The Memory Jar by Elissa Janine Hoole

answer.
    I put the stupid ring on my finger to keep it safe. It didn’t feel like I was saying yes.

Now
    There’s a name for this stage, a new name, and it involves Scott moving away when they pinch his fingernails and making noises that may or may not be words. They’re waiting for him to open his eyes when people talk to him, so of course everyone’s in there talking to him non-stop. I still don’t see the ring anywhere, though I keep my eyes skimming around the room as I walk in, wondering as I do what exactly I should do if I see it lying somewhere. Do I claim it?
    Celeste walks me all the way to Scott’s room after my session, says I should take the memory jar with me. She gives me a stack of slips to fill out. The two beads she threw in originally are still there, rolling around, their clunking somewhat softened by the memories I’ve already put in: the ones from my phone that Celeste helped me print, plus a few more I scribble out on paper. I don’t write about me bleeding on the snow and Scott holding my hand as I died because objectively, that memory is not real, no matter how it feels. Grappling with reality is all I do right now. It can’t be healthy.
    â€œTaylor! We were just talking about you!” Emily folds me into a hug and stands beside me, beaming. The late afternoon sun shines in the window behind Scott’s father, who nods at me without quite looking at me, and it lights up his mom’s face as she turns to greet me. She holds her arms out and I lean in for a hug, even though she never used to hug me. She smells like hospital coffee and she feels so tiny and birdlike and fragile. Even though she never blames me, her embrace fills me with guilt.
    â€œAny change?” I fold my arms across the front of my body, feeling all their eyes on me. I look at Scott, who looks mostly like he did yesterday, with slight changes to the coloration of his bruises. Well, not entirely like before. There’s something a little different about the way his body rests in the bed, something more relaxed—less couch-cushiony.
    â€œHe opened his eyes and tried to talk,” says his mother, with a quick nod, but she slips into a small smile. “Nothing we could understand, and not really in response to anything we did, but it’s progress.”
    It’s progress. Toward a minimally conscious state, which is better than a persistent vegetative state. My head swims with states.
    This is so crazy. We’re all gathered around his bed marveling over his ability to move his fingers and make an unintelligible sound. What’s going on in his head is what I want to know. How much of Scott is inside that skull now? Will he still remember me? Will he still love me?
    â€œHey, Taylor. Glad you showed up.” I look up, toward the door, and there’s Joey, a weird grin on his face. “I forgot to give you this yesterday.” His hand is in the pocket of his jeans, digging for something small, and I know he’s going to do it—he’s going to pull out that engagement ring right in front of his mom and dad, so I’ll be trapped all over again. Who knows, maybe he’s going to tell them all about the baby thing too.
    â€œIt’s okay, I don’t need it right now.” I hold up my hand to stop him, but it’s too late; Joey’s already reaching toward me. “No! It’s—”
    It’s ten bucks. He shakes the crumpled bill in my face a couple times until I take it, holding it between my thumb and index finger, puzzled. “What’s this?”
    â€œFor lunch, obviously.” He rakes his fingers through his hair and then brushes it down in front of his eyes, turning away toward the window. “I’m the one who asked if you wanted to go, and then you end up buying my food. Didn’t want you to think I planned it that way.”
    I can’t keep from smiling, relief sweeping over me, and a little shame for