The Yellow House

Content Warning: This short story explores themes of grief and includes one short scene of criminal violence.

Water running down my skin. Scattered seeds on wet cobblestone. Yellow paint.

—

My eyes snap open to a quiet room, its lone clock casting a blue glow atop our wooden bedside table. 

A dream, Alyce. Just another dream.

I reach for the ring that lives on a chain around my neck and press my thumb hard against the vintage cut stone. 

In group, they tell us to choose an anchor that feels safe, something to help ground us in moments we feel...lost. My mother’s ring feels like love, so I never take it off.  

Anchor. Identify. Release.

I inhale deep and conjure my pre-written statement, words I’ve repeated more times than I care to count.

“My name is Alyce Walker. I have chosen, of my own free will, to remove targeted memories through a procedure performed by the MEM-DEL Corporation. I will not remember this decision, but it is imperative that it not be reversed.” 

Out of habit, I mouth the words I don't remember writing, my own “note to self" scribbled at the bottom of the MEM-DEL intake form.

“Trust the process and be happy, Alyce. This is the only way.” 

The release feels as futile as ever but I empty my lungs anyway, surrendering control and allowing the pain to spill like smoke into the moonlit room. Sometimes, on nights like these, the tears still come. Funny how the body remembers even when the mind forgets.

Rayan's voice is soft in the dark. “Did you dream again?” 

I nod and reach up to run my fingers through his thick curls, letting the things I can never seem to say seep into my touch. 

I know our life together should be enough. 

Every challenge of the past four years–the terrifying memory dysphoria, the crippling paranoia that culminated in my severance at the firm, the desperate move to New York, all of it, has led me here. To a man so good and so kind he chose to help others in the aftermath of his own amnesia. If not for his patient sponsorship, if not for his love, I would still be trying to claw my way out of the downward spiral the MEM-DEL procedure left me in. 

So why the doubt?

I watch as the furniture begins to take form in the darkness. “What if I made a mistake?” I whisper. “What if I can't heal because I don't remember what I'm supposed to be healing from? It’s been years, Ry." I touch my chest, my voice breaking softly.  “There's this hole...”

His eyes are an ocean of worry, impossibly dark in the dim light. “I told you I would support you if you decide to go down this path and I will. But I’m concerned it will just hurt you more, Alyce. You chose to forget for a reason.”

I lay silent for a moment, sobered by the possibility that he may be right. We both know that my psyche is still very much broken, trapped between real and not real, fixated on the torn edges of a page that no longer exists. The idea of pursuing this further, of unraveling what little progress I’ve made, is terrifying. 

But then, so is living with pain that can never be quantified. 

"I just don’t think I can let it go."

He nods and traces weary fingers across my cheek, a smile of resignation settling in the corners of his full mouth. “We’ll just have to find it then. Your yellow house.”

—

The morning is bleak. The wind chases leaves across gray sky reflections as we drive through the heart of Charleston's Enviro-district. The neighborhood, while new to me, seems to carry a deep sense of nostalgia I can’t seem to put my finger on.

I tell myself I shouldn't be surprised. After all, my adoptive family lives not ten miles from here. As a fresh law student, I could have driven through any number of neighborhoods on my way to classes. 

Even so, there's a disconnect I find unnerving. Home is what I lost when my parents died. Charleston was never anything more than a new city with new bullies, regardless of the opportunities it later afforded me. 

“Almost there,” Rayan says, his brow knit with quiet tension.

I check the address again and watch the leaf-green holo-numbers illuminate as we pass, a small thrill of triumph distracting me from the storm brewing in my chest. 

After five months of throwing every loophole in the book at MEM-DEL's legal team, it had only taken one pointed comment to my old transition agent, a thoroughly unempathetic woman named Kelli Burgeon, to get the ball rolling. 

"I'm surprised MEM-DEL is putting up such a fuss over a measly list of addresses. As you are aware, Ms. Burgeon, my transition back to normal life has been very difficult. Surely your supervisor understands the liability MEM-DEL faces if any real damage occurred during a less than successful procedure…"

Funny what can be accomplished when corporate ass is on the line.

MEM-DEL faxed a record of my previous residences that very afternoon and I quickly found what I was looking for: a single unfamiliar address tucked away in the long list of foster homes and short-lease apartments. An address here in Charleston. 

The blinker breaks the silence as we turn into the driveway of a smart-renovated, colonial two story, the kind of house I always joked about buying once I made partner at the firm. The sign in the yard announces the home is for sale, its newly installed enviro-safety features outlined in bold print. 

White, not yellow.

I swallow and rub the moisture from my palms, willing my mind to produce some small spark of recognition. None.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Alyce?" Rayan's eastern accent is thick with worry and I slide my fingers into his, bringing his palm to rest on my swollen belly.

“Yes, I need to.” I say, my voice more confident than I feel. “For the three of us."

—

The front door is locked. I peer through the large picture windows and am disappointed to find nothing but hardwood floors and sleek, white enviro-panels installed along the dining room walls. I barely notice Rayan’s conversation with the rental agency as I take the path to the back of the house, feeling uneasy as the first flash of memory washes over me. 

Something about my hand on the latch…the drifting scent of honeysuckle, the creak of wrought iron as I push the old gate forward–I'm certain now I've been here before. 

I step into a modest but beautiful backyard, its natural border framed by the branches of battered dogwoods. The air, still heavy with last night's rain, feels almost reverent, a substance so thick I could almost touch the sunlight hanging from its morning mist.

I make my way to the patio where a bed of irises grows in tangles, their petals a shade of blue that happens to belong to my favorite variety. As I kneel to touch their drooping blooms, I'm struck by the possibility I may have planted these myself. 

The damp soil slides between my fingers as I draw in a steadying breath. 

“My name is Alyce Walker. I have chosen, of my own free will, to remove targeted memories…”

But then I see it, a small patch of yellow peeking out from the bushes at the base of the house. Like a dream, the landscape shifts, and I feel what was lost click softly into place.

—

My hands are full of seeds–shiny, brown pods that fill my palms and pool around the silver band on my finger like tiny beetles. I run my thumb across them and stretch my neck to distant thunder, knowing this will be my last chance to finish planting before the rain. 

Suddenly, a shout rings out behind me and I startle to the sound, earning a swift kick from the baby for turning too quickly. I hardly have time to register Joseph yelling from inside the house. Yelling at the man holding the gun. 

I cry out, but it sounds distant, a useless scream swallowed by the crash of gunfire. Before I can stand, the man cracks the butt of the gun against my temple, sending me sprawling to the ground.

I land hard. The pain is exquisite–a wracking, cramping sensation that slices through my belly and sends a torrent of fluid down my legs and ankles. 

Before he turns, a final glimpse of his face fills my vision, its hatred burned into a fading horizon.

—

Rayan is yelling for me now, running into the yard, gathering me up as my knees turn to liquid. He’s speaking but all I can see is Joseph’s body and the dark puddle of his blood seeping into the cobblestone. 

Joseph, my Joseph. My husband, the father of our… 

I look down at my belly, realization exploding like thunder in my mind. This is not Joseph’s child. 

I begin to shake. "What happened to the baby…"

Rayan grabs my shoulders in both hands, frantic now. “Alyce, the baby's fine. Are you all right? What happened?” 

I look into the face of the man I loved just moments ago, my mind desperately grasping for footing.  It can't be…

The words tumble out in a half sob, half hiss. “How could you?” 

His face crumbles with confusion, but I don’t care. I stumble to my feet and begin to run. I run and I don’t look back.

—

The afternoon is chilly for September, a drafty sort of day that gives the geo-thermal heater a run for its money. I stand in the kitchen of my new former home, watching the window with a mug of brew sitting untouched beside me.

Though it had taken two, long years and the furthest reaches of my expertise, MEM-DEL had finally capitulated. The settlement was modest, of course, but more than comfortable. Enough to start over.

More importantly, I had found it felt good to be back in court–my sleek, black heels clicking along courthouse tiles, a briefcase at my side. As I stood before the judge and delivered my closing argument, I realized I might finally be ready to start practicing again.

I take a drink from the now lukewarm liquid and absently touch the edges of the letter sitting on the yellow countertop. 

"Dearest Alyce,

As I'm sure you now know, in the spring of 2052, I was found guilty under the name, Zoran Rahim, for the crimes of aggravated assault, first degree murder, and involuntary manslaughter. You, your husband, and your unborn child were the victims of my violence. 

“I still don’t remember the attack. I don't even feel capable of it, but I’ve been told it’s common for altruistic character traits to be implanted during court-ordered rehabilitation. It seems you were the prosecutor in a death-sentence conviction against my brother, so I can only surmise that simple revenge was my intended goal. 

“It is in utter devastation that I accept these facts. I can only offer some small form of retribution for the pain I've caused you with the decision to reverse my artificial amnesia and accept my original sentence of life imprisonment.

"Please believe that I didn’t know about our shared past. At our first meeting, I simply saw a beautiful soul whose song so closely echoed my own. I will always love you, Alyce, and forever cherish the time we shared.

"If there is any part of you that still remembers our love, please, just let me say goodbye. After the procedure, who I am now will be gone forever." 

Small feet patter behind me and I realize I am crying.  

I turn to the toddler watching me with wide, round eyes, impossibly dark beneath the first wisps of silky curl. I sweep him into my arms and bury my face in the soft folds of his baby neck. 

The truth is, I never stopped loving Rayan. 

Even now, in this home I once shared with my husband, his absence sits like a hole in my heart. Just like my parents. Just like Joseph. Just like my once-lost memories. 

Turns out, that's just how grief works. The only way to heal is to sit with it. To feel the loss and say goodbye.

I blink away a final tear and nuzzle a pair of dimples from the boy's rosy cheeks. As I slide little arms into little sleeves, I realize that though I can't know what the future will bring, I do know that this decision, the one I’m making right now, is right.

We step into the yard to the tune of creaking dogwoods, the yellow house blocking the wind at our backs. I kiss the curls of the boy with the brown eyes and whisper, “It’s time to meet daddy.”