Chapter Twenty-Five #3
“Should I tell her why?” he asks the 8 Ball.
“Yes.” He sets the sphere down on the bench between us.
“Because, Miss Whitcomb, you chose The Bliss when you crossed. You chose to forget everything that had caused you pain, everything that had made you who you were, in exchange for eternal pleasantness.”
“That sounds”—I search for the word—“reasonable.”
“Does it?” He picks up the 8 Ball again. “Is forgetting who you are reasonable, Miss Whitcomb?”
“Don’t count on it,” the 8 Ball apparently responds, though I cannot see the answer from my angle.
“You made a choice,” Chance continues. “A valid choice. An understandable choice. But choices made in grief and pain are not always choices we would make if given time to heal first.”
“What do you know of my grief?” The words come out sharper than intended.
“May I tell her?” He shakes the 8 Ball.
“Ask again later.” He grimaces. “Blast.”
“Are you serious?” I huff, and he cocks his head to one side.
“I’m Chance. You don’t listen very well, do you?”
I stand and start pacing. “Please, I must know, something important happened, and I—I do not remember—”
“That’s rather the point of The Bliss, isn’t it?” Chance says gently. “You don’t remember. You chose not to remember. The question is, do you want to continue not remembering? Or do you want to know who you actually are?”
“Why are you telling me this?” I finally manage.
“Should I explain my motivations?” He shakes the 8 Ball.
“Outlook not so good.” He sighs. “The 8 Ball is being difficult today.”
“Forget the bloody ball! Speak freely!”
“Ah! Freely you say.” He grins as he jumps up from his seat.
“And what is speaking freely in this world? In a place where you don’t pick out your own clothes and they don’t allow you to remember the day before?
You come to me, demanding free speech, while greeting Mr. Garfield around the corner the same exact way for more than a century. ”
I open my mouth on a broken squeak. “A—a century?”
“More,” he mutters while shaking the ball. “Details are important—that’s where the fun lies.”
“Can you please ask your magic ball again, why are you here, telling me all of this?”
He considers me for another moment before smiling. “I see why he likes you. All right, one more time. Should I explain my motivations?” He shakes the ball again. “My reply is no.” Chance sets down the 8 Ball. “Well, that’s inconvenient.”
My shoulders slump as I sit on the bench. “I must say, I have a dislike for your little friend there.”
“Most do.” He shrugs. “Regardless of the outcome, no one is ever truly happy with the end result. We all end up wishing for the other option, a second chance, another shot at asking the question.”
“Are there others out there who remember? Or do we all forget?”
Chance shakes his ball and smirks. “Looks like I get to answer one. No, not everyone chooses The Bliss. There are others who go to places where memories are not blocked off.”
“Why did I choose this?”
He shakes the 8 Ball, peers at the answer, then shows it to me.
Better not tell you now. The little triangle floats in the blue liquid, cryptic and unhelpful.
“Well,” Chance says, standing and stretching, “I wouldn’t fret too much. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”
“Wait.” I stand as well. “You cannot just drop this information and leave. I have questions. I need to understand—”
“Should I stay and answer more questions?” He shakes the 8 Ball one final time.
“Outlook good.” He grins. “Just kidding. It says, No. So, I’m afraid this is where I take my leave, Miss Whitcomb. But don’t worry. We’ll see each other again. Probably. Maybe. Who knows? That’s the beauty of chance—nothing’s certain except uncertainty itself.”
He tosses the Magic 8 Ball to me. I catch it reflexively.
“Keep it,” he says. “Might come in handy. Or it might not. Could go either way, really.”
Then he … dissolves.
No walking away. No vanishing in a dramatic flash. Just gradually becoming less solid until there’s nothing where he stood but empty air and the faint impression that something chaotic was briefly present.
I look down at the Magic 8 Ball in my hands.
The crying baby has stopped or was never real. Maybe it was Chance’s method of bringing me here, to this conversation, to this revelation.
I chose The Bliss. I chose to forget everything.
I should return to my cottage. Resume my routine. Pretend this conversation never happened.
Instead, I shake the Magic 8 Ball.
“Will I remember?” I whisper to the plastic sphere. “Will I remember who I was?”
I turn the window toward me and read the answer floating in the blue liquid. Signs point to yes.
A shiver runs down my spine that has nothing to do with cold.
I shake the 8 Ball again. “Do I want to remember?”
The answer floats up slowly. Ask Again Later.
I clutch the sphere to my chest and walk slowly back toward my cottage, past the mechanical birds and the placid dog and the souls who greet me with the same words they always do.
But now I hear the repetition.
Now I notice the sameness.
Now I understand that pleasant is not the same as real. I’m too aware. I’m remembering. I am seeing the seams, and I do not believe I can go back to the way I was before.
I may not want to remember. But I have to. I have to get out of here.