. “Wait,” she said as she pushed a few buttons in the metal box. “Go in my bag, there’s a CD in there I just made. Put that in.” “OK,” I said. I grabbed her tan, suede satchel and found a thin, plastic CD case. The CD was titled “301”. I popped it out of its case, snapped it in and pressed play. “301?” I asked. She smiled at me and pressed a button. Right as a smooth and slow guitar intro started, the room lit up in a soft yellow as the Christmas lights sparked. “Oh, no,” I said with a little uneasiness in my voice. It was "Sparks", by Coldplay. She put the crate back and took my hands in hers. She led me over to the back left corner and pointed to a Memory dated 3-1. 3-01. “Remember?” she sang. It was a drawing of us, in the treehouse, in the evening, with the setting sun, and the glowing Christmas lights, and little music notes dancing above the boombox in the corner. Of course I remembered. I took her hand and led her to the center. I held out my left hand, which she took with her right. I slipped my other arm around her tiny waist and pulled her in a little. She placed her other hand over my shoulder blade and rested her left cheek on the left side of my chest. We moved slowly, step by step as the music played: ♫ Did I drive you away? I know what you'll say, You’ll say, "Oh, sing one we know", But I promise you this, I'll always look out for you, That's what I'll do. ♫ “Happy Anniversary,” I said softly. I could feel her cheeks smiling against my body. She turned her head, looking up at me, and resting with her chin on my collarbone. “Happy Anniversary,” she whispered. I leaned down and kissed her softly; her warm lips took the shape of mine. I took it all in: the subtle squeeze of my hand as our lips met, and the spark that they made; the rise and fall of her back as I gently caressed it; the faintest taste of mint that lingered on her lips. It all took me back to our Second Anniversary (first in the treehouse), last March. I’d remembered it, and she’d remembered it, but neither of us had said anything until that evening. When we got here, she’d told me she’d found “our anniversary song” the week before, and she’d been dying to listen to it with me. It was, of course, a Coldplay song ("Sparks"); they’re her favorite. It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was everything and more, all at the same time. We’d danced just like this, and I had told her she was the best song-finder in the world. It took me back: I remembered our First Anniversary, spent taking a walk through the park. We’d held hands, and I remembered being thankful for being with her for what felt like so long at the time; she was the first girlfriend I’d had for longer than three months. We talked about everything, and nothing. I remembered how, at the end of the trail, we reached the river; it was the same river that ran behind the treehouse. We stopped, we kissed, and I told her she was the best thing in my #life. And, it took me back, three years ago, to March 1st: the day I asked her to be mine. We ate lunch together that day, of course, but after lunch that year, we didn’t have any more classes together until the following day, so I told her to meet me by the fountain after school was out, because I had something to ask her. I was nervous, and young, and foolish, and chattery, but I asked her. I asked her with a lump in my throat, ready to cry and run away if she said no, but she didn’t. In fact, the first thing she’d said was, ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask me.’ And it brought me back to right now, our Third, where she was mine, still; and I was hers. I broke our sealed kiss and let my mouth hover over hers for a moment. “I love you,” I said with a lump in my throat. She slightly shook her head, “I love you, too.” There was just enough of a glow in the room for me to see her wonderful smile. She put her head back on my chest. ♫ My heart is yours, It's you that I hold on to, That's what I do. And I know I was wrong, But I won't let you down, (Oh yeah I will, yeah I will, yes I will) ♫ We stood, now rocking, back and forth to the lull of the song. I kept slowly rubbing her back and let my cheek rest atop her head. I didn’t want to cry, but I did. Silent tears rolled down my face onto the crown of her head. I never wanted to be without her again. “So, that was why you came up here,” I said quietly, “to write in your notebook about how much you missed me. To say, maybe, you cried when looking through the window this time. To be all alone up in our treehouse and listen to "Sparks" on our Anniversary?” “What can I say,” she said, “I missed you. Sure, it would’ve been a little painful, but it would’ve been more painful sitting in my room wishing I was here.” “Yeah,” I said, understanding. Then we stood, silent again, and appreciated our song. ♫ And I saw sparks, Yeah I saw sparks. And I saw sparks, Yeah I saw sparks. Sing it out. ♫ I didn’t want to ruin the moment by talking anymore, but throughout this whole thing, one question still remained unanswered. I whispered: “One more question.” “Mmm,” she hummed. I looked down to see her eyes closed. “Unfinished lollipops. Why?” I sang. “I don’t remember,” she said. “Melinda...” She cooed, “Locke,” I was about to ask again, but she took her hand off of my back and put a finger to my lips. “Shh. Some things are worth remembering more than others.” I never knew why she never finished the lollipops, but I knew remembering our Third Anniversary would be a much better memory to have in the years to come. So, we swayed. ♫ La, la, la, la, oh. La, la, la, la, oh. La, la, la, la, oh. La, la, la, la, oh. ♫ The End.