My room is a very stressful place. My mother decided to put up every single photo of me she could find, hoping it would spark my memory. All of them were taken before the age of thirteen because I got really camera shy when I hit my teenage years, something revealed to me in one of my mom’s stories she loves to tell about me. There are some of just me, some with her, and none with my father. Some of them are torn, like she ripped someone out of the photo. All the photos feel like pieces of paper to me, nothing more. And it makes me uncomfortable that I have to stare at multiple versions of myself every time I step in there, always feeling like I’m being watched by myself.

I turn on some music and then rummage through my dresser for something to wear, occasionally glancing over the walls and ceiling, cringing at how happy I look in most of the photos, all sunshine and rainbows, like there was no bad in the world. But there is. Just turn on the news. Just live inside my head for five minutes. Sometimes the girl in the photos doesn’t even look like me when I stare at her long enough. Like she’s just someone who shared the same face but had different thoughts and values.

After selecting an outfit, I close my dresser and start getting dressed. Slacks and a button down shirt, done up all the way to my chin. Black hair combed and gelled into place, so it’s plastered straight at the side of my defined cheekbones. Minimal makeup so my freckles are visible. No jewelry. Hideous loafers. This was how I dressed before the accident, I was told. And the dresser full of stuffy and boring attire confirmed this. That this is who I am. Maddie Ashford. Boring. Simple. Preppy. Conservative. I am Maddie and I look like a banker.

You were a good girl, Maddie.

You always did what was right.

Always followed the rules.

Never got into trouble.

I glance in the mirror, seeing the girl my mother described to me after I’d woken up and asked who I was yet at the same time not seeing. Honestly, I look confused—always do. Like I’m trapped behind a face I don’t recognize.

I am hiding behind a mask.

I’m hiding behind my amnesia.

I’m hiding.

Lost.

Lost.

Lost.

Drifting.

Part of me wishes I could be that girl she described, but most of me knows that I can’t be that person. Sighing at the thought, I pick up my discarded pants and reach into the pocket, retrieving the button I stole from Preston earlier today. I hate that I do it—in fact it makes me sick—that every time I see a stray button, I have to collect it. Not any fallen button, just one’s off people’s shirts, like some sort of strange OCD habit. It’s not a new habit either, something I discovered one day going through my old boxes of stuff. I came across a wooden box one day that was full of buttons in various colors, shapes, and sizes. I thought about asking my mother why I had it, but quite honestly, it’s something I feel like I should keep a secret. Crazy, like Lily.

Going into my closet, I stand up on my tiptoes and grab the box from the top shelf. Lifting the lid, I drop the new button into it, feeling a brief moment of gratification, but the feeling goes away the instant I put the lid on, as if I’m shutting a door closed that carries secrets to myself. After I put the box back on the shelf, I go into the kitchen, where my mom is cooking over the stove. The air smells like chocolate and cinnamon and there’s dough all over the countertops. She has her apron on, the fabric covered in melted chocolate and flour. There’s even some in her greying hair.

She has her back to me, but hears me come in and peers over her shoulder. “Oh, you’re ready early today,” she says as she skims over my outfit and gives me an approving look. “You look very nice, Maddie.” She walks up and smoothes the invisible wrinkles in my shirt.

I give her a tight smile as she brushes her hand over my head, putting some of my stray hairs into place. “Thanks.”

I sometimes wonder if she still sees her little girl when she looks at me, the one I don’t know, but who she likes to remind me once existed and that needs to be taken care of. My mom’s not a terrible person. She’s nice, caring, giving, although she worries about me way too much and is very controlling. But any faults of hers can be blamed on her twenty-one year old daughter still living with her who can’t remember anything before the age of fifteen. It’s not like I want to be living with her still, but every time I suggest moving out she says I need to act more responsibly. But I feel like I am. I have a job. I can dress myself. Make decisions. Granted maybe they’re not always the best. But I’m not incompetent and I wish she’d realize that. Although, sometimes I think she does know it and she just has issues with letting me go. I’m the only child and my father passed away when I was seven, something told to me in a very rushed story. “He died in a car accident, my mother told me when I asked her once. “That’s all you need to know.” Then she dismissed the conversation by leaving the room, I’m guessing because it’s too painful for her to talk about. So I don’t bring it up, even though Lily tries to get me to all the time.

“Did you remember to pack your scarf and gloves just in case it snows tonight and the car won’t start?” my mother says, interrupting my thoughts. She’s packing a bag of cookies for me like I’m going to school and she needs to make my lunch. “I hate that you work clear out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yes mother.” The possibility of it snowing is slim to none, but arguing with her does no good, something I’ve learned over the last few years.

“And you remembered to put your paycheck in your purse so you can deposit it right?” She hands me the bag of cookies with worry all over her weathered face.

I nod, patting my purse as I drop the bag of cookies into it, trying to resist the urge to mess around with the collar on the shirt that’s so tight I feel like I’m being strangled. “Yes, I have everything I need, so can I please go to work now?”

Her worry increases, making more lines appear on her face. I saw pictures of her a few years before my accident and there were hardly any lines at all, but six months after, wrinkles were flourishing all over. “Maddie, since you’re leaving early, can you please stop by and put that check in this time? If you keep forgetting then it’s going to expire and then it isn’t going to be any good anymore.”

“I know that.” I reach for my coat draped on the back of the kitchen chair. “And I promise I’ll put it in.” But I won’t because I’m making a stop somewhere else, the same stop I make every couple of days, the one stop that makes being two people just a little bit easier.

“I’m worried about you, Maddie,” she says. “You’ve been so irresponsible lately. With the checks. Coming home late. It’s so unlike you and it worries me that maybe something’s going on with you that you’re not telling anyone.” She stares me straight in the eyes without blinking and it wigs me out.

“Nothing’s going on.” Unlike you. Seriously? I bite down on my lip, trying to stop myself from saying it, but the urge overpowers me. “How do I know for sure if it’s unlike me,” I sputter. “I mean, are you really sure that six years ago I wasn’t irresponsible? Maybe I’m returning to my old self again.”

She either looks horrified or extremely angry—I can’t one-hundred percent tell which one, but thank God, it gets her to blink again. “Let’s get one thing straight,” she snaps. “You were never irresponsible. You never talked back. Never did anything wrong. You were the perfect daughter and never think otherwise.”

I want to drop it, but Lily is persistent. “No matter how many times you say that, it seems highly implausible. No one is perfect.” I should just stop there. She seems frazzled and usually I don’t try to push her buttons, but I’m not sure I’m really myself at the moment. Lily feels very powerful, Maddie really tired, and I’m starting to wonder if the hypnotherapy set something off. “Besides, you say all these things about me—that I was responsible, never talked back, a good girl—yet it doesn’t feel like that’s my nature.”