M. Reynolds

I wake up and look around.

“Toast or cereal Margaret?” the lady in ugly blue clothing asks.

I try to remember what I prefer, but I can’t remember. My mind is blank. As vacant as a newly built house.

“Um, I’m sorry, nice lady but, do you remember what I had for breakfast yesterday?”

“Yes Margaret, you had cereal.”

“Ok, then I want cereal.”

“Alright, Margaret, I’ll be right back.”

“Um, I’m sorry Miss, but, who are you?”

“I’m your nurse, I help look after you.”

“Oh ok, thank you.”

“Your welcome, Margaret”

****************************************************************

I look around my room, is it my room? It’s well-furnished with a wooden, rustic desk, rising high, backed by the wall, cluttered with papers, smack dab to the right of me. Tucked into it is a beautiful leather chair with barely visible lines streaking vertically, starting to become more prominent, eventually becoming rips. There’s a full bookshelf; both well-read, spine-cracked books and knick-knacks line the interior. A poster is hanging on the back of the door, opposite to me. In the center, a photograph of a dazzling young girl. Underneath, a title, a movie title I think, written in big black, Helvetica Neue, point 72 font, “Old Money”. Right underneath, printed in size 14 point font, “Starring M. Reynolds”. On either side of the girl are stacks of cash and a singular smoking gun on the top right-hand side. The movie seems recognizable, and yet I feel as far away from it as I ever possibly could, like an alien visiting a foreign planet. I try to remember what I should be doing. Why can’t I remember?

“Missss, missss, excuse me miss.”

A young lady in blue clothing appears.

“Yes Margaret, how are you? What do you need?”

“I’m fine”

I think I’m fine, what is fine? I don’t know.

“I’m sorry but I can’t remember what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Well Margaret, right now is free time. So that means you can do whatever you want.”

Whatever I want? I don’t know what I want to do.

“How do I know what I want to do?”

“Well, what makes you happy? What do you enjoy doing?”

I throw a puzzled look.

The lady continues, “Do you like drawing, or writing, singing, or acting…?”

I sit there deep in thought.

Why can't I remember? It's not fair.

Unable to contain my emotions, I shout. 

“I can't remember! Can't I do something else?!!”

I start crying, I don’t know what to do. 

Why don’t I know anything? Who am I?

“Margaret, it’s okay,”

The lady in blue gently holds my withered hands in her own delicate pair, the warmth transferring from her body to mine, somehow calming me down with a simple touch,

“Sometimes finding something you used to like doing can help you remember”

She’s right, I know she’s right but what do I like doing?

My gaze darts around the room as I look for something familiar, I see beautiful paintings hung around the walls, pages of stories and poems, and miniature, realistic clay figurines neatly sitting on the tables. The one thing in common, they’re all signed by an M. Reynolds. 

Wow, the people here must really like this M. Reynolds. 

I finally spot some yarn and beautiful knitting needles on a bookshelf.

“Could I try knitting?”

“Of course Margaret.”

She gets the needles and yarn and passes them into my hands. I notice they’re embossed in gold with the same name that’s over the walls, M. Reynolds.

“Thank you, Miss”

“Of course Margaret, now do you know what to do?”

I think for a moment, feeling the needles sit in my hands, they feel at home, almost like an extension of myself. But that’s too much to hope for, too soon.

“How will this help me remember?”

“Well, if you knitted a lot normally, then knitting now might help bring some of those memories back to you.”

Not fully believing her, I cast a skeptical look.

“Just try. Believe in a little bit of magic.”

She’s sincere and I think maybe I should believe her. She pauses for a minute before saying,

“I’m going to leave you now. I’ll be back okay? You just knit and try to remember. But don’t force it, if it comes it comes. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. You can call for me if you need help.”

“Wait what’s your name, Miss?”

“It’s Lanie”

Lanie leaves me alone and I start to knit. At first, I’m slow, clumsy, unagile, but soon my hands are at ease, at home, and before I know it, I’m already halfway done with a hat. I feel the wool between my bony fingers, soft but slightly itchy, thick, coarse, and strong, perfect for knitting something cozy.

Ok, now try to remember. Um….Uh…. nothing! I remember nothing! 

My hands feel completely at ease and yet not a single memory floats back to me… I feel alone, unworthy, useless. I feel a hot tear drip down my cheek, flushing them red, my nose becoming a little runny, and I sniffle a few times. 

It’s not fair. Why am I like this?

****************************************************************

I look down at my wrinkled hands, they’re holding some sort of sticks, metal and pointy, yarn wrapped around. 

“Ow”

I prick my finger, what are these?

Wait, where am I?

There are 4 walls around me, all a sickly beige colour. There’s a poster, a bookshelf, and a desk. 

Where am I?

“Where am I?” I scream, my voice breaking as my throat feels scratchy. I feel all hot inside and start sobbing, unable to hold anything back. 

A man in blue clothing comes inside. I start screaming.

“It’s ok Margaret, I’m here to help you. I’m not trying to hurt you.” The blue man says.

“Who's Margaret?” I scream.

He looks taken aback before continuing,

“It’s ok, I’m here to help you.” He walks over slowly, trying to hush me as he comes over. 

“Let’s take a break, huh?”

He takes the sticks out of my hand and helps me lay down.

“Ok, now how about we take a nap?”

“Ok.” Eyes droopy, brain tired, I try to succumb to the darkness.

I hear hushed voices before I blackout, “It’s getting worse.” 

“We always knew it would.”

“No, it’s progressing faster than it should have. And nothing jogs her memory. I...I don’t know if we can do anything.”

“Just keep trying, we took an oath to do whatever we possibly could to help people. That oath does not include giving up.”

****************************************************************

I wake up and look around. There’s a crowded bookshelf, antique desk, black swivel chair, and a movie poster. I turn to my right and see some yarn on top of a pair of knitting needles. There’s a half-finished hat underneath. I glance around, checking to see if it might be anyone else’s, but seeing no other signs of life, I pick them up, fingers gently grazing the bedside table.

I finish the hat, it’s not perfect, but it still looks nice, like something I would wear…

To where? Where would I wear it? I don’t remember. I can’t remember ever being anywhere but here.

A woman comes in to check on me, for some reason, I know her name, Lanie. 

“Wow, Margaret! You knit so fast, do you remember anything?”

My name’s Margaret? There’s no one else here so it must be. Margaret. Mar-ga-ret. Yes, it sounds normal, familiar. My name’s Margaret.

“No” I sigh.

“Oh, now don’t look so glum, I know it’s hard, but there’s always tomorrow,”

She strokes my grey hair lovingly, giving me a pitiful look. The funny thing is, I can’t seem to remember yesterday, so how am I supposed to remember today, tomorrow?

“Hurry up Parks”

An older lady bellows into the room.

“Coming” Lanie responds

“I thought your name was Lanie?” I’m upset, worrying that the only thing I remember is false.

“It is. Parks is my last name.”

“Ohhh. What’s my last name?”

“It’s Reynolds. Your name is Margaret Reynolds.”

I feel as though I should remember something, as if that should mean something to me, stir something deep within me, but it doesn’t. I still can’t remember.