Memory had a sister. Nobody could ever remember her name, though not for lack of trying. Sometimes, Memory wished she could forget. Deja vu was the most annoying little sister anyone could’ve ever asked for. She rarely bothered to show up, but when she did, conversations dissolved and all eyes were drawn to her, around her, and later people would whisper about what she wore. A lavender scarf, trailing down to her delicate wrists. No, a choker, bold and black against pale skin. No, no— a pair of hot pink sunglasses and a lavish shade of lipstick to match. People obsessed over the curve of a sunburnt shoulder, the proud point of her jaw.
Even the teachers were not immune to Deja vu’s allure, although they certainly tried their hardest to act like it. They always asked Deja vu more questions than anyone else, even when Memory knew the answers.
Memory was one among many. She was mousy brown hair and nondescript features, and yes, sure, she may look simple but she would be easy enough to recall if anyone took the time to meet her gaze, unlike Deja vu with her games and dramatics and mystery. Memory met your eyes when you talked to her and said Please and Thank you and tried to smile at people she knew were sad and above all she tried. Memory always tried. For Deja vu, it was effortless.
One day, Deja vu deigned to come down for dinner, wearing a regal knit sweater or a hooded purple cloak or a loose orange t-shirt. She gave a half-glance in Memory’s direction and said, airily, “Oh Memory. It’s truly exhausting to watch you run in place,”or “Do you really think anyone notices? Do you really think they care?” or perhaps most painfully: “Some things, Memory, you must understand that people would really rather forget.”
In truth, Memory couldn’t remember the exact phrasing anymore. Perhaps over the years her sister’s perceived cruelty had sharpened in Memory’s mind. Perhaps Deja vu had chosen softer words, less like acid than advice. It didn’t matter. The effect was the same.
What Memory would remember is the way the words hit her. Like a gut punch that knocked the wind out of her, diaphragm caving in, ears ringing. This was what it would feel like, she imagined, to be struck down by a falling meteorite, all searing fire and edges left charred, almost numb in the shock of it. Then Deja vu might have picked at her supper with a carelessly held wrist or gotten bored and swept off to whatever she deemed important after verbally eviscerating her poor, plain older sister.
The next few days passed in both a blur and an ice-cold clarity. Memory moved through her classes in a daze. She kept waiting for a sign that Deja vu was wrong. Surely she would be reassured, rewarded even, for all of the kindness that she had poured into the world. It seemed only just— but then again, the world has always preferred irony over justice.
Two weeks, two days and far too many poisonous thoughts later, nothing had changed but Memory’s resolve.
What does one do when they find themselves to be meaningless?
In Memory’s case, they pack a bag. They steal their dear sister’s gauziest scarf and tear it in half: one piece to wrap around a suitcase handle five times, and another to bind back their remarkably unremarkable hair. They descend the stairs to the train station, two feet and one clattering suitcase, a strange three-part gait. They breathe in the cold, stagnant train air, fight off a chill and sit on their hands. They fade into one among many— ants climbing over sticks and stones with an undefinable destination. For the first time, it is a comfort. The train stops and exhales slow, like a head-shaking all-knowing mother who has seen this before: everyone running from something, someone running from herself.
When Memory got out, her fingers felt like they had become hourglasses full of sand.
Here is what she had: A pair of garden shears. A visceral, aching emptiness. Two fingers testing the blade, the blade tasting flesh, wondering and wondering. And her boring, unremarkable hair.
In the end, it was a very simple equation. Memory always was more hopeful than she should be.
She lifted the shears with both hands and closed her eyes.
~
Deja vu hears her name.
She turns; the world swirls in a hurricane of fabrics and impressions, her reality fading in and out of focus, she at the eye. And there, before her, with a fraction of a smile:
Memory looks a mess, of course. That will never change. A torn scarf tangles in her choppy hair, worn like a wedding veil. Terribly tacky. Achingly brave. It doesn’t look half as good on Memory as it did on Deja vu. Since when did the older sister steal clothes, anyway?
The smile completes itself, washed in shades of blue and green and gold. “I thought,” her sister says, reaching up to touch her bluntly cut hair, “that you could help me style it.”
Deja vu does not tell her that only God can help that haircut now. She refrains from nitpicking her sister’s drab brown shoes, or asking why on Earth she has a pair of garden shears dangling from her hand. That can wait. For now, she is here, and Memory is looking at her head-on and dead earnest the way she always does, and it is enough. It is plenty.