Waking in Memphis Chapter 9
K is for Kindred
Casey sat on the hotel bed clinging to Jill until her tears were gone and the trembling stopped. Even then, she didn’t let go. She didn’t want to. The stillness was a small victory. The silence between them, even softer than usual.
I wanted to answer her so badly, but the truth is—I didn’t even know where to start.
How can I not remember anything?
I feel so violated. Paralyzed by this feeling—knowing I was exposed and vulnerable, and having no idea who saw me, what they did, or what I said. I’ve never been afraid of a good time, never been one to turn down another round. But I’ve also never had my memory wiped like this. How do I even say that out loud without losing every shred of dignity and credibility?
And now she’s hugging me. That alone makes it feel like I’m still in a weird dream. Jill’s more of a tough-love girl. I’d been counting on her drill-sergeant approach to keep me from crying. Maybe she knew that. Maybe that’s why she stayed soft.
How could there have been nothing in that room except for me… and I have no idea how I got in there? Maybe someone saved me. Wouldn’t that be nice. Lucky blackout girl in downtown Memphis saved by a Good Samaritan. Ha—as if.
I finally lifted my head, looked at her, and said, “Stop being nice to me or I’ll never stop crying, and then my face will be too puffy to be your wedding date.”
She gave a soft smile and handed me a tissue. All love. “Start from the beginning.”
Here’s the thing: I’m not a mystery girl. I’m a habitual shock-value oversharer who’s never met a stranger. Very what-you-see-is-what-you-get. I’ve learned if you just say things people don’t want to hear, they usually encourage you to ignore it.
So to save myself from really alarming her, I just went for it.
“You mean the beginning where I woke up naked in a hotel bathtub? Room untouched, all my stuff accounted for but sitting in a puddle of vomit, and zero idea how I got there? Or the beginning where my brain just… checked out last night?”
She was already looking at me with that poor-baby face and I hated it. I desperately hoped whatever she said next would ring a bell.
I took a few sips of Gatorade, still trying to kill the lingering taste of bile—and that weird smoky-sweat-elevator stench that had been clinging to me all day like a bad souvenir.
“Wow,” Jill said. “You really have a way with words.”
“I’m not sure the correct way to deliver that kind of news,” I said, laughing through the anxiety.
“Casey, this is really serious. I need you to tell me everything exactly as you recall it. I’m sorry I let you go last night. But the least I can do is help you piece it together.”
Her voice had gone quiet—softer than I’d ever heard it.
I took a deep breath, stalling. I knew I had to talk. I just wanted to say it all fast so I didn’t have to feel it again. Watching her pity me might be what finally pushed me out the window.
“Okay. You landed. I picked you up with a delicious cocktail, which you drank. We stopped at the hotel so you could change. Took a shot. Then we got in the cab—our driver smelled really good and was offensively hot, so I shamelessly flirted while charging my phone. He dropped us off, jumped out to hand me my phone, I made him take a selfie with me—which may come in handy now. Either for his BOLO or our engagement announcement. Then I remember going into the karaoke bar and getting a drink. That’s it. Nothing else. You have to help me from there.”
She started talking slowly, like her words might break me. And now I’m Laura from The Glass Menagerie. Great.
“Okay… shortly after we got our drinks, we posted up near the DJ, shared some fries, found gas-station Zac Efron and, like, three or four guys came up to talk to us. Any recollection of that?”
I nodded. “Yes! The Eagle Scouts. The guys who bought us shots!”
“God, yeah,” she said. “Major dorks. We hated them.”
“We did! But we took their shots anyway because we’re ladies. And they were gentleman callers.”
If she was going to look at me like I was polishing my glass figurines, I figured I’d beat her to the punch and act like I’d just enrolled in business school to find a husband.
I forced a laugh. “One had a shirt that looked like graph paper. I remember shouting ‘Y equals MX plus B!’ at him.”
“That was after you tried to graph lines on his chest,” she said.
“Oh my God, I love remembering!”
“And then you sang ‘London Bridge’ by Fergie.”
“So much for remembering,” I groaned.
She pulled out her phone, ready to fact-check.
“Nope,” I said. “If I get to pick my memories, me performing Fergie is not one of them.”
We laughed—almost normal this time.
“What happened after that?” I asked.
“You said we had to ditch the graph-paper nerds. Suggested we go outside to smoke because they probably had asthma or cat allergies or something. And you were right—they didn’t follow. It was hot out, and we were mid-conversation with a couple BBQ guys from Canada, in town for Memphis in May, when your phone rang.”
“You held up a finger to the BBQ guys and answered with, ‘This is Casey.’”
“Okay, that sounds like me. And don’t judge—that’s actually a solid move. Now they know my name and that I’m important. Who called?”
She gave me a ‘proceed with caution’ look that made my stomach twist.
“It was the cab driver,” she said. “Calling to check if you still had your phone, since you’d already lost it on the ride over. When I heard you telling him you didn’t have a gag reflex, I grabbed your phone and took over.”
“Oh my God.”
“He was nice. Like… actually nice. Said he’d come pick you up again. I grilled him—third degree, fourth degree. His grandma’s name is Dottie. Lives across the street so he can check on her.”
“Oh noooo. I practically threw myself at him trying to seduce him and he has a grandma named Dottie? I hate myself. Wait—did he come get me?”
“No. He had another ride uptown or something. You said you wanted to go back to the hotel first because you hadn’t shaved.”
“Ah yes. No shave, must behave. Shitney.”
“With that southern twang,” Jill added.
“So I left in another cab? Not the sexy black-haired guy whose name I probably learned but have now lost forever to the void that is my amnesia?”
“Sam. His name is Sam. And yes, you left in another cab.” Jill considered telling Casey about the article she’d stumbled upon when she googled Sam earlier. She should’ve told her first thing but once she saw how scared and broken Casey seemed, she kind of wanted to save it for an “emergency only” scenario.
“I waited outside with you,” Jill added. “Your phone buzzed, and we both yelled ‘CABS ARE HEEEERE!’ like we were on Jersey Shore, and you got in. I went back to the Canadian BBQ dudes who you dedicated your karaoke performance to. You called them Canadian Bacon. Which, by the way, they have an insane booth setup at Memphis in May. If you feel up to it later…”
She paused. “Wait. How do you feel? Like—down there. Does it feel like someone…?” She slowed down. “Have you checked yourself? Bruises? Cuts?”
I shook my head. “I could barely blink when I woke up. I just got out as fast as I could. Then spent the whole ride here trying to piece together how the cab driver had your number and my number and why his face was so aesthetically pleasing. Then cried. You. I literally flirted with him again. The whole ride I was either sweating because I thought he’d done horrible things to me and left me naked in the tub—or sweating because I wanted him to. What the fuck is wrong with me, Jill? I have no idea what happened, but he felt familiar or something. And I don’t know if it was in a good or bad way.”
“Do you want to go to the hospital?” she asked gently. “Or the police? Get checked before you shower. In case there’s… evidence.”
I hesitated. I felt naively relieved after talking to her, but the idea of explaining this whole thing to a room full of strangers—especially cops? Absolutely not.
“I think I’ll just… check myself when I get in there,” I said. “Keep trying to piece it together. You keep thinking too. In case anything else comes back.”
I stood to head to the bathroom, then paused. “By the way… does it smell like Canadian Bacon in here?”
Jill laughed and flopped back on her bed. “You know what they say: what happens in Memphis…”
“…is definitely incredible sex with a Canadian BBQ man,” I finished for her, rolling my eyes. “Dude, you know Dr. Varner would be meat-sweating horny if he heard us sex-referencing BBQ. That man loves grilling meat.”
Jill was dying—laughing so hard I thought I might need to get her an inhaler.
“Am I gonna have to take you to the hospital?” I asked.
Regaining composure, she shook her head, still giggling. “No. I just can’t believe we both took a BBQ science class in college and I still don’t understand how Dr. Varner gets that excited about meat. What was the thing he used to write on all your work?”
“‘K…C! And full credit!’ He always drew it out and really went for it on that C. Ten outta ten students recommend running into your crazy BBQ professor at a baseball game and buying him beers.”
“K…C!” she shouted. “I still can’t believe we ran into him last night. I mean I guess a BBQ professor at a BBQ festival isn’t weird. But same hotel is at the very least a wild coincidence. I swear he said wedding though.”
“Varner was shitfaced and we were probably talking about the wedding. Maybe it was fate so he could hear us talking about how juicy the Canadians make it—I mean you—I mean their meat!”
Jill gagged at my juicy meat reference to her vagina.
Then came the pity look again as I neared the bathroom.
“I’m here if you need me,” she said. “All jokes aside, we can just stay in the rest of the day if you want.”
“No, I think I’ll be okay. Just need to shower the weird elevator smell off me.”
Every step closer to the bathroom made me want to change that last answer to no I’m not okay, and just curl up in her bed. But if I laid there and thought about it, it would drive me crazy. I needed to know. I needed to face it.
I paused at the door.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jill called out.
“Yes—sorry. I completely forgot to tell you! Yesterday after I checked in, someone knocked. I figured it was my bags, so I flung the door open like an idiot.”
Jill blinked. “Okay… and?”
“It was this guy. He just stood there looking in. Asked three times if Jenna was here, even after I told him no. But he was definitely trying to get a peeksy.”
“Ew. Okay, yeah. Never opening that door for a knock. Got it.”
She can probably tell I’m stalling. I’d stand here and narrate every single thing I did minute by minute if it meant I didn’t have to go in there and face myself. Face what might’ve happened.
I am brave. I am strong. I can do hard things.
I closed the bathroom door behind me. Locked it.
I don’t even know if I’m more scared of what I will or won’t find. Either way, once I look, I can’t unsee it.
