from this teacher is like a D from any other teacher, the girl said. But I didn’t really follow the assignment. I wrote a story instead about a young girl who’s being chased by a man who burned her house down and killed her family, including her, or at least that’s what everyone thinks. But she’s still alive and the man is chasing her.
Sounds like a morbid story for a teenager to write, the man said.
I based it on a book I read as a kid. Or at least I think I read it. I’ve never been able to find the actual book. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I just made the whole story up myself. I mean, who would write a kid’s book about an arsonist who kills a whole family and then tries to kill a little girl?
I read once that a decent percentage of children’s book writers in fact hate children, the man said.
I wonder if she knew something, the girl said. Do you think maybe she knew something she didn’t know she knew?
The real question is, the man said, pointing a half-eaten shrimp at her, if she has to be reminded that she knows something, does she really know it?
Maybe she blanked it out to save herself, the girl said. She knew if she knew this thing, that someone would try to pry it out of her.
Dessert? the man said, yawning.
Are you tired? the girl asked.
Prohibitively, the man said. I haven’t slept for two days. Chronic insomnia.
Really, she said. From the amnesia?
It’s a not unusual side effect of head trauma, he said. The brain is too rattled to doze off. A primitive response. Imagine the cave man who wanted to prevent his head from being bashed in by a rival. Insomnia was his friend. This is what I tell myself: insomnia is my friend.
The girl ordered pie, the man a coffee refill and a vanilla malted. By the neon pink clock over the cash register, it was five minutes to nine. Her parents would be home soon. They used to check on the girls, especially in the early days when they first began leaving them home alone without a babysitter. But by a certain age their safety seemed guaranteed. The girl had lain awake at night after her parents had returned home from a dinner party, she’d heard them switching off the downstairs lights and running water in the kitchen. She’d heard them come upstairs and shut their bedroom door without looking into their daughters’ rooms. Soon the house would be dark and quiet; soon she could hear the muted snores her father made after he’d been drinking.
The man stirred his malted. The girl collapsed her pie crust with the backside of her spoon.
So what you’re saying, the girl said, is that if you have amnesia, you know things you don’t know. Or no. The reverse. You don’t know things you do know.
I guess so, said the man.
Which could be kind of cool, the girl said. I mean if you’re sick of your life and you get hit by a car. You can wake up and be a totally blank person.
True, the man said.
Like the girl in my story whom everybody believed was dead, the girl said. She could decide to be anyone.
But she’s being chased by an arsonist, the man reminded her. He knows who she is.
If she escaped the arsonist, the girl said. Let’s say she escaped. Let’s say she moved to Paris and the arsonist forgot about her.
Memories are shoddy things, even under the best of circumstances, the man said.
Which makes me wonder, the girl said. Can you really trust this ex-wife of yours?
The man shrugged. Trust , he said.
I mean, she could be messing with you. I think that would be a lot of fun. To mess with a person’s head like that.
How do you mean? the man said.
Maybe you were never allergic to shrimp. Maybe you weren’t even a lawyer. Maybe you were something far, far worse.
Worse than a lawyer, the man said, trying to make a joke of her observation. But the girl could see she’d unnerved him.
Maybe she’s not even your ex-wife, the girl said. She’s just some deceitful nurse.
She showed me pictures of our wedding, the man said. We honeymooned in the
Sounds like a morbid story for a teenager to write, the man said.
I based it on a book I read as a kid. Or at least I think I read it. I’ve never been able to find the actual book. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I just made the whole story up myself. I mean, who would write a kid’s book about an arsonist who kills a whole family and then tries to kill a little girl?
I read once that a decent percentage of children’s book writers in fact hate children, the man said.
I wonder if she knew something, the girl said. Do you think maybe she knew something she didn’t know she knew?
The real question is, the man said, pointing a half-eaten shrimp at her, if she has to be reminded that she knows something, does she really know it?
Maybe she blanked it out to save herself, the girl said. She knew if she knew this thing, that someone would try to pry it out of her.
Dessert? the man said, yawning.
Are you tired? the girl asked.
Prohibitively, the man said. I haven’t slept for two days. Chronic insomnia.
Really, she said. From the amnesia?
It’s a not unusual side effect of head trauma, he said. The brain is too rattled to doze off. A primitive response. Imagine the cave man who wanted to prevent his head from being bashed in by a rival. Insomnia was his friend. This is what I tell myself: insomnia is my friend.
The girl ordered pie, the man a coffee refill and a vanilla malted. By the neon pink clock over the cash register, it was five minutes to nine. Her parents would be home soon. They used to check on the girls, especially in the early days when they first began leaving them home alone without a babysitter. But by a certain age their safety seemed guaranteed. The girl had lain awake at night after her parents had returned home from a dinner party, she’d heard them switching off the downstairs lights and running water in the kitchen. She’d heard them come upstairs and shut their bedroom door without looking into their daughters’ rooms. Soon the house would be dark and quiet; soon she could hear the muted snores her father made after he’d been drinking.
The man stirred his malted. The girl collapsed her pie crust with the backside of her spoon.
So what you’re saying, the girl said, is that if you have amnesia, you know things you don’t know. Or no. The reverse. You don’t know things you do know.
I guess so, said the man.
Which could be kind of cool, the girl said. I mean if you’re sick of your life and you get hit by a car. You can wake up and be a totally blank person.
True, the man said.
Like the girl in my story whom everybody believed was dead, the girl said. She could decide to be anyone.
But she’s being chased by an arsonist, the man reminded her. He knows who she is.
If she escaped the arsonist, the girl said. Let’s say she escaped. Let’s say she moved to Paris and the arsonist forgot about her.
Memories are shoddy things, even under the best of circumstances, the man said.
Which makes me wonder, the girl said. Can you really trust this ex-wife of yours?
The man shrugged. Trust , he said.
I mean, she could be messing with you. I think that would be a lot of fun. To mess with a person’s head like that.
How do you mean? the man said.
Maybe you were never allergic to shrimp. Maybe you weren’t even a lawyer. Maybe you were something far, far worse.
Worse than a lawyer, the man said, trying to make a joke of her observation. But the girl could see she’d unnerved him.
Maybe she’s not even your ex-wife, the girl said. She’s just some deceitful nurse.
She showed me pictures of our wedding, the man said. We honeymooned in the
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