A Box of Old Things
by Shane Gort
Part 1: In the doctor's office
“Andrew?” I looked up and met his eyes. Doctor Collins had a somber look on his face.
“I only offer you this option because I see there being no other way.”
I lowered my gaze once more, back to the sterile white floors. There was a heavy silence, underscored by the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead.
“Are you sure there’s no other way, Doctor?”
“Yes,” he replied solemnly.
I took a deep breath. The air smelled of rubbing alcohol; it stung my nostrils.
“Ok,” I said.
Doctor Collins led me out of the room and through a hallway. The lights above me were overwhelmingly bright. He opened the door to another room and ushered me in. In the center of the room was a large machine, vaguely resembling an MRI. There was a woman in the room, younger than Doctor Collins.
“This,” said Doctor Collins, indicating the woman, “is Dr. Wood. She’ll be overseeing your procedure. She’s a postgraduate of a PhD nursing program at York, very well-qualified. You’re in good hands.”
She gave me a reserved half-wave. There was a look in her eyes. I’d seen it a lot in the past few months, a pitiful horror. I was gaunt, ghastly, thin as a rail and pale as a ghost. I couldn’t even blame her. I flashed her a small smile.
“And this,” said Doctor Collins, now gesturing to the machine, “is our miracle worker.”
The two doctors laid me out on a hospital bed and began hooking me up to the machine. Wires and tubes, a heart monitor, an IV drip. As he worked, Doctor Collins spoke.
“Since your body is failing but your mind is still in tip-top shape, we’ve determined this to be the best treatment for you. What will be happening today is that we will be moving your consciousness into an artificial body, so that your mind can live on.”
He paused, and moved his eyes up from his work to meet mine. “There will be no going back from this procedure.”
I nodded.
“Now, there is a limit to how much of your consciousness we can carry over. Your personality will stay intact, but your memories are at risk of being lost.”
I blinked, stunned.
“I know that sounds bad, but you will be able to preserve some of your memories.”
I let these words sink in, yet as I did, I began to feel an upset building inside me.
“But I—” My speech was broken, my body weak.
“I don’t want to lose my memories.”
Doctor Collins let out a sigh—not one of frustration, but one of remorse.
“Your options here are limited, Andy. I realize that it isn’t ideal, but this is the only way to preserve your life. Plus, as I said, you will be able to keep some memories of your choosing.”
I closed my eyes, fighting back tears. The thought of losing my memories was unbearable. But the thought of losing my life was even more unbearable, and I knew that this was the only way.
“How do I choose which ones to keep, Doc?”
“Yes, well, that’s the complicated part. Once you are unconscious, the procedure will begin. You will reawaken inside of your mind in a space between your new, artificial consciousness, and your old consciousness. You will find a box next to you. To preserve your memories, you must revisit them inside of your brain, take a significant object from that memory, and place it in the box. For example, if you wanted to save the memory of your engagement, you would perhaps take the ring, and place it in the box.”
My eyes were still closed, but I gave a little nod of comprehension.
“When there are 5 minutes left in the procedure, you will hear a distinctive chime, which indicates that you must return to the space between your consciousnesses with the box. This is essential. If you do not return before the procedure completes, the memories will all be lost.”
Doctor Collins gave me a tap on my shoulder. I partially opened my eyes to look at him.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, Doctor. I do.”
“Ok, then. The procedure will last about 15 minutes.”
Doctor Collins turned away from me toward Doctor Wood. “Start it up!”
I felt the bed begin to lower until I was flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. It rolled back and into the machine. I could hear Doctor Collins over a speaker now.
“You will begin to feel yourself fall unconscious in just a minute.”
The bed did a light jolt as it stopped moving, I was fully in the machine now. The lights lowered, and soon it was all black.
Part 2: In Andy’s mind
I awoke somewhere else, disoriented. My surroundings were pitch black, save for a single bright light somewhere in front of me. I squinted to look at it. It was in the shape of a door frame. There was nothing else around me, except for a cardboard box to my left.
I was in the space between my consciousnesses. Then I remembered: if I was here, the procedure had already started. I only had 15 minutes. With haste, I picked up the box and walked up to the door. I noticed when I stood up that for the first time in a long time, my body didn’t feel weak. Holding the box under my left arm, I opened the door with my right.
Beyond the door was a beach. The sun was setting now, staining the sky in pinks and gradients of orange. The waves were frothy and rough, the air cool. I remembered this day: a walk on the beach. I was alone, it had been after a long day of work. It was as breathtaking in my memory as it was in real life. I stepped out onto the beach, and let the sand mold itself around my toes. I took a few more steps. This was a nice memory. I think I’d like to keep this one.
I looked down to the box in my hand. Only about the size of a wine box. Would I have room to take this one with me? I looked back up from the box, and into the sunset. I could come back for this one If I had to.
I looked to my left, away from the ocean, and saw my bedroom. Not my current bedroom, the one I had as a child. I stepped towards it, and as I got closer, the crashing waves faded away into the idle hum of a radio.
My old room was just like I’d remembered, lit by the afternoon sun streaming in through the window. All my posters were still up, shelves still stocked with action figures, and the walls still that ugly shade of pink that my sister had insisted on when the room was hers. I stood still and looked around for a moment, reflective. I hadn't seen this room in so long.
Then, another me came in through the door. A littler me, alongside my childhood friend Robert. The two boys sat down on the bare wooden floor, legs sprawled out, and started playing with action figures. Robert would always try to get the bad guys to win, but I would always come up with a way to let the good guys win. That is a good memory. Robert put down an action figure, Darth Vader. This one is worth keeping. I picked up the action figure and placed it in the box. I carefully stepped over the boys, and through the door of my bedroom.
I was back outside again, this time in my old neighbourhood. I remembered this street, right next to the park, populated with a few bungalows and a small ice cream shop. Hot summer sun beat down, soaking warmth into my clothing and skin. I turned and saw myself down the road, even younger, sitting on a tiny bike and staring wide-eyed at the road ahead. My dad was gripping the back of the bike, keeping it upright, and saying something to the little me that I couldn’t quite hear. It must’ve been my first time riding one.
He pushed the bike forward and I started down the road, shaky at first but picking up speed. I steadied and started to laugh, my dad cheering me on from behind. I didn’t know how to brake yet. I could barely watch as little me crashed the bike into a tree. I tumbled to the ground, crying, with bruised arms and a scraped knee.
My dad ran over to me, scooped me up, and placed me in one of the chairs outside the ice cream shop. After making sure I was okay, he ran into the shop. Little me waited, still teary, but then my dad was back out, ice-cream in hand. My tears subsided. This was a good memory. I stood up and walked over to the bicycle on the ground. I took the bell off the handlebars of the bicycle and placed it in the box.
I carried on down the street. Day turned to night; lawn grass turned to vast rolling fields of green. The sky, a deep blue and perfectly clear, was dotted with hundreds of tiny twinkling specks of light. I remembered this night well; it was at my cottage in my early teens, and tonight was the firework show.
I scanned the overgrowth, and spotted myself laying on my back in the grass next to a girl. I'd met her at the farmer's market back in town. She laughed at a joke I couldn't quite make out, and I grinned in response, flashing my braces. My head jolted up at the sound of the first firework.
Meanwhile, on the lawn, both she and I sat up, our faces illuminated red by the fireworks, then green. I would come to realize in a couple of years how much of a dork I was. Lightly, she tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to face her; she was already looking at me. The smell of her perfume was intoxicating. In that moment, nothing mattered to me more. Our lips locked. I stooped down and picked up a handful of the grass. I would’ve loved to stay and watch, but I had to keep moving.
The world heaved, and I was in my school bathroom. My teen self was right beside me now, surrounded by my other friends at the time, all in a cramped and dimly lit bathroom stall. I was older, the braces gone, an unlit cigarette between my lips. I was nervous. After the cigarette was lit, the younger me broke into a coughing fit and dropped the cigarette on the ground. I picked it up and placed it in the box.
Then, in my first car. It had been handed down to me from my grandmother. She took me driving for the first time in that car. That was the last memory I had with her before she fell ill. There was a tacky ornament hanging from the rearview mirror, I unhooked it and placed it in the box. I blinked.
Upon opening my eyes, I was in the back seat. A mid-20s version of myself sat at the wheel, beside my third girlfriend, Lynn. She slipped a cassette into the player.
“What’s this?” the younger me asked.
“‘Dark Side of the Moon’,” she responded.
I turned my head to the side, curious: “Is that a band?”
She looked at me, mouth agape. “You’ve never heard ‘Dark Side of the Moon’?!”
As I watched the interaction from the backseat, I said the next line with her from the backseat:
“How have you never heard ‘Dark Side of the Moon’?”
I took the cassette out of the player, and placed it in the box.
I stepped out of the car; I was now on a dark street. There was a streetlight overhead. Lynn was there, her once-long hair now cut into a short bob. I saw myself standing to face her.
I don’t want to remember this one, but I can’t move, I’m paralyzed. Her words are coming out choked, and though I know exactly what she is going to say; the words still make my heart drop.
“I don’t think I love you anymore, Andy. I’m sorry.”
Just then, I hear a chime, reverberating through the ground and the walls, impossible to ignore.
No… I thought. I’m out of time!
I took off running. I couldn’t remember how to get back to that space between my consciousnesses. I kept on running, past my 3rd grade classroom, through the forest behind my cottage, the grocery store where I worked my first job. So many memories I’d like to keep, but I had no time to save them. I hear the voices and see the faces of all manner of people: friends and bullies and strangers and family… I had to keep on going.
Then I saw it, the beach! And the door, I was so close. I kept my sprint going, but then I felt my one leg trip over the other. I felt myself falling. The box that I had been clinging to so tightly now lay on the ground, its contents strewn all over.
“No!” I yelled as I scrambled back to my feet and began to collect the objects, hurriedly throwing them into the box. The door began to close, I had to leave some behind. I was so close now. I couldn’t fail. I couldn’t lose all of this.
Part 3: Back in the doctor's office
Dr. Wood and Dr. Collins watched over the procedure. As the rhythmic beeping of the heart
monitor began to get faster.
“His vitals are rising,” said Dr. Wood.
“Yes, it happens to everyone,” Dr. Collins responded.
Dr. Wood let out an exasperated sigh, “He’s clearly under stress.”
“I know, but the procedure will be over soon.”
Dr. Wood made a face, somewhere between sadness and frustration.
“Why do we tell them that they can keep their memories?”
Dr. Collins lowered his gaze, his face somber. He looked back up at Dr. Wood.
“If we had told him that the procedure would cause him to lose all his memories, he would be much more stressed than he is now. If he knew, he wouldn’t have taken the procedure, and he would have let himself die. He won’t even know what there is to remember. He will start a fresh, new life. He will be happy.”
Dr. Wood began to tear up, and Dr. Collins rubbed her shoulder reassuringly. “I know it’s hard, but it’s what’s right for him.”
Just then, a different beeping sound.
“Ah good,” said Dr. Collins. “The procedure was a success.”