“Mama’s in the back, and you know how she is. You’ll need a crane to get you out of here before she finishes with you. You’ll be so stuffed you’ll beg for mercy. And then she’ll make you dessert!” He laughs, an uproarious belly laugh that, although I once again have missed the humor, is nonetheless catching.
I find myself grinning, and sipping the wine, which is, as he said, very, very good.
Alone once more, Logan leans forward, his forearms on the table. “Gino’s an old friend. And he wasn’t kidding about Maria. She’ll keep sending food out until we can’t eat any more.”
I take a sip of wine. “This is perfect, Logan. Thank you.”
He glances at me, and his eyes narrow, his brow furrows. “Am I allowed to ask you questions, X?”
“If you answer them yourself, sure.”
“It’s a deal,” he says. “And you drive a hard bargain. I’m not much for talking about myself, either.”
“So we’re quite the closed-mouth pair, aren’t we?”
He nods, laughing, and tears a piece of garlic bread off the loaf. “Guess we are.” He chews, swallows, and his smile fades. “Iguess I’ll start with the obvious first: How is it you know so little about yourself?”
I sigh, a long breath of resignation. “I can answer that in four words: acute global retrograde amnesia.”
Logan blinks as if trying to process what he’s hearing. “Amnesia.”
“Right.” I attempt to cover my discomfort with a large mouthful of Malbec.
“Acute global retrograde amnesia,” he repeats, and leans back in his chair as Gino arrives with a large bowl of salad and two plates, dishing a generous portion to each of us before vanishing once more without a word. When he’s gone, Logan picks at the salad with his fork, spearing some romaine and a chunk of fresh mozzarella, his eyes on me as he does so. “Can you unpack that a bit, for me?”
I take a few bites, sorting out my thoughts. “It just means I have no clue who I used to be. I suffered a severe cranial trauma, which affected my ability to recall anything about myself whatsoever. I have no memories prior to waking up in the hospital. None. That was six years ago, and I haven’t recalled anything either, so the doctors say it is unlikely I ever will. Many amnesia patients experience what is called temporally graded amnesia, meaning they won’t remember events nearer the trauma, but will remember pertinent information about themselves and their past farther back, childhood memories and the like. Most patients can and will experience spontaneous recovery, wherein they recall most of the forgotten information, although events immediately prior to the trauma will often still be absent. The severity of the trauma and damage to the neural pathways determines the severity and permanence of the loss of memory. In my case, the trauma was extremely severe. That I survived at all, that I woke from the coma all, much less was able to function on anything like a normal level? It is consideredan unexplainable miracle. That I escaped the accident withonlyamnesia, however severe, is a cause for celebration. Or so I was told. But the fact remains, I woke up with no memories. No knowledge of myself whatsoever.”
Logan seems shaken. “Damn, X. Whathappened?”
“No one is entirely sure. I was... found by—by someone.” I don’t dare even think the name. “I was nearly dead. A mugging gone horribly wrong, it is thought. I should have died. And, I’m told, Ididdie on the operating table. But they brought me back, and I survived. I had a family, but they died and I did not. They were murdered, and I escaped, somehow. Or... so I’m told.”
“And no one could identify you?”
I shake my head. “It seems not. I had no identification on me, and my family was dead. There was no one to identify me.”
“So you woke up alone, with no knowledge of who you are?”
“Not . . . alone, no.”
“We’ll come back to that, as I have my suspicions.” Another pause as Gino removes the half-finished bowl of salad and our plates, replacing them with small squares of lasagna. We both dig in, and after a few bites, Logan speaks again. “So you can form new memories, though, right?”
“Yes. That’s the other kind of amnesia, the inability to form new memories. It’s called anterograde amnesia.” The lasagna is incredible, and I don’t want to ruin the experience by talking, so we lapse into silence as we both eat.
“So—” Logan starts again, after we’ve both finished.
I speak over him. “I think it’s my turn.”
He shrugs. “Fair enough.”
“Tell me about your childhood.”
He smiles, and it seems a bit sad, to me. “Fairly typical story, really. Single mom, dad left when I was a baby. Mom worked two, sometimes three jobs just to provide a roof and something like three squares a day. She was a good woman, loved me, tookcare of me the best she could. Got no complaints, there. She just... was working a lot. Couldn’t keep me under her thumb the way I needed. I skipped a lot of school. My buddy’s dad ran a surf shop outside the city, right? He knew we were skipping, but he’d never graduated either, so I guess he didn’t care. I don’t know. He’d lend us boards and we’d surf all day. We’d only come to shore to eat a sandwich and then go back out, stay out on the waves till we were too exhausted to swim. This was how it was for Miguel and me, from like fifth grade onward. Skip school, go surf. Eventually his dad just gave us our boards, and we’d run the beaches hunting for the best waves. Sounds great, right? It was. Right up until we hit high school age. Miguel had a cousin, Javier, and he got us into smoking dope. And he also got us into helping him sell dope. Which led to being in a gang, of sorts. Me, Miguel, his cousin, a few other dudes. Lots of trouble. Quit even pretending I gave a shit about school. Mom pretended she didn’t know, as long as I didn’t get arrested and let her know I was alive every couple days. Just how it was, you know?”
He trails off again as Gino appears yet again, this time with plates of chicken parmesan with a side of pasta topped with a dollop of red sauce.
“So, things were... not good, but nothing crazy, I guess. Nobody went to jail, nobody got hurt. We smoked dope and surfed and sold a few dimes here and there. Nothing big, not enough to really call the attention of the more serious dealers, right? But then the summer before I’d have been a senior, I was seventeen, I think. Almost eighteen. Miguel’s cousin got approached by a big-time dealer from down by the border, dude called himself Cervantes. Wanted Miguel and Javier to be his mules, run some product south. Big cuts, big risk. I wasn’t in on it, ’cause I was white, you know? Most of the time, that didn’t matter, but for this, it did. So he approached them when I wasn’t around. They went with it. Ran the product, got paid out bigtime, figured they’d hit the jackpot, right? Yeah, that went fine for a few months, until Javier got in trouble. Got caught by a DEA border guard sting op. Javi turned snitch. Set Miguel up to take the fall. And Cervantes... he figured it was Miguel that was the snitch when a big shipment got intercepted and cost him couple hundred grand. Miguel and I were surfing, like we always did early in the morning. Best waves, you know, when it’s just past dawn.” He ducks his head, gently swirling the dregs of his wine. “Cervantes and three of his soldiers were on shore, waiting for us. Didn’t say a word, just—just lit him up. A dozen slugs to the chest. Right in front of me. That was it. No threats, no warnings, no interrogation. Didn’t say shit to me, either. Like, obviously if I said anything to the cops, I’d be next. Miguel was my best friend, man. He was like family, you know? We’d been friends since third grade.Blam-blam-blam, dead. Right in front of me.”
“My God, Logan.”
