I’m running; running as fast as I can. I’m searching for something. Not just anything. Not a missing sock, not a tube of lip gloss, not even a missing laptop. I am searching for something deeper, and more important. I am searching for myself.
Ever since the accident, I have been talking to people. They all try to explain to me, tell me things about myself. But I can’t trust them. I don’t know if they’re right; I don’t even know who they are. So I am still searching.
People ask me what I remembered from the accident. I tell them I remember a really, REALLY bright light, and then blackness. But that is not the whole truth. I remember lot’s of things. I remember the soft, flowery perfume that my sister was wearing. I remember feeling like I was rolling in a field of roses, just smelling that perfume. I remember my mother’s soft, haunting voice sweetly singing the chorus of “Blowing in the wind.” I remember the heated seats, shooting little strings of fire up through my body. I remember feeling like I was sucking on a lemon, as I pushed the little sour candy throughout my mouth. I remember closing my eyes, trying to sleep. But then, suddenly, I was awakened by a blood-curdling scream. My eyes shot open. There was no music, no sweet perfume, no warmth, and no more sweet candy. All that was there was a bright, murderous light. I closed my eyes; the light was just too bright.
When I opened my eyes again, my whole body tensed up. I looked around, seeing large, sharp pieces of a broken car lying about. There was blood everywhere, and I could hear the loud, shrill sob of the ambulance. I saw something moving, so I tried standing up. But I was immediately knocked down by an invisible force. My head and the rest of my body was throbbing.
I heard people talking as they looked down at me pitifully and urgently.
“What’s wrong with her?” “Why isn’t she moving?” “Is she dead?” And then I hear a new one. “Oh my GOD!! Look at her head!! It’s practically in pieces!!!” Suddenly they were on me, lifting me up, putting me on a stretcher and holding my hand. The very last thing I remember was when I was in an ambulance and I heard a young woman say, “It’s all right, sweetie. You’re going to be just fine. I promise.”
Unfortunately, these words are not true. Besides that one fateful day, I do not remember anything of my past. I don’t know what I like to do for fun, who my friends are, my personality, my opinions. I don’t know who I am. And I do not know what my identity is. That is what I am trying to find.
I pass an old woman who is trying her hardest to keep up with her small, Yorkshire terrier.
“Good afternoon, Jinny,” says the old woman, smiling warmly. I look around, trying to figure out if she is really talking to me. When I see we are alone, I know she is.
“How are you doing? I heard about your accident…..” asks the woman as she looks down, obviously ashamed of her large amount of curiosity.
“I-I-I’m sorry,” I say, looking down. “I can’t really remember much; who are you again?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. My name is Miranda. I’m your grandmother’s best friend,” says the old lady sweetly, smiling at me. I must have looked skeptical, because she added, “You’re grandmother, Nana, and I play bingo on Saturdays. You come and play sometimes.”
“I’m sorry. You must be thinking of the wrong person. I don’t have a grandmother.” I say, digging the toe of my shoe into the cold, hard earth.
The woman-Miranda-looks confused. “No, no, you have a grandmother. You call her Nana, and she comes to all of your field hockey games.” I look up slowly, thinking that what she said may be very helpful.
“Oh, um, okay! Thanks a bunch,” I call back to her as I begin to run away. I shake my head, wondering how I could have thought that that would help me.
I continue to run, when I stop again to think. I walk slowly along the path, kicking rocks as I wonder what that woman is thinking right now.
***************************************************
“Poor girl,” muttered Miranda Cornell, shaking her head as she walked away from the hapless girl who had been talking to her. “Don’t know how she can stand it, losing all her memories like that.” Miranda sighed as she continued to walk. She had so many memories of Jinny. Jinny had always been a lively girl, always chattering and laughing until she cried. Her eyes had shined brighter than the sun, and her long, silky brown hair was always flowing around her as if it were big cloak, protecting her from all of the sinful things in the world. She had always been a bit on the chubby side, but her sparkling eyes and dazzling smile completely made up for the extra flesh on her body. But the girl who Miranda had just seen was the exact antonym of the little girl that she had loved. This girl didn’t look at you; she looked right through her, her gray eyes as dull as if they had nothing to see. You could see her bones from beneath her shirt, a shirt whose color matched her dull eyes perfectly. Her hair was now a dark brown, dull as a tree trunk. It was short and choppy, as if she had cut it herself. This girl that Miranda had just seen was certainly not the one she had known all of her life.
Miranda stared down at the little dog, who was prancing around. The dog made her smile, as she danced around, without a care in the world. As she watched her dog dance, a memory of Jinny popped into her head.
*****************************************************
The little girl is dancing, dancing all around the room, singing at the top of her lungs.
“Come, Ooooooooh COME!!! Come to the RI-VER!!!!!!!” Jinny sings, her long brown hair flowing behind her as she twirls. Her bronze skin glows like a light-bulb. “Mir-an-DA!” She giggles, dragging my name out until the last syllable.
“What, honey?” I say as I tuck a strand of her chocolaty hair behind her ear. “What is it?”
“How does the rest of the song go?” Her green eyes sparkle as they widen. I begin to sing the song, and once I get to the chorus, she joins in, her soft, sweet voice too sophisticated for her age. Once we finish the song, I clap my wrinkled hands as she takes a bow.
“Jinny, are you torturing Nana’s friend again?” I turn to see Jinny’s mother, an exact replica of the little girl I am playing with.
“Why no, not at all, sweetheart. Your adorable little daughter is keeping me from passing out!” I smile at the young woman, who smiles back.
“Miranda is playing with me! She’s fun!” The little girl smiles, and her eyes smile along with her.
“Thank, you,” says Jinny’s mother. Her eyes shine as they agree with what she says. “Jinny, baby, go upstairs and get changed. We’re gonna go out for dinner.”
“YAY!!!” squeals the little girl, as she skips up the stairs.
“Well, Lacey. Your little girl is…….. beautiful!” Beautiful is the only word I can think of to fit the little girl that I admire. “I only wish that some of her charm would rub off on me!”
“She is quite a girl,” agrees Lacey, nodding slowly. “Hey, how would YOU like to take her to dinner? I could stay home and get some work done, and you could get to know her. I mean, you two don’t really know each other too well.”
“No, believe me, I know SO much about her!” I disagree. “She’s beautiful. She is the liveliest little girl I have ever seen. She loves living SO MUCH! I don’t think I know anyone who cherishes their life as much as she does. I admire her.” I come into a large coughing fit, and Lacey gets me a glass of water. After several sips, I put the glass back down. “I feel as if I’ve known her my whole life. I don’t need to take her to dinner by myself. I don’t need that. She, however, needs you.”
“Someday,” sighs Jinny’s mother, as she gets Jinny’s coat, “She won’t need me.”
**********************************************************
I begin to run again. I stop when I finally get back to my neighborhood. I know it is mine because of the huge sign hanging on the stone wall: “Welcome home, Jinny!”
At first I appreciated the sign; but now it just makes me sick. I don’t want to look at it, for it reminds me of the death of my loving mother and sister. And the day I lost myself.
I lean over the bushes, ready to throw up. But nothing happens. I just stand there, little beads of sweat dancing down my forehead like a band of unorganized ballet dancers. But I just can’t throw up. You know that feeling?? Where you feel like your stomach is about to flip violently, as it squeezes and lurches around. But it really isn’t. It’s just a feeling, a feeling that tells you that you aren’t OK. And I am not OK.
When I get back to my house-I can tell because of the large sign plastered across the fence- I run inside and right to the kitchen. When I get to the kitchen, I take a cup out of the cupboard and fill it to the brim from a cooler of water.
I take a drink, and feel little droplets of water sliding down my throat, as if they are on a slip-n-slide. They cool my throat, making me feel cold and wet. When I am done, I put the empty glass into the sink and head into the living room. I sit down on the grass-green couch and think. I have been doing that a lot lately; thinking, I mean. It’s hard to explain exactly what I think about. I think about my mom, and about what she looked like. I make up little stories about my past, pretending that it’s my childhood I’m thinking about, not the childhood of some successful movie star. I think about so much, yet I learn so little. It’s like they are false thoughts, thoughts that don’t mean a thing. They don’t. These thoughts mean nothing; nothing at all to me. They make no sense; but yet, they seem to make sense to think about.
It is as I’m thinking about this that I drift off into a deep, peaceful sleep. `
*************************************************
Mr. Costello was too busy chopping carrots to hear the soft, aggrieved whimpers of his daughter. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself. Mr. Costello had never really been the kind of father that would kiss his daughter’s boo-boo and then give her a Dora the Explorer band-aid. He did not know how to comfort her when she needed it. And, after her mother had died, he felt as if there was nothing he could do to help her. He sighed, dropping the sharp knife onto the helpless table, and rubbed his forehead with his scarlet hands. He didn’t know what he could do to help his daughter. Should he wake her? Talk to her? Make her laugh?? What is the best thing to do when someone you loved was lost, but someone else you loved was more affected by it?
It was as he was thinking this that Mr. Costello heard the faint voice of his daughter. As he panicked that he had woken her, he heard her snort, and realized that she was still asleep. He tiptoed over to where she was sleeping, and stroked her soft, short hair. It used to be more beautiful, Arnold thought as he closed his eyes.
“No, mom. It wasn’t your fault. It was my fault. I was distracting you.” Jinny’s voice drifted through the air like the scent of freshly baked cookies. She was mesmerizing to listen to, and Arnold couldn’t help but sit down.
“I know mom. I love you too,” Jinny muffled a cry, her delicate eyes squeezing harder shut. “I-I don’t remember…. I don’t remember what you look like. I’m sorry. That blanket is covering your head. I can’t see a thing. Maybe I could just…. take it off?”
Suddenly, Jinny began to struggle. “No!!! Get off of me!!! Please, Mommy, get this doctor off of me. What?? NO!! She’s NOT!! She’s alive!! She-she’s not-dead. She can’t die. I-I need her.” A single tear fled her eye, and dripped down onto her nose. It was then that Arnold realized that he was crying, too. He wiped a tear from his eye, and continued to listen to Jinny.
“No, sir, you don’t understand. She’s alive. I just don’t remember what she looks like-I need to see her. Please, Mom. Tell him. You’re not dead. You can’t be dead. I have so many questions!” As Jinny began to sob, Mr. Costello got up and went back over to the sink.
It was so horrible to listen to his beautiful little daughter in so much pain. It was like watching someone you loved slowly being murdered. It was such a painful thing to go through, and Arnold couldn’t stand it.
He wanted some way to help Jinny. Some way to heal her. Some way to make her remember. That was when Arnold had the best idea of his life.
************************************************
“Jinny! Jinny, wake up!” I hear someone whispering loudly, as I am awoken from my sleep.
“Who are you?!!” I cry as I wake up. Where am I??
“It’s Dad. You’re sleeping on your couch, at your home.”
“My head hurts,” I mumble. “Make it better.” I know I sound like a child, but I am so confused right now.
“Of course,” says the man-my dad-smiling. “Head upstairs, and I’ll meet you there with some aspirin.”
“OK,” I nod, and get up off the couch. I make my way over to the stairs, then slowly make my climb to the TV room.
When I get there, I sit down on the sofa, and put my head back on the feathery soft pillows. But as I am lowering my head, I notice a large, black book sitting at the table. I reach over to it, and try to pick it up.
The book is heavy; I feel like I’m trying to lift up a heavy desk, rather than a big book.
I use both hands to pick it up, and drop it on my lap. The pain shoots up my thigh and into my chest. God, it hurts.
I use my limp hands to turn the first page. When I see what is on the page, everything comes back to me. The memories come flooding back to me all at once. The book is a scrapbook; a picture book narrating my short life.
On the first page is baby pictures. There is a picture of a tall, beautiful brunette, her smile touching her ears. She looks very round, because of the big ball that is formed at her stomach. It’s my mother. A picture of my mother when she was pregnant with me. Next to the picture is a caption reading, “Why didn’t Jinny turn out as fat as she looked?”
The next picture is a picture of a tiny, blond baby, with fingers as tiny as fork prongs, and eyes as bright as the sun. The baby is me. I am holding a small rattle in my hands, and my eyes are smiling along with my tiny baby mouth.
As I look through the pictures, I remember EVERYTHING! I remember my first birthday party, and how the cake tasted like dog food. I remember my first day of preschool, when I was the only one to leave my mother to go play with the stuffed animals. I remember the day my Grandfather died; I remember the day I met my best friend; the day I got my first ‘A’ on a math test; the day where my mother nearly bought out the whole Gap store taking me shopping; the day I went on a field trip to Lake Michigan; even the day in first grade when I kissed Michael Wedging. I remember everything as if it had happened the day before, all thanks to the pictures.
I suddenly snap back to reality when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Jinny? Do you like it?” asks my father, concerned.
I suddenly realize I am crying. The tears flood out of my eyes as quickly as the memories flooded into my head.
“Oh, Daddy!” I cry as I throw my arms around him. “I remember! I remember it all!”
I smile proudly as my dad hugs me back.
Thank GOD I’ve finally found myself.
Thank God I’ve finally found my identity.
