Remember

PART ONE

2027

ONE

Foster

Padded walls. Foster stared at them just as he

had numerous times during the last dozen

weeks. Framed foam mats covered with teal-green

padding. They had always seemed out of place.

Until today. In this hospital’s special room, as the

doctors had shared their devastating news, Foster

now understood the purpose of the padded walls.

When all hope was lost, when life held no

control, a need surged to inflict harm to one’s self.

He wasn’t a violent person. But at such a heightened

moment, fury roared in his heart. Life’s rules had

changed, leaving him with a sense of unfairness.

Logic told him if he followed the ethics and

laws of living correctly, he should be spared from

heartache.

Yet, here they were, the doctors leaving them

alone to process the latest news.

He clutched at her hand, staring at the padded

walls, the recent update feeling as if a knife had been

drawn against their throats.

Terminal. Stage IV liver failure. All the fighting

they had done over the last several weeks had led

only to defeat. In a slaughter of words, the team of

doctors had declared her fate as if there were no room

for negotiations, no alternatives, no place for hope.

It had always been Haizley and Foster. They had

grown together, from teenagers to adults. Identities

formed conjointly, so intertwined as to not be

separated. Married for fifteen years. Built a family

of four lively, incredible children. Established a life

of happiness. And now, they faced this.

Since the doctors left, Foster hadn’t been able

to speak. It was Haizley who broke the silence. “I

should get back to my room.”

He shifted to look at the form next to him

which no longer resembled his wife, the yellowing

skin, the bloated body from toxins which couldn’t

find a way out. An orange scarf covered her head,

reminding him that the vibrant blond—the same

looks and energy that had been passed down to the

kids—was gone. Instead, this struggling woman’s

nucleus centered around the schedule of her pain

medication.

“We don’t give up.” He looked directly into her

warm hazel eyes.

“I think the doctors want us to prepare.”

“No.” He focused again on the padded walls.

Together, they would challenge this. He would

continue searching for an alternative for them. “We

will keep fighting.” Because she was the rock, the

foundation, the central love within their home.

And the fun! She brought the life, the laughter, the

adventures, whereas Foster could easily live inside

his head. Problem-solving. Looking for ideas and

fixes through science. “There has to be a solution,

and we keep searching until we find it.”

The grip of her hand tightened. Even in her

weakness, he felt her strength fighting through. “We

need to prepare. That’s what they’re telling us. It’s

time, Foster, to prepare for what’s ahead.”

If he looked back at her, the physical transformation

of her body would validate the doctors’

damning prognosis. It would speak that death was

close ahead, so he delayed.

“I want my final days to be focused on the

memories we built,” she said. “The life we’ve had.”

Her other hand stacked on top of his. “We’ve had a

good life, Foster.”

At last, he twisted back to meet her eyes. “What

if there is another option?”

“No.” Her head shook slightly. “I’m tired. I just

want what time is left to relive the good.”

“Let’s get you back,” he said quietly, releasing

their intertwined hands as he stood. He unlocked the

brakes of her wheelchair. But instead of proceeding,

he just stared at the walls, wondering if punching

them, banging his head on them, throwing a temper

tantrum against them would actually help the pain

inside.

“We find the resilience we need by holding on to

the good,” she spoke softly into his thoughts. “So,

share with me your memories. Let’s find ways now

to live our best moments together. Again.”

While listening to Haizley’s words, Foster

headed toward these framed foam mats with their

teal-green padding. They reminded him of the high

school gym where he would rough house with

friends as they teased him over his quiet crush. Two

years of watching her, until his friends pressured

him to ask her out. In fact, it was in that gym where

he had shared his first kiss with her.

Suddenly a slew of memories hit Foster, the

music they shared, car rides, hanging out at the

beach, surfing together. One of his greatest, happiest

moments refueled him, their love of the ocean as she

rode the waves next to him and her reassuring smile.

When she offered him that smile, he knew all would

be right in the world.

More of the big life memories followed: their

wedding, their early married years as they worked

to both get through school. Then the kids, Clark,

Rex, Kate, and now little Cormac. Each addition

bringing Foster even greater joy.

He pressed a fist into the padding, slow, and

firm. He couldn’t save her, but what if he could find

a way to share with her the life she had given him?

From his perspective, all the memories. From his

experiences, all the joy she had given him.

“I want to give you my memories,” he said,

looking past the dying body to a woman so full of life.

“I want that.” She smiled and he saw it, that

youthful smile in the waves, the moment when he

fully knew he loved her.

He could practically hear it now, her teenage

laughter. Certainly, he could easily hear her

laughter with the children. Running circles around

the couches, the games of tag, the boys jumping off

the furniture, the whole family making forts. The

laughing. They all had been laughing.

Sharing each other’s memories—Foster

approached this notion like another puzzle to be

solved. She took the painkillers to redirect the pain.

So, what if her mind took in a different perception,

something that countered the body’s message of

pain? What if he could be the source sending that

different message to her mind? Redirecting the

neurons, replacing them with a different flow of

information, his flow, the memories he carried of her.

“Foster!” Her voice cut into his brainstorming.

He looked over at her while his mind still fired

rapidly over the idea, the realization that his recent

lab work already had something thinly like this

underway, the neuron communication, the redirecting.

Sure, it was a ways off, and entirely different,

but it was a launching point, a place to begin.

He now saw her concern, that slight sadness she

sometimes gave him, a look of confusion or uncertainty

when he became too lost in his inventive

mind. “My sum,” she said quietly, her nickname for

him penetrating through the protective room. “Stay

with me.”

“It’s just an idea. A solution to a need.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“How science could help you. Help us.”

“I will always believe you are the best

biochemist. And that the world has yet to recognize

your greatness. But . . .” she slowly shook her head,

“I don’t need you to fix anything right now. I just

need you to stay with me.”

He nodded, aware of what she was asking, but

also aware of the idea which was growing in his

mind. An idea that spurred hope. And hope dulled

the pain.

If he could invent something to help her right

now then he could be an active participant in giving

her life through her final days, rather than a passive

observer. He could find a way. And he would do it.

He would give Haizley his memories. Show her the

life she had given him.

“Yes, love.” He would find her a solution.

2030

TWO

Mariana

Her fingers clutched round the handle of the

second-hand briefcase, a prop to appear more

confident since there was hardly anything inside. A

decade-old tablet that could hardly hold a charge,

her wallet with a debit card to access her nearly

empty bank account, and a credit card that represented

a black cloud of debt which swirled around

her, plus the tattered manila folder with a crisp

physical copy of her resume took up very little space

in the attaché.

She had already sent a digital copy to the

company, the descriptive outline of her past employment

phrased in such a way to downplay her absence

from the working world for the past seven years.

The company had contacted her and requested an

interview. They were the first to respond in her

unsuccessful attempts to find employment.

In this case, it helped she’d been referred by

Frank. When she told him a reference could only

carry her so far, Frank had responded with, “I dare

say you show up, impress them, and you’ll have

the job.” She needed his confidence. His optimism

that this all would work out okay. The rest of his

words hung with her now, “Even if the income is

humbling, it’s a start, Mariana. A landing spot for

you right now.”

She entered the lobby of the four-story building

and skimmed the list of labs, most of them tied in

with UCLA Extension, until she found Room 430.

She’d spoken with an Ashyr Harmon on the phone,

but the name Brody Daniels stared back at her.

Funny, she didn’t even know the company’s name.

She should have asked Frank for more details.

He said he’d told her all he knew, but she should

have pressed. She should have researched more.

The former Mariana would have done that. But

right now, forward-thinking wasn’t her strength.

Rather, she took one day at a time, coping along,

still processing the current state of her life.

She punched at the elevator button, and,

while waiting, caught herself in the reflective

mirrors. Mariana had never pictured this. Her in a

pressed suit, her coarse hair curled and sprayed to

perfection. Her makeup applied to imply a professional-

cute-yet-assertive look. All so she could land

this job, whatever it was.

She trusted Frank. Which was good because she

desperately needed this job.

The longer Mariana waited for the elevator doors

to open, the longer her eyes watched themselves in the

reflection until she saw the creeping of a tear surface.

She wasn’t a crier.

But with each passing day, her appreciation for

Frank and his wife, Jocelyn, continued to grow, the

gratitude surfacing now in the form of tears.

They had been the first to arrive at the scene.

Frank, who had been the one to call Mariana. Who

had hugged Mariana when she’d arrived. Who told

Mariana that she and the children would be okay.

All while she stared at the truck fractured against

the thick oak.

The elevator beeped. Her reflection she’d been

staring at separated as the doors opened. She stepped

inside, punched the number four, and tried to push

the memory out.

She had until the elevator reached the top to

pull herself together. To recite, for the hundredth

time, that it was a tree, not another car, not another

human’s life. Only Zane’s life.

As she felt the floor lift beneath her feet, Mariana

recalled Frank and Jocelyn joining her as she gathered

her four-year-old son and three-year-old daughter to

share the only story they needed to hear. Their dad

was reaching for his morning bagel. A bagel like he

always ate for breakfast as he headed into work. It’d

been like every other normal moment, except he’d

reached down to pick up his bagel that had fallen to

the floor of the cab, only to run off the road.

Of course, the lie was stupid. At their ages, Zane

Jr. and Caroline knew no different. But the lie was as

much for herself as for the children.

A bagel had been found a few yards from the

crash.

Which meant that when the intoxication reports

came back, Mariana could ignore them. Like she

could ignore the previous night’s spat. She didn’t

have to hold onto it, or their exploding collection

of fights, or the fact that he’d left that night and not

come home.

Instead, he’d gotten ready for work that morning

somewhere else. Drove to work from a different

base. And found a bagel from someone else’s home.

The bagel had led him off the road. Nothing else.

When Mariana stepped out of the elevator and

headed down the hall to Room 430, she tried to put

all that behind her. Zane’s meager life insurance,

which only covered the funeral arrangements. Or

Zane’s words if he saw her now dressed in this

tight porcelain suit. He’d probably comment on her

flabby stomach or remind her that wrinkles were

forming around her eyes or that her face didn’t smile

anymore.

He’d be furious that she’d bought the outfit from

the meager funds they’d been saving for a vacation

someday.

When she reached Room 430, she hesitated

at the closed door. Nervous butterflies made her

jittery. The tears, which she had forced back, still

seemed too close to the rim. Frank had said it was

a startup company. For what, she didn’t know. All

she knew was she needed a new startup in her own

life, a change from the hard-up widow she now was,

severed from a marriage that had needed to break

anyway.

Zane’s death had left her young family in a mess;

and it was up to her to get them out of it. It was

this hope, found within this potential job interview,

which would help to heal the pain.

She knocked on the door to hear a, “Come on

in.” When she did, she found a large open room

that resembled more of a frat house than a business

establishment.

Folding tables with laptops and banker boxes

lined the perimeter of the room. Books, file folders,

and pizza boxes, lots of pizza boxes lay scattered

about. Gigantic post-its with an assortment of

scribbles and diagrams covered the walls. Two card

tables with folding chairs occupied the center of the

space.

A man with a dark ponytail, glasses, and scruff

around his face waved a hand at her. “Hey.”

The other man, sitting opposite at the card

table, with overgrown dusty blond hair and a bit of

a shaggy goatee twisted his head to stare at her.

Neither said anything but kept their eyes fixed

on her.

“Am I in the right place?” Her eyes circled the

room again.

The dark ponytail guy jumped up, revealing

his red tattered t-shirt and pale blue jeans. The

t-shirt read Geeky is the New Sexy. “Hey, yeah. I’m

Ashyr.” He stepped forward, extending a hand at

her. “Ashyr Harmon.”

She shook the sweaty palm, then carefully slid

her hand down the hip of her ivory suit to wipe

away the moisture.

The blond stood, revealing a pale pink t-shirt

with the image of a surfer walking out into a sunset.

He too raised a welcoming hand. “Foster Grady.”

He gave her a firm handshake and she met his eyes,

a nice dark, soft blue.

She drew in a tight breath. She could do this.

This interview. This job. Whatever this job was.

Although the lab smelled like the trash needed to be

taken out, she tried not to wrinkle her nose as she

said, “Mariana Diaz.”

“Great. Great.” Ashyr motioned her toward the

card table. “Here. Have a seat.”

The three all sat, cozy around the table. The two

men held their tablets close, almost pressed against

their chests. When neither spoke again, Mariana

tried to fill the void. “So, I don’t really know what

this company is. I mean . . .”