Sarahribu

It was a small advert in the back of one of the better papers. When she rang to place it the charming Glaswegian refused to take her seriously, bantering ‘Oh, is this one of them alternate reality games? When you have to save the princess through hacking websites?’ It cost £36 and he took her bank details with that perfect customer service laugh that tells that this will be one call for the future pub-anecdote pile.

She bought her copy the day after next and there, between the advert for speechwriting and tax advice was her plea.
‘My name is Maria Maria Lowell. Six month ago I was in a bad car accident and subsequently I have lost all the memories of my life. From my family I have been told about who I am and what I’ve done with my life and so I have the facts.
I know I was a braggart. I know that I would spin stories and spill my memories given slight provocation so I know that there are people around the world who have my personal memories. So if you’re one of the people who’ve heard my silly stories at dinner parties, train stations, on blind dates, in playgrounds or wherever you encountered me please get in touch so I can try and find out who I am.’

She purposely left it a few agonising days before she checked her PO box. It was crammed full of letters in all shapes and sizes, the stamps from all over the world postmarked exotic and full of potential that caused her heart to flutter. She ripped one open at random still standing in the dirty hallway, ten others hitting her feet with a dull swoosh.

“You owe me $10,000. I expect payment tomorrow” followed by bank details.

Her enthusiasm deflated she emptied the box out with a heavy heart and trudged home carefully through the listless rain, boots kicking up a spray of disappointment.

A few hours and several cups of tea later she opened another missive from a well meaning former acquaintance. “I remember you from university. You studied economics but failed out after second year because your maths wasn’t good enough…” it was frustrating to get letters like this, with facts. She didn’t want facts! She wanted history, humanity, soul, and personality. There must be a touch of what she needed in amongst the solicitations, descriptions of obviously fake sexual encounters and vitriolic hate mail…

It was three days later when her mother came round, filled with hennish worry. She called out for her cautiously; Even though her ‘new’ daughter was coping wonderfully according to the doctors, she couldn’t stand being shocked. A strange noise met her, and in the kitchen she found a sight that no mother can see and ignore, but her heart fluttered and her eyes pricked when she saw what was sitting there. For the first time in months, Maria looked back at her. For the first time since before the accident her beautiful face was now full of the light of identity and this was enough to make the eyes wet with the burden of loss and regret.

“I was so normal” was all she managed to get out before she dissolved into tears. Her mother took her in her arms and they said nothing else.

Later in the evening, Maria’s mother returned to the kitchen to tidy and found the few significant letters spread out across the table, a perfect anachronology of a remembered life. She kissed them lightly with gratitude and pressed them to her heart.

“You told me once about the time you got backstage at a gig from some Canadian singer you liked from your childhood. You bonded with him over a trivial manner and you described with relish how he kissed you and it tasted like home. His girlfriend was in the next room and he whispered things in your ear you claim were the basis for the lyrics of his next single. No one believed you, but it was a good story. I hope this helped”.

“We were set up on a blind date once. I met you after work, where you did something boring that involved databases. You explained, at length, how you implemented a system wide fix for an ongoing printer problem. I’m sorry to say I made my excuses after the first course despite how hot you were and stuck you with the bill.”

“You were my first. It was pretty good, but I’ve had better since. I’m sorry to hear about your injury.”

“You travelled a lot as a kid because your dad was in the Army. You always wanted to be a soldier as a kid like him, and managed to get us kids to play at bloody warfare, which scandalised the nuns.”

“You used to tell people that you kept your super-Catholic first names for the irony because you considered yourself a pagan now. Really you just worshipped at the altar of Senor Tequila and were generally pretty insufferable”.

“You used to lend people books all the time and then bitch when you never got them back. I still have your copy of The Time Travellers Wife, and sorry to say, still haven’t read it.”

“We lived together the first year out of university and so I know a lot of things about you. I think I was the longest person you ever lived with and vice versa, which is pretty sad, considering our age. I always thought you were cool, even though you had Chinese food stains on your sheets most of the time. You used to sleep with your laptop and complain that it was worse than crack when I complained about it pressing against my back when we crashed there after watching a movie. I loved you for thirteen months and fourteen days, and those were some of the happiest days of my life. I hope you find happiness in your new self”.