April Henry - The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die

Dillow’s gun is now digging into my stomach. At this moment, I might be the only girl in America with a gun in her waistband and a coffee mug cradled in her hands.

Ty takes a last sip and then looks at the clock on the wall. “We could probably leave now and get to the library just as it opens. I’ll make sure the street’s clear.” He gets to his feet and heads toward the door.

I set down my mug. If it isn’t, what will I do? I look around. There’s a door for the bathroom, but that’s about it. No back entrance. Even Audrey must come in the front. My breathing speeds up. I have the gun, but could I really use it?

Before I completely hyperventilate, Ty sticks his head in the door and gives me an all-clear sign. He calls a good-bye to Audrey. I nod at her as I follow him out the door.

It takes about twenty minutes to walk to the library. Thankfully, Ty doesn’t suggest we try to skateboard. I watch every car that drives by. Whenever we pass a store window, I look at the reflections to see if anyone is behind us. But all I see are normal people. Men in pickup trucks, women in minivans. A lady jogging with a black Lab. A guy wearing a neon green windbreaker and riding a bike.

The second floor of the library has rows and rows of computers. Ty drags over a second chair so that we can sit together in front of a computer in a far corner.

“First, let’s see if we can figure out why you can’t remember,” Ty says in a low whisper. He puts his fingers on the keyboard. “Then we’ll work on what it is you’re not remembering.”

“Why and what? You forgot the who, when, where, and how.” I start out half joking, but by the time I finish my sentence, our task seems impossible.

Ty squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll get there. One step at a time.” He turns back to the computer. In the search box, he types in “sudden memory loss.” More than 17,000 results. He follows a link to a medical site, skims a few lines, clicks back, selects another link, and then repeats the process, clicking back and forth almost faster than I can follow. Most of the sites are filled with medical jargon.

He pauses on one site. “Your head wasn’t bruised or cut. And you said you haven’t been having headaches.” His voice is low, like he’s talking to himself. “But if it’s not from a blow to the head, then what is it?”

He clicks on another link that leads to a site about brain tumors. I freeze. Could that be it? But Ty is running his finger down the list of symptoms, shaking his head.

He moves on, checking out more links, as I try to keep up, my eyes scanning hundreds of words. I keep getting stuck on symptoms and diagnoses. I’m not running a fever. I’m not sleepy. I’m probably not an end-stage alcoholic.

Then he stops on a page. “Look at this.”

In a rare and poorly understood form of amnesia called dissociative fugue, some or all memories of a person’s identity become temporarily inaccessible. In the fugue state, which can last several hours or even several years, individuals forget who they are. They don’t remember their names or anything about their former lives, nor do they recognize friends or family.

Unlike most forms of amnesia, dissociative fugue has no known physical or medical cause. Rather, it is thought to be precipitated by an emotionally traumatic event, an event so painful the mind seems to shut down and erase everything, like a failed computer hard drive.

During the fugue state, memories that occurred before the event cannot be retrieved. But unlike a computer whose unsaved information is lost forever, most patients suffering from dissociative fugue eventually recover their “lost” memories. Typically this happens just as suddenly as the memories disappeared.

Ty turns to me. “Maybe that’s what you have.”

It’s already clear that something bad happened to me. Whatever it was, it was bad enough to push restart on my brain. Does that mean it has to have been even worse than the things that have happened since? I pulled a gun on Officer Dillow. I left Brenner to die in the quiet woods. But I remember those things.

Ty is still waiting, watching me with his dark eyes. I give a small nod.

“So something bad happened that you had to forget,” Ty says. “It must have been them pulling out your fingernails.”

I look down at my bandaged hand. I’m glad I can’t remember the pliers. But would that have been enough to make me forget everything? Would that have been enough for my mind to build a barrier, walling me off from everything that happened beforehand?

It’s like I can feel the wall in my mind. Do I really want to know what’s behind it? Is something knocking on the other side? I shiver.

Ty seems to think we’ve solved one mystery. My fingernails got pulled out and I forgot who I was. But what if it was something worse?

“That’s only part of it,” I whisper to him. “What kind of men would pull out a teenage girl’s fingernails? What did they think I knew?”

“Let’s see if there’s any more in the news,” Ty says, typing in the web address of a TV station. It’s not hard to find the latest version of what happened to Officer Dillow; it’s the lead story.

Newberry Ranch, Ore. (AP) — A 16-year-old girl is being sought in connection with the homicide of a security officer who was found shot to death in his vehicle at the Newberry Ranch and Resort near Bend, Oregon, late last night.

The girl has been identified as Cadence (Cady) Scott of Portland, Oregon. When asked whether Scott was a suspect, a Bend police spokeswoman would only characterize her as a missing person whose safety was in question. “We have reasons to be concerned about her and we want her found,” she said.

However, a source says that security camera footage from Newberry Ranch shows Scott standing outside Dillow’s security vehicle and pointing a gun at him. The actual shooting itself was not captured, as the security camera pans the area and had already moved past the location. The source said that a gunshot can be heard on the tape.

A motive for the murder has not been established, but it appeared that Dillow may have been attempting to take the teen into custody.

Scott is thought to be a runaway. On Tuesday, she did not show up for classes at Portland’s Wilson High. That morning, her parents left a message for their daughter on the school’s answering machine. According to another source, the message said they had discovered that she had sold the family’s Datsun on Craigslist, and that she shouldn’t come home until they had cooled off. The rest of the family has not been seen since. Reportedly, the Scotts’ Portland home showed signs of a struggle.

Anyone with information related to the shooting or the whereabouts of any of the Scotts is asked to call Crime Stoppers at 541-555-8588.

I shiver. The library is all blond wood, white walls, and high ceilings. The tall windows let in shafts of sunlight. It’s hard to believe we are in such a light-filled place and reading about such dark, dark things.

Below the article is the photo of me that Ty talked about earlier. My raised fists are clenched in triumph, and a grin I don’t think I could make anymore splits my face.

I shift my focus until I can see my reflection in the computer monitor. With my dyed, shorn hair, I don’t look anything like that girl on the website.

At least I hope I don’t. Because this article tells people that I’m probably armed and definitely dangerous.

Ty turns to me. “Are you okay?” he whispers. Before I answer, I scan the room without turning my head. Most of the computers are now in use. I’m probably the top story on every local news site. How many people are looking at my picture right at this moment? The changes in my hair and clothes suddenly feel like a mistake. Will my androgynous appearance make people stare at me longer, trying to figure out whether I’m a guy or a girl?