Chapter Thirteen
New York, New York
Sunday, February 5
8:34:45 A.M. EST

When I wake up on Sunday morning I lay in bed for a long time. Something makes me stay where I am, staring up at the ceiling or out the window in intervals, my thoughts thick and mottled. I think of random movies scenes, of places in the city I can't fully remember visiting, and I think of memories with Dan. I keep seeing him in a white hallway, listening to him talk about his mother and problems he had with her. Like a feature film on repeat, I keep seeing this scene over and over, recalling the latent appreciation I felt for him that day, and allowing that same feeling to blossom in me now, thinking of his reassurances last night.

"What's it like?" he asked me the night before, when we were still around the island in his kitchen at around eleven.

I sipped from my fifth cup of tea and asked, "What's what like?"

"Amnesia," he prompted, leaning against the island, directly across from me.

I looked away from his muddy, brown eyes, one of my hands wrapped around the warm mug, the other moving to my mouth so I could bite on my thumb nail. Could I describe it? Did I want to? Thinking about it for a moment, I licked my lips faintly and considered my words.

"You don't have to say anything if you don't-"

"No," I cut him off. "It's fine- I'm just thinking about how to say it."

He nodded, and then relaxed himself to wait.

Finally, I looked at him- square in the eye, because it was surprisingly easy for me- and I said, "It's like when you know you've forgotten something- like the name of a song or an actor in a movie or something- and you just can't grasp it." He looked back at me, sympathy filling up his eyes, and I continued. "You just try and try- repeat the alphabet to yourself and try to think out different things- but it's like there's this wall that you just can't get past and it's frustrating."

He frowned.

"Sometimes it's like my thoughts are all hidden in this fog and if I try hard enough I'll be able to find some things, but no matter how hard I look, the fog doesn't thin out." I shrug.

He swallowed, then, quietly, said, "That's rough."

I nodded, then managed to smile, ruefully saying, "Yeah, but no matter where I go in that fog I do manage to remember things about you."

He smiled a little too, rolling his eyes faintly and saying, "Which must thrill you."

"It's better than nothing," I told him honestly.

He met my eyes very seriously then, and nodded slowly.

"Why do you remember me, do you think?" he asked.

I shrugged, staring down into my tea. "Who knows?"

"Well, I'm glad I could be of service," he said lightly. "And I hope that when you do get your memory back, you'll hate me a little less."

I genuinely smiled at this, saying, "We'll see, Cabbage Patch," to which he smiled.

But who knows if I will get my memory back. Who knows if I'll remember who I was before the accident- what my life was like aside from my memories with Dan.

And suddenly, I'm gripped by an encompassing anxiety- one that stems from the idea that I won't ever get my memory back, that my whole life will consist of moving onward from the point where I lost who I was. Will I live my life not knowing who I really was, or who I really am? I can't bear to think of going on forever through this fog- running into that wall every time I want to conjure up a memory from my past that doesn't involve Dan. Thinking about this possibility makes my throat constrict and my stomach clench sickeningly.

With a solid resolution, I throw back the covers of my bed and get up, hurrying over to the door, opening it, and calling out, "Dorota!"

"You keep all pictures in here," the maid tells me. "In albums on the iPhoto."

I nod, saying, "Okay, what else?"

"There are few slideshows too- with music- that you make," she tells me.

"Do I have a memory box or something?" I ask further, turning from my computer desk to survey the rest of the room. "Like a chest with mementos in it or something."

She looks like she wants to say something, but she holds back for some reason.

I find myself sounding almost threatening as I say, "Dorota."

"I not supposed to know, Miss Blair," she says quietly, slowly.

"Spill."

Looking regretful, she walks over to my bed and kneels down, pulling out a long storage box. Then, she reaches behind the mattress- between it and the bed frame- and pulls out a leather-bound notebook.

"This all I know about," she tells me, handing over the notebook.

I nod and take it, looking at the intricate golden, border around the outside of the notebook.

"Thank you, Dorota," I say, not looking up from the book.

She nods, and then quietly leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

There are boxes and boxes of things I don't understand. A Yale sweatshirt, a flattened penny, laminated ticket stubs, a bottle cap, a plain, white rock, pieces of material, a dried flower, dozens of little items that hold significant meaning to a girl that I no longer am. Pictures with faces that, as far as I'm concerned, I never knew- faces of people I only just met recently. I see photographs of parties I've been to, days I've spent in the park with Serena and Nate, outings with Harold, exhibits with Eleanor. But none of them mean anything, and it depresses me even more.

Hoping the notebook will make more sense, I crack it open and find that's it a diary. The dates are erratic, entries scattered across months, and the writing is dark, hard, as if I was either very angry, sad, or excited when I wrote in it.

Greedily, I read.

September 14

She slept with him. She fucking slept with him. That's why the grotty little bitch left New York and didn't say a single word to me. She betrayed me and she slept with him. Well, that's fine, because she'll get what's coming to her.

I stare down at the words, surprised. Jesus, I was angry, but- then again- I can understand why. This must be about Serena, and how she slept with Nate. And it's easier to forgive her when she told me herself, her voice regretful and scared in my bedroom, but in this diary- I can feel the anger flare up under my skin. If I hadn't found out, would she have ever told me?

November 10

I'm no longer a virgin...... I had sex with Chuck. In the back of his limo. I feel dirty. It was- WHAT DID I DO?!

This actually makes me laugh out loud, and I skip forward.

I read all that's in the diary, piecing together parts of myself. And while I have some insight into who I was and how I got to where I am, it's not a full account of every day and all of my feelings, so it leaves gaping holes in the form of weeks and months, and some of it leaves me even more confused than before. And with that further confusion, I'm even more determined to really learn who Blair Waldorf was prior to the fog and the wall. And I know I can't go at it alone.

So, without hesitation, I pick up the phone and call a number that is becoming frighteningly familiar.

"Cabbage Patch," I say when he answers. "I need your help."