Lost in oasis

TW: Death, addiction, and memory loss

All I can see is milky white; I am floating in an oasis, everything so serenely quiet. That's when I hear the muffled sobs coming from somewhere I can't see. I wonder what could create such a hollow and sad sound, what could have happened to the poor conflicted soul. The air becomes thick, and my lungs spasm in an attempt to do their job. It's poison; it must be poison. Screaming silently, I reach my arms to my throat, thrashing as I beg a god I don't see to save me. When I look down, my arms are not there. I scream again. Only in time to be blinded by ungodly darkness and again by light so bright it burns my soul. When I awake, I find myself choking; reaching again to my throat, I yank at the tube I find first, desperately trying to save myself from this wretched death. Suddenly strong arms pin my body to some hard surface as gentler hands guide the tube from my throat. I cough once, twice. My nerves are calming; I finally find the source of that sad melody. A woman no more than thirty- no twenty-five, the sadness ages her- stands in the corner sobbing into what looks like a jacket. She looks as if she's seen a ghost, her red-rimmed eyes giving way to a much more severe plight. Her body shudders as she stares at me, I don't know how long we sit staring at each other, but it feels like a long time. She takes a shaky step towards me but is stopped by the man in blue scrubs who pulls her just outside the oakwood door and begins to whisper. I turn to inspect where I am, quickly realizing what hard surface lay beneath me—a hospital bed. 

Bile rises in my throat, hands grasping for a solid surface. Any indication of what happened to me. What is happening to me? 

Two hours later, My jaw hangs slackened, unable to process what the man in blue is explaining. He says that my sister and I were in an accident five months ago. Although I am not entirely convinced, I have one, at least not that I remember. He says that my memory is simply hiding - he's trying not to scare me- that it will return given time. Five months. I don't hear anything else he's saying following that. When he says goodbye with a thin-lipped smile, I know he thinks it's gone for good. The woman is pale as snow as she settles in the armchair beside my bed. I find myself wondering if I'll ever see her again as I drift back to that oasis. This must be a bad dream. 

It's been a month, and I think my jaw still hangs just a bit lower than it should at all times—a month with no recognition. I've seen the pictures, videos, and loving notes and gifts from loved ones who wish to see me. And yet my name still doesn't feel like my own "Casey," my sister Caitlin calls me. She also feels the need to constantly remind me that my parents chose this name because it supposedly translates to brave in Irish heritage. She smiles as she tells the stories, the kind of smile that never really reaches your other features. Ultimately, she always says, "Mom and Dad really want to be here; they just can't bear to see you like this." And even in my state, I know that's a piss poor excuse. Instead of saying that, I smile back, nodding in agreement as if it's not the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Reaching for my hand, she nods slightly in understanding. Like she knows what I'm always thinking. I refrain from snaking my hand away at the unfamiliarity. If only to avoid the sadness I watch creep along her features each time I cringe away from a touch I do not know. That's what connects me to this reality, the care for this woman, this sister of mine. 

The following day I find myself rummaging through the grime-covered boxes in Caitlin's garage, utterly devoid of recognition. Finding a somewhat less damaged box, I slowly pick my way through the wreckage and back to "my room." Crossing my legs on the thread-bare carpet in front of the god-awful hospital bed - That I told Caitlin I no longer needed or wanted- I begin picking through the contents. 

What seems like hours pass as I tumble through the three photo albums lain atop the box's contents. One of which, yellowed and age torn, must have been from my grandparents. I stumble across pictures of my sister and me in the second, memories tugging at the seams to be let in. I feel for her but have no memories of growing up with her. "Stop pulling on your hair; it's a terrible habit," Caitlin says, standing in the open doorway. A smirk in response. Hearing her stomp away, I continue my perusal, stopping only when she returns, bearing yet another box. 

Silently she plops down on my bed -if that's even what you call that- placing the box to her right and gesturing for me to sit on the left. "This box is better." She states simply the hint of a smile haunting her lips. A quick peek reveals nothing more interesting than in the original box. I humor her anyway. Her hand stops mine just before I choose the first item to examine and plunges far down to search. What she pulls out looks like no more than a pile of cloth. She holds it out, the hint of a smile, now a full-on grin. As I reach to take it from her, I quickly realize what she holds is not a rag but a toy buffalo. Making a show of inspecting the small plush toy, I try not to acknowledge the pressure building in my head. Looking at her now, the pressure becomes overbearing. I should have some reaction to this toy. Realizing the frustration probably splayed on my face, Caitlin begins to pack up the box. As she slides the buffalo from my hand, a vise closes around my heart, tightening the farther the toy is taken. "Wait, can I keep that here with me?" I say before realizing. A slight smirk as she places the toy on the powder blue comforter. She leaves without another word. Without a second glance at the toy, I begin to flip through the pages of the third and last photo album. 

I can't even bring myself to look at that stupid toy. Every time I do, the anger threatens to consume me. Why can't I just remember? I pick it up and toss it into my closet as quickly as I can manage. The light thump of the fabric on the wood sends me reeling. I am no longer in my room with that awful hospital bed but in a bigger, more spacious room with two smaller yet more comfortable beds. The light thumping can be heard just outside the door in the center of the wall. Caitlin sits on the left bed, vigilantly listening or watching for something, I try to speak, but the words do not leave my lips. She looks younger, more at peace; the shadows don't haunt her features in this place. That's when I notice she's much younger, from what I can tell. Her golden hair grown out much longer than it should be, her nails a shade of bright pink I hadn't seen her wear since her "I hate pink" era when she was 16. She shifts, catching my attention; hearing something I can't, she makes a move reaching for something on the bed to the right before opening the door to make a stand. When I turn to look at what she reaches for, I find Caitlin in front of me, holding my hand. Except, it can't be me because the hand is the size of a childs. The thought hitches in my mind, engrained forever. This is a memory.

 The toy buffalo sits limply in my hand as my big sister yells at Dad. He says he is trying to improve, but she knows him well enough to know it's a lie. She knows that no amount of love or happiness, not even the promise of happy children and a family, could stop him. "The alcohol is his family, Cas; he loves us but always just a little less than the addiction loves him." I grip her hand tightly as we make our way past my screaming father. The scene melds into a different one as we pass him. This time we find ourselves in a room with a hospital bed; Cait is older now, probably eighteen or so. Instead of my body lying idly, I look only to see my mother. Skin pallid and slick with sweat, a smile still shown on her face, if only slightly dampened by the tears staining her cheeks. I still hold that stupid toy buffalo as if it will stop what I realize is about to happen. Taking a deep breath, I watch for the second time as my mother takes her last breath. 

I am in the oasis again; this time, it is different. I do not feel peaceful and serene; I do not want to stay here. The rage consumes me as I thrash, searching for a way out. I will not stay here; I will not be trapped. Not again. 

A soothing voice washes over me, and I know it's her immediately. My eyes peel open to reveal her small figure towering over me. "Cas? Are you alright? What happened?" The tightness in her voice frightens me. Sobbing, I pull her to the ground to sit next to me. I don't know how long we sit in silence before I say, "I remember Cait, everything; I remember it all." A gutting sob leaves her throat before she wraps her arms around me. "I am so sorry; I should have protected you; I didn't wanna lie to you about Mom and Dad; I'm so sorry."

The apology is thick in her voice like she believes she owes me this. Resting my forehead against hers, I whisper the only thing that makes sense. "You are my family, Cait, and no injury or lie could love me more. Just because Mom and Dad are gone doesn't mean we aren't a family." She smiles and nods, slowly standing. "Do you remember the accident?" A shake of my head. "Only that Dad was driving, and he didn't make it to the ambulance." A nod as tears pool in her sea-green eyes. "We are gonna be all right, Cas; right now, that's all that matters." She grabs my hand then, and I have no urge to run from the touch. I was wrong before; that area of nothingness, the in-between of everything, was not an oasis of serenity or peace. This is.