The Memory That Changed Everything (Chapter 1)
Not all goodbyes are final, and not all memories are just memories.
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📖 Foreword | Intro
I close my eyes and brace myself.
The green light will start moving soon, pulling me back to a place I both long for and fear.
Dr. Claire Sullivan adjusts the light bar, her movements practiced and efficient. I clutch my pillow tighter—my makeshift anchor against the past. She gives me a small nod, waiting for my signal.
It’s a little ritual, my way of finding something solid to hold onto when those hard memories come knocking. The ritual dates back to my childhood, clinging to Mr. Teddy while his worn, soft fur soaked up my tears. Back then, I didn’t understand why my world had flipped upside down. Now, I do. But it doesn’t make it easier.
She had been prepping the light bar, the pendulum for my mind's time travel. EMDR, or Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, is meant to heal trauma. For me, it unlocks a door I’m not sure I’m ready to walk through.
With the light bar positioned correctly, Dr. Sullivan settles into the chair beside me and begins to flip through her notes from our last session. I feel myself sinking into the moment, grounding myself into the present while bracing for the past.
“Last time,” she begins evenly, “we explored the memory of your mom tucking you in, and your nightly plea for her to wait for you here on Earth.” Her words trigger an instinctive reaction in me. I can feel the tightening in my chest. There’s still so much left tangled in that memory, and I know we’re about to dive in again.
“On a scale of one to seven,” Claire asks, her voice calm and steady, “with one being no disturbance and seven being the most, where are you right now?”
“Five,” I reply, the number coming out faster than I mean it to, like I’ve been carrying it all along.
Claire’s next question comes gently, "What's a negative belief that this memory stirs in you?" I don't even have to think; the words just come out, "That I'm all alone."
"And where do you feel that?" she asks, her voice calm, but not dismissive.
"In my chest. It feels tight," I confess, pressing my hand there, acknowledging the familiar ache.
“Alright,” Dr. Claire says, gently steering the session forward. “What positive belief would you rather hold onto?”
“That I’m worthy of love,” I say quietly, willing it to replace the emptiness that’s always waiting to creep back in.
“Good,” Dr. Claire says with a steady reassurance that anchors me. “Hold onto that belief as we revisit your memory. And remember, you’re in control. If it gets to be too much, just raise your hand, and we’ll stop.”
I nod, a small motion that feels heavier than it should, and turn to face the light bar. For a brief second, I cling to her words—you’re in control—as if they can somehow make this easier.
The green light moves. My eyes follow. Back and forth. Back and forth. And then—
The air shifts, thinner somehow, tinged with the faint scent of my childhood. It’s one of those smells that’s hard to describe, but when you smell it, you stop dead in your tracks. My old bedroom surrounds me, and at the edge of my bed, there she is. My mom.
I’m peering down at young Kiley cocooned in her bed, the blanket pulled snug against her chin. The haunting mantra is there too, lingering in the air like an unwelcome ghost: You’re all alone. She left you. You’re all alone. She left you.
I’m back in our old Illinois home, the one that holds fragments of these echoes but not all of them. There’s my mom, perched on the edge of the bed, her presence both comforting and heartbreaking. My huge pink bunny is comically tucked in as best as it can be beside little Kiley, a quiet witness to what’s coming.
Then it happens—the plea, so raw and earnest, spills from my younger self’s lips, filling the room with the weight only a child’s voice can carry.
“Mom, please… please, pleassseee wait for me,” little Kiley begs, her voice cracking with breathtaking desperation. It’s a plea rooted in the impossible, born from that pure, unwavering belief that if you just ask hard enough, the universe might listen. You know the kind of wish, the one that burrows so deep into your soul that you start to believe it can really come true.
If you squeeze your eyes shut tight, blow out every candle on your birthday cake, and maybe even tap your feet together three times, it might just come true. But not all wishes work that way. Not the kind that hinges on bringing someone back who’s already gone.
Looking down at this scene now, as an adult, I can see the raw depth of that child’s plea. It came from a place where hope and magic were one and the same. A belief that if you begged hard enough, the universe would have no choice but to listen.
As the youngest and the only girl in the family, I was used to getting my way most of the time. But not this time. This time, my mom was telling me no.
“Honey, I can’t change God’s plan. When it’s my time, it’s my time,” my mom says, her voice gentle but unyielding, a calm contrast to five-year-old Kiley’s desperate hope. Her words held no promise or comfort, which was a stark contrast to what I had come to expect. Inevitably, my tears would begin and most days they’d feel unstoppable.
Before I realize it, the green light stops its steady rhythm. I blink, the memory still heavy in my chest, and turn to Claire.
“Okay,” she says, her voice breaking the silence, “on a scale of one to seven, where are you now?”
“Five,” I reply quickly.
We try again. The green light flickers and moves, pulling me back into the memory.
When it stops, Dr. Sullivan asks the same question, and my answer is the same: “Five.” It feels like I’m stuck, circling the same number, the same ache in my chest.
“Do we need someone to step into this memory with you?” Claire asks gently, her tone steady but probing.
“Yeah,” I say after a moment, the word slipping out like a quiet breath.
She lists my ‘resources’: my husband, Chris, my sister-in-law Erin, or my mother-in-law Sandy. But there’s no hesitation. It’s Chris. It has to be Chris.
The green lights flicker to life, zipping across the light bar and pulling me back into the memory like a rip current. There she is, young Kiley, her bedroom door wide open, the light firmly on, and my mom sitting on the edge of the bed.
The familiar sound of her pleading fills the room again, and even now, as I watch, tears threaten to break through, blurring the here and now with the there and then. My heart aches for her—for me—that little girl who carries the weight of life and death far too soon.
A shadow moves in the doorway.
My mom doesn’t react, but I feel it. A presence, something shifting in the memory.
And then, a figure steps forward.
Chris.
My light in this storm, suddenly standing in my childhood room.
Chris steps into the room, and suddenly, the memory and the present collide. He’s here but there, an adult standing in my childhood bedroom, suspended in this impossible moment with young Kiley and my mom. The room feels smaller somehow, the walls pressing in, like the weight of time itself is bearing down on all of us.
Mom. The word not only ricochets around in my head but also out into the room. "Mom." It's more than just a word. It's a title, a privilege, one so many takes for granted, while the rest of us can only whisper it in the memories that make our souls ache.
Mom turns to him, and you’d think she might react with fear or surprise—after all, here’s a full-grown, bearded man who looks like he’s more at home chopping wood than showing up in pseudo-dreams, standing in her little girl’s room. But no. To her, Chris is right where he belongs. Her face brightens into a smile, and she says, “Chris, you’re finally here,” her voice calm and warm, just like always.
My mind spins, trying to make sense of this impossible, heart-wrenching scene.
Chris steps forward, his gaze steady but full of questions, as if he’s trying to piece this all together. Finally, he voices the one question echoing in both our minds: “How?”
While Chris stares at my mom, I find myself staring at both of them. This memory—my memory—is shifting right in front of me, altering a narrative I’ve clung to for so long. Back on Dr. Sullivan’s couch, I feel as if I’m barely breathing as the lights of the EMDR bar continue their steady rhythm. My pulse races in time with the flickering lights, pulling me further into this dreamlike scene.
My mom gestures to the empty space beside her on the bed, a simple motion that carries a weight of wisdom far beyond her years. It’s strange to think that, in this moment frozen in time, she’s three years younger than Chris. Yet here she is at 32, already grappling with the inevitability of mortality.
Chris sits beside her, and somehow, young Kiley is fast asleep now, silent and still, when just moments ago, she was desperately begging her mom to stay.
"I've been waiting so long to meet you," my mom, Cindy, says, her voice filling the silence, her words suspended between reality and the doorway of the unknown.
Chris exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to ground himself. "This isn't possible…" His voice is a mix of awe and disbelief. "Is it?"
My mom smiles, and then I hear it—her laughter. A sound I haven’t heard in over 25 years, and it feels like pure magic. Before you lose someone, you think you’ll remember everything about them: their voice, their smell, their laughter, the way they hugged you.
But then time creeps in, and slowly, so slowly, you begin to lose those details.
You chase them in memories, in other people’s hugs, hoping for even a fleeting echo of what you’ve lost. But nothing ever feels the same. Some things—like her hugs—are one-of-a-kind, and once they’re gone, they don’t come back.
As I sit there, stunned, my mom begins to speak again, her voice stretching across the years like a bridge I never thought I’d cross.
“Yes, it’s real. In its own way,” my mom says softly, her tone steady but gentle. “What you’re seeing is my memory, the part of me that lingers. Everything I say to you during these visits is what I would have said, had my time not been cut short by cancer.”
She pauses, her eyes warm and full of something that looks like pride. “I’ve been watching over Kiley all these years. I prayed that one day, when she was ready to handle it, she’d be given this chance, to connect with me, to ask the questions she’s carried for so long.”
“Why isn’t Kiley here, then?” Chris asks, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity. The same question that’s been circling in my head since this began. Why Chris? Why does he get to talk to her—to my mom?
Ugh. Even in this surreal moment, I can feel my own possessiveness bubbling up, and it makes me cringe. It’s not like Chris asked to be here, to step into this strange, dreamlike memory of mine.
“We thought it would be too much for her to face these memories head-on. Knowing you've been her pillar for years now, we chose you to bridge the gap, to reconnect us," Mom explains, her voice a soothing comfort to our racing thoughts.
“We?” Chris and I echo at the same time, the word hanging in the air between us.
“Yes, we,” my mom says with a soft smile. “The big guy upstairs, of course, and Kiley’s grandmother. Well, even her great-grandmothers. They all wanted to be part of this, in whatever way they could.”
“Then let me switch places with her,” Chris says firmly, his voice carrying more emotion now. “Kiley can handle this. She’s stronger than you realize. Seeing you again. It would mean everything to her.”
Back on Dr. Sullivan’s couch, I’m silently cheering him on, my heart hammering in agreement. Yes, exactly! Chris knows I can do this. I know I can do this. Listen to him, Mom!
“It would change her life,” my mom admits, her voice soft but certain. “We’ve seen how much good it could do—how it could shape her future in extraordinary ways. But there’s also the risk of overwhelming her. Even though Kiley is in a good place now, this is still so much to take on.”
My mom’s voice softens, but there’s an undeniable weight to her words. “That’s why we needed to safeguard her in some way. Chris, you were, and always have been, the answer.”
She pauses, letting the truth settle. “If she faced these memories alone, the weight of them might be too much. If she stepped into this world completely, she might not want to leave it.”
Chris’s brows furrow. “You think she’d get… stuck?”
Mom nods, her expression filled with something that looks like both love and sorrow. “It’s not just about remembering, Chris. It’s about feeling. Reliving. And grief that deep, if she walked through that door alone, I don’t know if she’d have the strength to walk back out.”
Chris leans forward slightly, his expression heavy with thought. “But why me?” he asks, his voice quiet but steady. “Why not her brothers? Or her dad?”
My mom’s answer comes without hesitation, her voice calm and steady. “Because it’s you, Chris. You know my daughter better than anyone else in the world. And you know it’s true. You even say that you ‘speak Kiley.’ You’ve seen the weight of her grief, the strength she’s had to find. You’ve been her constant—her support through love, loss, and everything in between.”
She pauses for a moment, her gaze softening. “From the day you met her, and maybe even before that, it’s always been you.”
I catch the flicker of confusion on Chris’s face at my mom’s comment, but she doesn’t pause. She just keeps going, her focus steady.
“I recognize the weight of what I'm asking. If you decide it's too much, that this bridge between times is a path you can't cross, we will understand."
By now, the green lights have stopped their steady flicker, and Dr. Claire’s eyes are on me, waiting for me to say something. But I can’t pull myself out of this memory—not yet.
Chris shifts slightly, the weight of her words settling over him. “What exactly am I taking on here?” he asks, his voice steady but low.
“This is a rare and extraordinary chance, Chris,” my mom begins, her voice steady but heavy with meaning. “A chance not many people ever get. An opportunity to give Kiley what she’s been searching for all her life: not just answers, but partial experiences and memories she never had the chance to make.”
She pauses, her gaze softening. “Through our conversations, she can ask me the questions she’s carried since childhood, the ones that have lingered in her heart all these years. But it’s more than that. Together, we can revisit the moments that trouble her most, and we can also explore the memories we would have made together, had life been kinder. Each chapter of this journey can help untangle the pain while also shining a light on the blessings she’s found in the life she’s built.”
Her words sink in, and I can feel the air shift, thick with possibility. The thought of asking my mom questions stops every other thought in its tracks. This is it, my one chance, my lifeline to the answers I’ve always longed for. Memories and questions swirl in my mind, rushing forward in a flood I can barely contain. But before I can dwell on them, my mom turns her attention to Chris, her gaze locking onto him, steady and sincere.
“I need to be honest with you. It won’t be easy,” she says, her tone gentle but firm. “In this space, you’ll feel the full weight of her pain as if it were your own. And outside, in the real world, you’ll both have to face the emotional aftermath together. This path will challenge you, Chris. It’ll test your empathy, your understanding, and your love. But…”—her voice softens, carrying an almost sacred certainty—“it will also be an experience that no one else has ever been given.”
“What happens if… we decide it’s too much?” Chris asks, the hesitation in his voice matching the weight of the question.
“If you decide it’s too much, this memory will fade,” my mom says gently. “Kiley will continue her journey, just as she always has, finding her way through her grief without this chance to connect with me. But know this, no matter what, she will get through it. She always has, and she always will.”
“What about Kiley?” Chris asks, his voice quieter now, uncertainty creeping in. “I can feel her here. Is she… watching us somehow? What role does she play in this?”
“Yes,” my mom replies, her voice steady but gentle. “In a way, she’s here. These memories belong to her, so she’s living through them, feeling every word we exchange as if she were right here in the room. But when you leave this memory, she’ll know what was said and what wasn’t. She just… won’t be able to speak to me directly. That’s why we need you.”
Chris sits silently, the weight of it all settling over him as he considers what this really means—for me, for him, for us. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, my mom softly interrupts, “Chris…”
He begins hesitantly, “What if we—” but my mom shakes her head gently, cutting him off.
“This opportunity… it can’t be changed, Chris. It is what it is,” she says softly but firmly. “I hope you both choose to embrace it, but I also understand how much Kiley has already endured. Losing a mother at such a young age is a heartbreak most people are lucky never to experience. The last thing I want is to cause her more pain.”
Dr. Sullivan’s gaze is steady on me, but it feels like she’s a world away. My focus is locked on the scene that’s currently unfolding in my old bedroom, where Chris and my mom sit together, suspended in a moment so heavy with possibility and tension that it feels like time itself might crack.
“What happens next… if we say yes?” Chris asks, his voice quiet but deliberate.
“The moment you decide,” my mom explains gently, “this memory will start to fade. Chris, you’ll return to Kiley at home, and she’ll remember—she’ll feel the shift, even if she doesn’t fully understand it at first.”
She pauses, her expression softening. “If you choose to decline, this memory will simply dissolve, leaving no trace behind. It’ll be as if this meeting never happened.”
Each breath feels heavier, like the air around me is dense with the weight of the ocean. Inside, I’m silently begging, a mantra looping in my mind: Please, Chris. Say yes. I need this. I need this.
“I could never take this opportunity away from Kiley,” Chris says, his voice steady with conviction.
“I know,” my mom replies softly, a small, knowing smile on her face. “That’s why it’s always been you.”
Chris stands slowly, moving toward the window as if drawn there. He gazes out at the soft twilight of a summer evening, his eyes catching a flicker of movement in the driveway. A faint smile tugs at his lips, like he’s stumbled upon a memory he wasn’t expecting.
My mind races, stitching together fragments of our evening rituals from our days in Channahon. I can see the Gold Mound Spirea bushes swaying gently in the breeze, lining the path to the front door. I picture my mom and me sitting together on the front step, side by side, our hands intertwined like they always were.
I can almost feel the smoothness of her butterfly-shaped scar beneath my fingers. A scar I used to believe was left by an actual butterfly, as though it had landed on her leg and left its delicate imprint behind.
Then it clicks. My brothers are probably outside playing basketball. That must be why Chris is smiling.
In the present, Chris and my oldest brother, Nick, are close friends. Working on house projects over the weekends and watching football games together. They’re so connected now, but in this memory, I see the beginnings of it, like puzzle pieces falling into place.
My mom stands and moves to join Chris at the window. Her eyes light up as she spots Nick and Tony below, and her smile mirrors Chris’s as she lifts her hand to wave at them.
Caught in the moment, Chris instinctively lifts his hand to wave back. My mom gently reminds him, her voice soft, “They can’t see you, Chris.”
“Oh, right,” Chris says, nodding as he lowers his hand. He turns back to her, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Do you watch over them too? How does it work? Do you… see their lives as they unfold?”
“Yes,” my mom says with a soft smile. “I’ve watched it all, school, proms, heartbreaks, weddings, their children being born, even you and Kiley rescuing all your dogs. I’ve seen every chapter unfold from heaven.”
Her expression shifts, a shadow of sadness crossing her face. “But missing the real moments—the hugs, the conversations—has been hard. Every time Kiley wished she could hug me, I was up in heaven wishing for the exact same thing.”
“So, you’ve seen her nieces?” Chris asks, a smile tugging at his lips as I’m sure he’s thinking of some memory that includes the girls.
“Oh, yes,” my mom says with a soft chuckle. “I check in on those two quite often.”
“They’re her whole world,” Chris says.
A tender expression softens my mom’s face. “Those two girls are the apples of her eyes, just like Kiley was mine.” Her voice wavers slightly, and I see her eyes begin to shine with unshed tears.
“I loved all my children equally. They were God’s greatest gifts to me. But the day I found out we had a girl on the way…” She pauses, her smile widening as the memory takes hold. “Nothing, absolutely nothing, could wipe the smile off my face.”
Chris swallows hard, his voice thick with emotion as he finally speaks. “They miss you, you know. All of them.” His voice softens, and he glances down.
"And Kiley…" He pauses, his voice catching for a moment. "She talks about you often. We all see you in her—in the way she tells stories, in how she keeps your memory alive. You’re a part of everything she does. She carries you with her, always."
He exhales, shaking his head slightly. "I never got to meet you, but I feel like I know you. Because I know Kiley. And she is—" His voice catches. He swallows hard before continuing. "She is who she is because of you. The way she loves, the way she fights for people, the way she makes every person she meets feel like they matter… that’s you."
His breath shudders, and he looks away for a second, his jaw tightening—fighting something he doesn’t want to let out. But then it comes. The first tear. Then another. And before he can stop it, his shoulders begin to shake.
My mom steps forward. Without saying a word, she wraps her arms around him, holding him in a hug that feels like it stretches across time itself.
Chris’s voice is raw with emotion as he finally speaks. “Having you in their lives… it would’ve meant everything to them.” His eyes brim with tears, and he looks down, his words hanging heavy in the air.
My mom steps back slightly, giving him space, though her presence remains steady and comforting, like a lifeline.
Chris pauses, his voice trailing off as he seems to gather his thoughts. “You’re everywhere in our home. Your pictures hang on the walls. Those little goose salt-and-pepper shakers that you loved—they sit proudly in Kiley’s office. And your letterman’s jacket, with all the patches, is displayed on our gallery wall.”
He hesitates, his voice thickening with emotion. “Even your recipe card for that Heath Bar cake is framed on a shelf…” His words falter as a wave of grief overtakes him, and tears spill freely down his cheeks.
“That cake was one of my favorites…” my mom reminiscences.
Back in Claire’s office, I can feel tears streaming down my face. I don’t bother to wipe them away—I just let them fall, soaking into the pillow in my lap.
At that moment, my mom steps forward again, wrapping Chris in an embrace so full of warmth it seems to melt some of his pain. Time feels suspended as he weeps on her shoulder, his body shaking with the weight of his grief.
My own heart feels like it’s being ripped out and crushed underfoot. I’m watching the love of my life cry on my dead mother’s shoulder. There’s no guidebook for what I’m supposed to feel right now, just this raw, overwhelming ache.
Watching my husband’s vulnerability, paired with my mom’s presence, overwhelms me completely. It’s almost unbearable. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I feel the faintest sense of calm beginning to take root.
I want to be the one hugging my mom, the one having this impossible conversation with her. But instead, I’m watching it unfold like a scene from a show I can’t turn off, even if I wanted to. Even so, I realize something, this connection I’m feeling? It’s Chris. He’s my emotions, just as I am his.
Despite the pain, that calm feeling begins to spread through me, steady and reassuring. I hope Chris can feel it too. We always say we’re soulmates, and while to others it might sound like we’re quoting a cheesy wall sign, to us, it’s true.
So, I focus everything, my mind, my body, my very soul, on willing Chris to agree.
To say yes. I know we can weather this. I know I can. In the stillness of Dr. Sullivan’s office, I silently send up hundreds of prayers, all carrying the same plea: Please, Chris, say yes.
"Kiley? Kiley!" The vision wavers and suddenly dissolves. Where my mother and Chris stood, now kneels Claire, back in the present. Her eyes are wide with alarm, her expression etched with worry. "Kiley! Kiley!" she calls out, her voice ringing with urgency.
"No, wait. Stop! Take me back! Claire, please, start the light bar again! I need to go back!" I find myself shouting, breaking the usual quiet decorum of Claire’s office space, which shares walls with a dentist’s office.
"Kiley, you've been non-responsive for the rest of our session. We need to call it a day," Claire insists, her face cloaked in professional concern.
“Claire, please. I’m serious. Let me just got back for one more minute. Please.”
Dr. Sullivan’s face softens with empathy. "I'm sorry, Kiley. My next client is waiting in the lobby. We'll continue this next week. That's a promise."
I try to protest, "No, you don't under—" but my words flounder before they can take flight. "Let's gather up all the thoughts and feelings from today and place them into your container," she guides.
I'm resigned, recognizing the session's end is non-negotiable. I should know better. There’s always another client after me. As I shut my eyes, the image of my container takes shape, its form shifting with each session. Some days, it's a hefty, weathered treasure chest, anchored by time. On other days, it's a pristine white box, its lid fitting snuggly. Today, under the shadow of fear and urgency, my subconscious conjures a fishing net – an imperfect vessel for memories that refuse to be contained.
With a brief farewell to Claire, I make my way hastily to my car, my thoughts still swirling like leaves in a storm.
I race home. My white 2020 Land Rover cutting a sharp path through traffic, eliciting irritated honks and shouted obscenities from other drivers. The entire journey, I'm silently pleading for Chris to have accepted the proposal. The moment I slide into 'Park,' I leap out. Barely bothering to shut the door in my rush, let alone lock it.
Bursting through the front door, I weave between our four excitable dogs, their eager paws dancing against my legs. "Chris! Chris!" I call out, my voice thick with hope and desperation.
I'm consumed by my silent prayers that he's agreed, that the encounter with my mom was more than a cruel figment of my imagination, not just a heart-wrenching ruse conjured by my weary psyche at 35.
Chris emerges from our bedroom wearing an expression that’s an enigma, impossible for me to read.
He steps forward, his face unreadable.
My breath catches.
And then—
“We need to talk."
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