Fractured Memories

By Joyce Tyquiengco

With hatred fueling her success, Jaime Tyler, software entrepreneur, lives clouded and alone. Receiving a grave diagnosis after a near fatal accident, Jaime finds herself begrudgingly returning to her island home. She doesnt have as much time as she hoped. Her memory is deteriorating rapidly, and she might have only a month before all she once knew is gone.

For two decades, Jaime has been blinded by aversion, incited by a violent past. Shes always had feelings for her best friend Meg, although shes been careful to keep those feelings under wraps. After all, Jaime is not one to lean on anyone. With her arrival on her home island, however, things change as Meg comes to Jaimes aid and admits to years of veiled feelings.

Is it too late for these women to find love? As Jaimes condition worsens, Meg must fight to break down her beloveds boundaries. Wading through Jaimes past, Meg discovers more than she expected as Jaime comes to realize the one person shes always needed has been Meg all along. Together, they could find a moment of happiness, but will the past and Jaimes declining health leave them forever fractured?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480857094

Joyce Tyquiengco

Joyce Tyquiengco was raised in Guam and is the first of her family to graduate from college. She completed her undergraduate work in applied psychology and organizational behavior and her graduate degree in information systems management. Joyce is currently a software consultant in the healthcare industry and a freelance writer in Pennsylvania.

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Copyright © 2018 Joyce Tyquiengco.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5707-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5708-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5709-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018900241

Archway Publishing rev. date: 1/4/2018

For Tom, the music in my life, the song in my heart.

Thank you for strumming the tunes that inspire me to keep writing!

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Mom and Dad, thank you for the exemplary preparation for life’s challenges. I hope I make you proud each day. I love you with all that I am.

Luv and Rae, thank you for being there for me and with me through the years of unimaginable experiences.

Luv, you know me best and longest. I hope I have come close to honoring just how amazing a person, best friend, and confidante you are in my life, through the character who shares your name. Many years ago, you saved me from my worst self, and every day I am forever grateful.

Bridget and Charlie, thank you for believing in me and giving me a second chance for what life had in store for me, more than seventeen years ago. Your friendship, lessons, and love are cherished and always with me.

Family and friends, here in the US mainland and back home on Guam. Yes, Guam is forever my heart’s home. You can take the girl out of the island, but you can’t take the island out of the girl. Thank you for being the sounding board through so many conversations, regardless of the insanity. But, most importantly, thank you for listening and always being candid, because I needed it.

Chapter 1

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. MY FIST is striking Luv’s front door. I can’t tell if I’m slamming or barely tapping against it. My head is pounding, and my face, chest, and rib cage hurt. I sense liquid, maybe blood, trickling down parts of my body. The pain’s so intense, as if something’s fractured. Luv’s porch light turns on, the front door opens, and I fall into someone.

Oh my God! Jaime! Luv screams, catching and lowering me to the ground.

Chase, get down here now! Jaime, honey, what happened? Oh God! Oh God! Chase! she shouts to her husband, a general surgeon. There’s a noise. Someone’s steps are getting louder, as if racing near her.

I feel her hand move the damp hair away from my face. She rests my head on her lap, holding me steady.

I release a faint plea. Let me die, Luv. Please.

Jae, who did this to you? She’s stroking my face, ignoring my selfish request.

Just let me die, I whisper again.

Her husband, Chase, kneels down and begins inspecting my injuries. I scarcely make out his assessments.

Luv. Chase’s voice sounds critical, concerned.

Chase, what is it? Luv asks, fear penetrating her dark brown eyes.

Chase, no, I mumble. I raise my weak hand and grab his wrist. Please, don’t, I say as my hand loses its grip. I black out.

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The turbulence jostles me awake in my seat. It’s still dark in the first-class cabin as the fasten-seat-belt indicator sounds and the captain makes an announcement. I’m sweating. I look around, anxiously catching my breath. It was just a dream, just a dream. Breathe. Just breathe. How is it that after all these years Luv is the one true friend who protects me, even in nightmares? Chase is a lucky man to have her as his wife. I momentarily close my eyes and place my face in my hands. I’m going home. Home … to find the strength to forgive Alex, sixteen years later.

After a few minutes, I sit up, straighten my disheveled, clunky, but shapely brown-skinned, five-foot-nine-inch self as the lights switch on in the cabin. My shoulder-length, straight jet-black hair is a bit out of sorts but manageable. As much as I complain about straight hair, the one advantage is it does absolutely nothing. I collect my hair, put it up into a ponytail, grab my worn and ragged, favorite blue—with a bright red B for Boston—baseball cap, and place my ponytail through the snapback opening. The flight attendants begin walking down the aisles, gathering items to discard, informing us to turn off all large electronic devices and to keep all phones in airplane mode until we land. I know the drill. I don’t have any electronics out, as I’ve been journaling these past few months, returning to the novelty of penning thoughts rather than utilizing a device.

With my journal open, I’m making note of things I’m uncertain I’ll remember. Questions to ask, thoughts to recall, and potential software revisions or new ideas that need cataloging, should my software company, BC-TYME Technology Inc., require any of the knowledge in my head. My neurological team recommended I document as much as I can because of the consequences of the traumatic brain injury from the accident. Short-term memory is my worst enemy; I don’t remember anything as simple as what I had for dinner last night. My long-term memory, however, wasn’t affected as severely, though it was affected enough. Memory and time gaps are occurring more frequently. For example, I don’t remember what I did for my sixteenth birthday. I don’t remember the names of my childhood pets. What I despise most is this fear of losing my mind. I realize what I’m taking for granted because I’ve been angry for so long: walking on the beach, riding a bike, watching the sun rise and set. Then, in an instant, a moment, this car accident causes life-altering, irreparable damage. These are the things I write about. Mostly.

It’s May 2015, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to tolerate the humidity when I get home to the beautiful tropical island in the South Pacific, located at 13 degrees north latitude and 144 degrees east longitude of the equator. As a child, my version of the four seasons were typhoon, no typhoon, less humid, and unbearably humid. I’m rolling the dice for less humid.

My last trip to Guam was nearly five years ago, for my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, in October 2010. I avoided the media, attended the event, and departed immediately after the party. Now, here I am, on this personal journey I’ve commissioned, Alexandra West, Alex. I’ve been back for prior visits as my life ebbed and flowed, but when I returned home after finishing college, during the summer of ’99, on one tragic night, I was broken. I haven’t wanted to return since. Every trip thereafter has been brief and warranted by obligation.

I completed my undergrad and graduate degrees in five years. This milestone should be celebrated in any young adult’s life. It started out that way for me. I worked my ass off. I wanted to share it all with Alex. Five years of waiting, of giving her enough space to figure things out, to find and accept herself or to let me go. When I returned that summer to celebrate with family, friends, and her, she was strong enough to love us. We spent a romantic, amazing night together, but the next morning, she was gone and I was alone.

After hours of unanswered calls and text messages, I drove to her house, where I finally found her. She wouldn’t come out. She wouldn’t see me. She wouldn’t explain why she disappeared. No one can prepare to be hurt, but I tried to ready myself for the pain, for my heart to break. I wasn’t expecting her to stand idly by as her brother beat me senseless and left me bleeding in their driveway. Amid the beating, I wasn’t sure if I heard her; sound, feeling, all that made sense faded with each physical blow. Unaware of how much time had passed, I opened my eyes, pushed myself off the ground, out from the small pool of blood beneath me, with no one in sight. No one. I found just enough strength to climb back into my car and drive to Luv’s house. It was the first safe place that came to mind.

I would’ve been spared that day had my heart been the only victim. That day, Alex did the unthinkable. She fractured a soul and created an unforgiving being—me. Therefore, evading Alex is an intentional skill I’ve perfected, and seeing her isn’t something I want to do; it’s something I need to do. I can’t lose myself, still filled with interminable hate for a ghost. I can’t risk losing my mind while still an unforgiving being.

The 777 Dreamliner United Airlines Flight 201 to Guam is in its final approach after eight hours over the vast blue Pacific Ocean. We can see the faint outline of the reef from the full moon’s light, the white-sand beaches lit up with tiki torches, and the vibrant illumination of hotel row as the plane brusquely banks to one side. Approaching from the northern part of the island and flying approximately halfway toward its center, the pilot makes an abrupt left turn, aligning the plane with what looks like a diminutive runway. My hands are sweating even with the cool temperature inside the plane. I’m nervous. No, it isn’t nervousness I’m feeling. It’s fear. They say being hurt from a past love when you’re young is something you learn from. It’s part of life’s experiences. But having your core fractured by the one you loved—that’s an entirely new level of experience. One that’s still festering inside me. I need to do the right thing, for me. After so many years of hatred, I fear anger may dominate my actions when the time comes to confront Alex. I hope for the courage to forgive the past.

After a few moments, the wheels lower, and the flight attendants take their seats. The plane descends, the clouds roll by, the island nears, and the runway shifts closer and closer. Then, with a sudden wheel bump, the pilot applies the brakes, the plane slows toward the end of the runway, and we turn toward the airport and taxi to the gate. I take a deep breath before I unbuckle myself from my seat. No rush to deplane. I don’t want delays in the US customs line. Not that any of it’s in my control. I pretend it is, given the nepotistic connections I have with a brother and cousin working for the federal entity. I’m acquainted with most of the agents, but it’s my last name they recognize, not me. I gather my things from around my seat and start placing them in my backpack. For some reason, I’m scrambling like I haven’t a clue what I’m searching for. My mind and thoughts are fragmented. I hate that. I hate that I’ll be assaulted by my demons too soon. I call them demons; Meagan, Meg, my best friend back home in San Francisco, who knows almost everything about me, calls it closure. These demons haunt my dreams and have kept me restless for more than a decade. For now, it’s time to get off the plane.

Stepping onto the Jetway, the unbearable humidity hits me in the face. I could never acclimate to warm, humid temperatures anywhere, even as a child growing up on the island. It’s ten thirty at night. The air isn’t as thick as it would be in July or August, but it’s thick enough to cause me to rush into the airport and seek cool relief in the air-conditioning. I am undoubtedly a warm-weather wimp.

I make my way to baggage claim while trying to retrieve my passport and completed customs form from my bag. Big mistake. I should’ve known better and waited until I got to the baggage terminal. While walking, as soon as I look up from my backpack, the room starts to slowly and psychedelically spin. I immediately stop, which results in people following too close behind me to run into me and become disgruntled. Perhaps I need a sign on my back that reads, Warning: Due to a medical condition, this person suddenly stops walking without notice. Do not tailgate! That would be hysterical—humans with warning stickers. I know there are all kinds of warning stickers we can come up with. In the meantime, what am I to think about while standing here waiting for the damn building to stop moving? Maybe what’s for dinner? Should I let anyone know I’m here? Semantics. I can’t help the feeling that I look like a complete moron, needing to stand still in the middle of the hallway to regain my balance, end the nystagmus, and prevent myself from looking like a drunkard getting off the plane. Yet another inconvenient loss of functionality, the inability to multitask in motion.

After two or three minutes, but what feels like ten times longer, I continue on to carousel 4, where bags are starting to come up from the mysterious beyond. It’s like a crapshoot, where you are praying your bags make it with you, especially after countless transit hours and changing planes multiple times—that they make it without damage or with the least damage possible. Even though I know what my bags look like, tags and all, I’m the biggest geek there is. At least that’s what Meg tells me. I’ve vandalized (the word Meg used, not me) my luggage by wrapping the handle in blue-and-white Hawaiian-print duct tape. After I’ve waited five or so minutes, my suitcases make their way toward me. I grab my bags, head to the customs line, and hand over my completed customs form and passport to my cousin. He flashes a wry smile. Could’ve been worse; it could’ve been my brother.

Hey, cuz, long time! Anyone know you’re here? I didn’t see Kyle; he usually meets you at the carousel, my cousin says, examining my passport and documents.

Nope. No one knows I’m in, so please don’t call or tell him. I’m going to surprise them. It’s late, and I’m tired, I plead.

He eyes me suspiciously and shrugs. Okay, but if he comes to work and I don’t hear anything tomorrow night, I’m letting him know.

Dejected, I glare at him. Fine. That’s a thing I hate about this small island: you can’t sneak in without someone finding out you’re here. I’ll call them first thing and head to their place after breakfast.

You better, or he’ll kick my ass. You know he will, Jaime, he says.

Yeah, yeah. I will! It’s not like you can hide on this island anyways! I thank him, wish him good night, and wave goodbye before I get into more trouble. And to think I’ve only reached the airport. How much trouble could possibly find me here? I facetiously ask myself.

I make my way to the Avis Preferred rental car counter where my car should be prepped and ready to go. I give my name to the gentleman behind the counter, and he quickly turns around, grabs the keys, and hands it to the valet, who leaves out a back door as I receive my rental agreement and instructions from the agent. Unlike the mainland, the airport is so small you’re unable to proceed to your car, drive to the gate, show your ID, and leave. The airport doesn’t have the technology or facilities to accommodate these demands at this time. The island’s infrastructure is at least two to three years behind in implementing technological advancements. On a trip like this one, I yearn for that convenience.

Welcome back, Ms. Tyler! The valet is pulling your Mazda CX-9 SUV, as requested, to the front of the airport. You are a returning preferred customer. Did you need anything else? We received a note from your agent that your initial stay is for a month, but that may change, and you or she would contact us to extend the rental term, which isn’t a problem. Is that still correct? he asks.

Yes, that’s correct. And no, I don’t need anything else. Meagan, my agent, will be in touch if I need the car for longer than what’s listed on the contract.

Very good, ma’am. You can proceed to your right, make a left at the end of the counters, and go through the automatic doors and out to the parking area, where your car and the valet are waiting for you. Have a wonderful stay, and again, welcome home, he concludes, leaning over the counter and gesturing with his hand the direction for me to take.

Thank you, and have a good night, I say and then gather my things and make my way out of the airport.

The island no longer has a Marriott, so I had to locate a new hotel. After much research, I selected the one closest to Turtle Bay Beach, my favorite beach, which is a ten-minute drive from the airport. I pull up to the front entrance, have the bellhop unload my bags, and hand the keys to the valet. It’s too late for me to park the car myself. With my luggage on the luggage cart and the bellhop behind me, I proceed to the front desk in the lobby.

Welcome, Ms. Tyler! the hotel associate excitedly says. If you give me a moment, I’ll have your keys programmed for you.

Thank you. You have a lovely hotel, I reply, pulling off my Boston baseball cap, trying to straighten my hair. I glance in the mirror behind the associate and notice the exhaustion in my dark brown eyes.

After a minute, the associate hands me my hotel keys and says, We have you staying with us for twenty-nine nights, or a month, in the penthouse suite. Here’s the direct number you requested for dry cleaning services. Is there anything else we can help you with tonight? Otherwise, we will assist you with your bags to your room.

Thank you. This is excellent. I’m good for now. Have a good night, I say, receiving my keys. I turn and follow the bellhop toward the elevators.

The bellhop leads the way and keeps to himself, mostly fiddling with his phone. It’s then I realize I haven’t switched my iPhone from airplane mode. I reach into my pocket, flick the shortcut up on the front screen, and shut off airplane mode. My phone updates with a plethora of voice mail and text message notifications. I ignore them, place the phone back in my pocket, and engage in conversation with the young gentleman.

Anything good or interesting happening on the island this month? I ask.

He looks up from his phone, turns his head, looks around, then behind, then back at me and places his index finger on his chest before asking, Are you talking to me?

I hope so, I answer with a smile and a soft chuckle, hoping it’s funnier than it sounds.

Oh, uh, oh, uh, he stutters.

It’s okay. I was just curious if there were any local events going on, I say, trying to calm him.

"I’m sorry, Ms. Tyler. Yes, yes, there’s the crab festival next weekend. I’m sure you heard of it. It’s held in the village I believe you’re from.