Chapter 7 - THE MEMORY TEST
Ethan called his father.
6:10 a.m.
“Dad.”
“Ethan? You okay?”
“I need you to ask me something.”
“What?”
“Something only I would know.”
His father laughed.
Then heard Ethan’s voice.
Stopped.
“Your mother’s last words.”
Ethan closed his eyes.
Dangerous.
But he answered.
“She said, ‘Don’t let your father eat hospital pudding.’”
His father laughed through tears.
“Okay.”
Ethan breathed.
Then his father said:
“No.”
Ethan froze.
“That wasn’t her last sentence.”
“What?”
“She said that earlier.”
Ethan’s skin went cold.
“What were her last words?”
His father whispered:
“You tell me.”
Ethan searched memory.
Hospital.
Machines.
Mother’s hand.
Nothing after pudding.
A blank.
His father began crying.
“Ethan?”
“I don’t remember.”
Harris watched him.
Ethan hung up.
“What does that mean?”
Harris said nothing.
“WHAT DOES IT MEAN?”
“It means memory gaps have started.”
“Or grief.”
“Yes.”
“Then how do we know?”
“We don’t.”
That was worse.
Then Ethan’s phone rang.
His own number.
He answered without thinking.
His own voice said:
“Dad’s testing the wrong one.”
Ethan stopped breathing.
The voice continued:
“I remember her last words.”
“What were they?”
Harris grabbed the phone.
“Don’t ask!”
Too late.
The voice whispered:
“You were always enough.”
Ethan dropped the phone.
His knees weakened.
Because those were the words.
He remembered instantly.
Mother barely conscious.
Her lips moving.
You were always enough.
The Ethan on the phone knew something Ethan inside 9C had forgotten.
May you like
Then the caller said:
“Now ask yourself why.”
