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&nbsp;“Girl?” Cooperman turns to my mother. “Does Chase have a girlfriend?” &nbsp;&nbsp;“I don’t think so,” Mom replies. &nbsp;&nbsp;“It isn’t like that,” I insist. “This is a little kid.” &nbsp;&nbsp;“Helene?” my mother asks. &nbsp;&nbsp;The name means nothing to me. “Who’s Helene?” &nbsp;&nbsp;“Dad’s kid,” Johnny supplies. “Our half sister.” &nbsp;&nbsp;Dad. Sister. I search for a connection between these words and the memories they should trigger. My mind is a black hole. There might be a lot in there, but it can’t get out. &nbsp;&nbsp;“Are the two of them close?” Cooperman inquires. &nbsp;&nbsp;Mom makes a face. “Doctor, after the accident, my ex-husband came to shout and accuse and punch the emergency room wall. Have you seen him here since then, while his son lay in a coma? That should give you an idea of the relationship between my boys and their father and his new family.” &nbsp;&nbsp;“I don’t know any Helene,” I volunteer. “But you can’t go by me because I don’t know anybody. This is just a little blond girl in a blue dress with white lace. Kind of dressed up, like maybe she’s going to church or something. But why I remember her and nothing else, I can’t tell you.” &nbsp;&nbsp;“Definitely not Helene,” Mom concludes. “She has dark hair like her mother.” &nbsp;&nbsp;I turn to the doctor. “Am I just crazy?” Of course not,” he replies. “In fact, this little blond girl suggests that your memory isn’t gone at all. It’s only your ability to access it that’s been damaged. I believe that your missing life will come back to you—or at least some of it will. This girl&nbsp;

&nbsp;“Girl?” Cooperman turns to my mother. “Does Chase have a girlfriend?” &nbsp;&nbsp;“I don’t think so,” Mom replies. &nbsp;&nbsp;“It isn’t like that,” I insist. “This is a little kid.” &nbsp;&nbsp;“Helene?” my mother asks. &nbsp;&nbsp;The name means nothing to me. “Who’s Helene?” &nbsp;&nbsp;“Dad’s kid,” Johnny supplies. “Our half sister.” &nbsp;&nbsp;Dad. Sister. I search for a connection between these words and the memories they should trigger. My mind is a black hole. There might be a lot in there, but it can’t get out. &nbsp;&nbsp;“Are the two of them close?” Cooperman inquires. &nbsp;&nbsp;Mom makes a face. “Doctor, after the accident, my ex-husband came to shout and accuse and punch the emergency room wall. Have you seen him here since then, while his son lay in a coma? That should give you an idea of the relationship between my boys and their father and his new family.” &nbsp;&nbsp;“I don’t know any Helene,” I volunteer. “But you can’t go by me because I don’t know anybody. This is just a little blond girl in a blue dress with white lace. Kind of dressed up, like maybe she’s going to church or something. But why I remember her and nothing else, I can’t tell you.” &nbsp;&nbsp;“Definitely not Helene,” Mom concludes. “She has dark hair like her mother.” &nbsp;&nbsp;I turn to the doctor. “Am I just crazy?” Of course not,” he replies. “In fact, this little blond girl suggests that your memory isn’t gone at all. It’s only your ability to access it that’s been damaged. I believe that your missing life will come back to you—or at least some of it will. This girl&nbsp;

&nbsp;That’s when it happens. I reach back for an image of Mom and come up totally empty. &nbsp;&nbsp;Ditto Dad or home or friends or school or anything. &nbsp;&nbsp;It’s the craziest feeling. I remember how to remember, but when I actually try to do it, I’m a blank. I’m like a computer with its hard drive wiped clean. You can reboot it and the operating system works fine. But when you look for a document or file to open, nothing’s there. &nbsp;&nbsp;Not even my own name. &nbsp;&nbsp;“Am I—Chase?” I ask. &nbsp;&nbsp;While my other questions sent murmurs of shock around my hospital bed, this one is greeted with silent resignation. &nbsp;&nbsp;My eyes fall on the chart in the doctor’s hands. On the back of the clipboard is written AMBROSE, CHASE. &nbsp;&nbsp;Who am I? &nbsp;&nbsp;“A mirror!” I exclaim. “Somebody give me a mirror!” &nbsp;&nbsp;“Perhaps you’re not ready for that,” the doctor says in a soothing tone. &nbsp;&nbsp;The last thing I’m in the mood for is to be soothed. “A mirror!” I snap. &nbsp;&nbsp;The lady who calls herself Mom&nbsp; fumbles inside her pocketbook and hands me a makeup compact. &nbsp;&nbsp;I open it up, blow away the loose powder, and stare at my reflection. &nbsp;&nbsp;A stranger stares back at me.

&nbsp;&nbsp;Amnesia. That’s what Dr. Cooperman says I have. Acute retrograde amnesia—the loss of all memory prior to a certain event. In this case, me taking a swan dive off the roof of our house. &nbsp;&nbsp;“I know what amnesia is,” I tell him. “So how come I remember a random word like that, but I can’t remember my own name? Or my own family? Or why I was climbing on the roof?” &nbsp;&nbsp;“That I can answer,” supplies the younger guy, who turns out to be my older brother, Johnny, a college student home for the summer. “Your room has that dormer window. You just open it up and crawl out onto the eaves. You’ve been doing it as long&nbsp; as I can remember.” &nbsp;&nbsp;“And did anybody warn me I might break my neck?” &nbsp;&nbsp;“Only since you were six,” my mother puts in. “I figured if you survived this long it was time to stop worrying. You were such an athlete …” Her voice trails off. &nbsp;&nbsp;“Amnesia can be an unpredictable thing,” the doctor informs us. “Especially with a traumatic injury like this one. We’re just starting to understand which parts of the brain control which life functions, but for all we know, it has nothing to do with geography. Some patients lose long-term memory, some lose short-term memory. Others lose the ability to transfer from short- to long-term. In your case, the damage seems totally confined to your sense of who you are and what’s happened in&nbsp; your life up until this point.” &nbsp;&nbsp;“Lucky me,” I say bitterly. &nbsp;&nbsp;Cooperman raises an eyebrow. “Don’t knock it. You remember more than you realize. You can walk and

CHAPTER ONE&nbsp; CHASE AMBROSE I remember falling. &nbsp;&nbsp;At least I think I do. Or maybe that’s just because I know I fell. &nbsp;&nbsp;The grass is far away—until it isn’t anymore. Somebody screams. Wait—it’s me. &nbsp;&nbsp;I brace for impact, but it never comes. Instead, everything just stops. The sun goes out. The world around me disappears. I’m being shut down like a machine.&nbsp; Does this mean I’m dead? &nbsp;&nbsp;Blank. &nbsp;The light is harsh, fluorescent, painful. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t keep it out.&nbsp; It’s an explosion. Voices are babbling all around me. You can’t mistake the excitement. &nbsp;&nbsp;“He’s awake—” &nbsp;&nbsp;“Get the doctor—” &nbsp;&nbsp;“They said he’d never—”

&nbsp;&nbsp;“Oh, Chase—” &nbsp;&nbsp;“Doctor!” I try to make out who’s there, but the light is killing me. I thrash around, blinking wildly. Everything hurts, especially my neck and left shoulder. Blurry images come into focus. People, standing and sitting in chairs. I’m lying down, a sheet over me—white, which makes the brightness even worse. I raise my hands to cover my face and suddenly I’m tangled in wires and tubing. A clip on my finger is tethered to a beeping machine next to my bed. An IV bag hangs from a pole above it. “Thank God!” The lady beside me is choked with emotion. I can see her better now—long brown hair, dark-rimmed glasses. “When we found you, lying there—” &nbsp;That’s all she can manage before she breaks down crying. A much younger guy puts an arm around her. &nbsp;A white-coated doctor bursts into the room. “Welcome back, Chase!” he exclaims, picking up a chart on a clipboard at the foot of my bed. “How do you feel?” &nbsp;How do I feel? Like I’ve been punched and kicked over every inch of my body. But that’s not the worst part. How am I supposed to feel when nothing makes sense? &nbsp;&nbsp;“Where am I?” I demand. “Why am I in a hospital? Who are these people?” &nbsp;The lady with the glasses gasps. &nbsp;&nbsp;“Chase, honey,” she says in a nervous voice. “It’s me. Mom.” &nbsp;&nbsp;Mom. Doesn’t she think I know my own mother? “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” I bluster. “My mother is—my mother is—”

Name

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