Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Skepticism has me snatching the device out of her hand to examine what has to be a photoshopped picture of me.
“Yeah, McCallister,” she snickers at her reference to my gaping expression, “that’s over a million likes on just that one photo.”
A high-pitched squeak is all I seem capable of making.
“I think everyone loves you because you don’t fit the ‘stereotypical’ bill and people love that. You give this…whole…everyone is welcomed or should be welcomed type of vibe to the sport.”
The picture of me and three other women all squeezed together at what appears to be a nightclub or luxury bar deepens the disbelief and pushes me to scroll to the right revealing more social pictures of us including one where we’re all cuddled with what I have to assume are each of our players.
What’s even more unbelievable are the success hashtags and comments claiming these were the best games of the whole year.
“Well, not everyone…but kind of…fuck those people?” Berks nonchalantly suggests. “Fuck them like McClane did Gruber.”
More swipes show me at the game, my arm thrown up in the air in a celebratory fashion alongside an adorable blonde little girl. Both of us are sporting jerseys that have the number forty-two as do our faces.
Or are they called sweaters?
Why do I feel like they’re called sweaters?
And is that forty-two the reason I was wearing a forty-two around my neck?
Is forty-two his number?
Do I belong to forty-two?
Unexpected aches begin in my head forcing me to shove the device back at her.
No.
That can’t be right.
I would never…I could never…business and…boyfriends…and…no.
None of that mixes.
None of that makes any sense.
I would never do that.
There’s no fucking way.
That’s not who I am.
That’s not who I wanna be.
This is all a weird dream or joke or –
“Hey, hey, hey,” Berks sweetly coos, both hands landing supportively on my knees, “breathe.”
It takes a moment to realize that I wasn’t.
That I’ve been gasping for air while struggling to make sense of shit that doesn’t make sense.
Because it can’t make sense.
I don’t date single dads.
And I damn sure don’t date the person who employs me.
“Joey,” she softy calls, commanding my attention to her before it can begin to unravel again, “where’s your phone? Let’s look at your notes. Let’s see what evidence you did or did not delete.”
“Evidence?”
“You like to leave yourself a digital trail of memory in hopes of combatting your dissociative episodes, remember?”
My lost expression doesn’t change.
“Okay…” Berks calmly begins, “you know how some people with your condition physically run away or get lost due to their disorientation?”
“Yeah.”
“You do this digitally.”
“What?!”
“Yeah.” Her fingers resume tapping the screen to her phone. “See, when we first learned of your condition, your response – because you are who you are – was to be proactive instead of reactive. This is what led to you keeping meticulous records and notes and digital journals and emails and more recently digital scrapbooks – which I’m sure are filled with even more photos than I have.”
“Love it.” The tiniest smile threatens to show. “Kinda brilliant.”
“Uh-huh, slow your roll, Frosty the Snowman-”
“You mean Frosky aka Snowman?”
Excitement rips uncontrollably through her bright brown eyes. “Do I?”
Perplexity pierces my mind once more igniting new pains that have me momentarily burying my face in the palm of my hands.
What the fuck is wrong with me?!
Why am I like this?!
Why do I have to be like this?!
“It’s okay, Joey,” my best friend quietly reassures me while lowering my grip away from my face. “That big, beautiful brain of yours is just trying to protect from what it thinks is going to harm you right now. It’s not sure if you should still be in survival mode. And its uncertainty is why having all those tools are necessary. It’s a system you helped create for yourself to deal with the uncontrollable. To shorten the memory loss period whenever possible. And your brain – because you are kinda brilliant – during the ‘in-between stage’ of an episode – the moment something triggers the response and the point of time it resets itself to – you have been known to delete anything and everything that can possibly tie you to whatever set you off. This countermeasure has in turn led to me basically playing bestie backup by screenshotting old texts or photos from your soc’ to assist in the reminder process.”
Uneasiness settles in my throat. Chest. Stomach. “If all that’s true, then why is this the first time we’re talking about it?”
“It’s. Not.” Berks entire frame sags. “We literally have this conversation every time you have an episode. And normally…I tread lightly on showing you photos and pictures and texts until I feel you’re ready because they can essentially trigger another episode to immediately occur…but they can also skate in on the assist to help the gap in your memory return too.”