SHORT STORY

“So how did it go?” my mother’s voice came the moment I entered our house.

“Yeah, good. She was happy to see me. She asked me about college and friends and the dorm and everything, and told me words of affirmation and motivation.”

“That’s good,” came my father’s voice, calm and detached, as though he was closing some business deal. Typical Dad — attached to us but won’t show it through words.

“What else did she say, sweetie?” came my grandma’s voice, sweet as ever. She was the only person I was actually close with, and she was the one who sat beside me and spoke to me when I was bedridden due to my head injury.

“She asked me if I had any more episodes of forgetfulness and if I recollected anything before the trauma.”

“Did you recollect anything?” asked my mom, her voice filled with concern. She hasn’t been the same since my accident; she became edgier, pushier, constantly hovering, trying to stay as close to me as possible. Convincing her to let me go to the hostel for studies was an absolute nightmare, but I did it.

Six months before my college admission, right after my board exams, I fell from the third floor of our guesthouse, straight onto my head, which left me with a severe head injury and trauma. I was unconscious for two weeks, after which I required full-time bed rest and help with every single thing that I had to do. My parents were devastated; my mom’s eyes shone with silent tears every time she saw me struggling, and my dad, who’s usually calm, became constantly anxious about my well-being. He checked on me every morning and night, asking me questions, trying to revive memories, for I had forgotten everything that had happened since my board exams, and my memories of things before were hazy too. My grandma was no less; she sat near me every day, telling me what had happened during those two weeks when I was unconscious. She was the one who told me how my cousin was devastated and how he felt guilty that such an accident happened when we were playing together. My heart went out to him; it wasn’t his fault.

“Well, do you remember things more clearly, dear?” asked my mom, bringing me back to reality. After the injury, I randomly zone out mid-conversation.

“Not exactly. I mean, I do remember things about Daisy, but her memories are hazy too,” I said, referring to my Labrador, Daisy, who died shortly after my head injury.

“But there’s no Daisy, sweetheart,” came my grandma’s voice, impatient. “What Daisy do you keep referring to?” she continued, looking at me as though I were a ghost.

“Grandma, Daisy was my dog. She was also on that trip, remember?” I asked, my voice shaking. How could they forget Daisy and move on so quickly?

“What did your therapist say in today’s session? Did you mention Daisy?” asked my father, his voice calm but his eyes reflecting the restlessness he felt inside.

“She told me Daisy could be a figment of my imagination, a by-product of maladaptive daydreaming that I am fabricating for comfort.”

“See, there was no Daisy, dear. Why wouldn’t we have photos of you and Daisy if there ever existed a dog called Daisy?” came my mother’s voice, shaking with pity. My confusion must have been visible, for she rushed to comfort me. “It’s okay, don’t think too much, don’t burden yourself too much. Let’s talk about college. Also, your uncle and your cousin are visiting today for lunch. Your cousin wants to see you; he still feels guilty about not being able to prevent that accident, the poor child,” she spoke fast, attempting to redirect my thoughts and the conversation.

I left for a walk with my grandma, because walks help me sort my thoughts and think clearly.

“Grandma, do you remember seeing my blue journal in the house?” I asked casually.

“No, my dear. You hated journaling, remember? Your childhood friend found your journal during a sleepover and made fun of your entries, so you stopped keeping one ever since,” she said calmly, as though explaining something to a toddler who had asked the same question a million times.

“Oh, sorry, Grandma. I mix up details. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

She smiled and said, “It’s okay, darling. Ask me for any detail as many times as you want to. I am here to help you out.”

We walked silently for about half an hour and went home for lunch. My uncle, aunt, and cousin were sitting on the sofa, talking to my mother and father about something very serious. The moment they saw me, the air in the room shifted; they all broke into practiced smiles. I looked around at the people sitting, and my chest tightened without explanation when I saw my uncle and cousin. They smiled at me warmly, and my cousin stood up to shake my hand.

“Finally, my favorite cousin is back. I missed you, sis,” he said, going in for a hug. I stood stiffly, my arms unmoving, as he hugged me. Something felt off; I couldn’t bring myself to return that hug. His familiar cologne smell made me nauseous instead of being comforting.

“Still mad at me for not saving you that day?” he pouted, pulling back from me. “I tried, yaar. I tried holding on to the hem of your dress, but it tore and you fell down. I couldn’t do anything,” he said sadly.

“Come on, say you forgive him. Let’s move on. Things are okay now, right?” came my mother’s voice, always the family’s peacemaker.

“It’s fine,” I said flatly. “It’s not your fault that I slipped. I should have been more careful.” I patted his shoulder.

His face broke into a relieved smile, and my aunt and uncle’s reactions matched his.

“Let’s have lunch.” My mom ushered us all to the kitchen, where conversations flowed around me. I felt my cousin’s eyes on me, and when I looked up at him, he smiled politely and tried to include me in the conversation.

Post-lunch, they all went to the living room for a game of cards, and I went to my childhood bedroom to take a nap. I have been prescribed short naps to prevent any overload on my brain, and I felt like a toddler.

I remembered that I had to take my mark sheets from my parents’ room — the original copies that I had to produce at my college for documentation purposes. I went into their room, which was surprisingly unlocked, considering they made it a point to lock it after my accident, because I kept wandering into rooms and playing with dangerous items like knives and scissors. I looked at the array of my childhood photos kept on the shelf, and one spot caught my eye — a frame had been removed, leaving the rest of the surface coated in dust except for that bare patch. I ignored it and went for their cupboard.

I opened their cupboard and used the key under my mom’s saree to unlock the safe.

Inside the safe was my blue journal.

I flipped through its pages with a strange mix of anticipation and excitement, because I had found a piece of myself that existed before the accident. Maybe Grandma forgot that I did like to journal about my life.

The last entry was from the day before my accident, when we were at the guesthouse for a family vacation.

Written inside were words that made my blood run cold:

He forced himself on me. Daisy wouldn’t stop barking. They’re planning to kill me tomorrow. For the family’s reputation.

I snapped the journal shut, my heart pounding and my breathing more shallow. A click sounded behind me.

I whipped around. They were there — eyes cold and smiles gone.

My uncle held a revolver.

I finally understood…..two can keep a secret, if one of them is dead.