Separate Memories

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In the future, technology makes it possible for a divorcing couple to divide everything—including their memories. What if your most painful remembrances are entangled with your most joyous? And what if someone else owns the memories you wish to keep? This is a battle that Mrs. Alice Hamilton must fight … in the Substack Zone.

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“No,” I told my lawyer. “I won’t give up vanilla lime.” 

Dawn McGuire, the divorce attorney who’d seen me through every terrible aching moment of my marriage dissolution, sighed. Her light pink gel nails tapped on the edge of the tempered glass. Above it, hovered the holograms of the digital contracts that a year of negotiating had created. 

My husband and I had been separated before that. Before the separation, we’d tried to pretend we were okay. 

No, I tried to pretend we were okay. My husband had already started the grieving process. The thoughts of separation. Thoughts of love lost. He asked me to leave. Just for a while. We need to give each other space. It’s too much, you know?

By the time he’d had me served with the divorce petition, he was over our relationship. He’d dealt with the loss far better than I had. It made me wonder if he understood the concept of love at all. 

Dawn pinched her fingers over one of the paragraphs on the divorce settlement and enlarged it. Highlighted was the line: Respondent agrees to remove all memories associated with vanilla lime. 

“You know what he said when he gave me the first green-and-white striped candy?” I asked. Of course, she did. She’d listened to my tearful rants for the last eleven months. “Vanilla lime for you who are mine. Soulmates for all of time.”

Dawn had perfected the expression of empathy, going so far as to pat my arm as though trying to comfort. My divorce lawyer and I weren’t friends. But she played the part, and I clung to the delusion. “I know why you don’t want to give up the memories, Alice. But Evan isn’t budging.”

“I lost more than he did,” I said.

“I know, Alice. I’m sorry.” She stepped back, folding her arms over her chest. Her neutral business attire screamed prudent and professional as did her blonde hair pinned into a perfect topknot. “Here’s the hard truth. Evan has precedence. Vanilla lime was a childhood treat he introduced to you during your courtship. Aside from the obvious preferential claim, removing his memories of vanilla lime would be more costly, take more time, and affect a larger section of his brain.”

“I’m not asking him to give up his vanilla lime memories,” I said. “I want to keep mine. I’ve given him everything he asked for and more, and he’s still being an asshole about it.”

Dawn’s eyes flickered with sympathy. Or at least I told myself that. Still, her voice was kind when she said, “He shares the vanilla lime memories with his family and … with his potential new mate. He does not wish for her to be … unhappy.”

I felt like she’d kicked me, and I covered my stomach as though she actually had. I knew Evan had moved on, but I never would. How could I? I squeezed my belly and felt tears slip down my cheeks. I was broken now, and no longer soulmate-worthy. 

“The laws of marital dissolution puts a twelve-month limit on proceedings,” said Dawn. “If we cannot resolve this issue ourselves, we must go before a judge.” 

I straightened, crossing my arms and affecting the same posture as my attorney. She no doubt noted my body language neon-flashing STUBBORN. 

“We have less than a one percent chance of winning this concession. It puts into jeopardy all that we have accomplished as the judge can make alterations based on his own conclusions. You may lose what you’ve gained during the negotiation process for your divorce.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I want vanilla lime.”

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In the courtroom, Dawn and I sat on the table on the left and my soon-to-be ex-husband, his lawyer, and his new soulmate sat on the right. A bailiff dressed in the black clothing of courthouse security stood in the middle space between our tables and the judge’s elevated platform—otherwise known as the bench.

The judge looked like he was in his mid-fifties. He had short cropped hair, wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, smile creases near his lips. He wore glasses. Dressed in black robes, he looked like someone’s wise grandfather. 

I supposed that was the point. 

“I’ve read the divorce decree,” said the judge. “It’s not equitable, but I understood the respondent made concessions in order to keep the memories about the vanilla lime candy. Is this the case?”

Dawn rose. “Yes, your honor. My client wishes to keep the memories associated with the candy because they’re inextricably linked to her daughter, Nilla.”

The judge nodded. “I see. If she removes the memories of the candy, she must also remove the memories of the baby.” He looked at me. “My condolences on the loss of your child.”

“Thank you, your honor,” I said. “She was Evan’s child, too.”

The judge blinked. “My understanding is that Mr. Hamilton has had the memories of the stillborn baby, name Nilla Marion Hamilton, erased from his memories.”

“Yes, your honor,” said Evan’s lawyer. “In fact, he has already completed the separation of memories agreed upon by both him and Mrs. Hamilton. He is also in the requisite counseling. All he asks is for her to do the same.”

“She is not compelled to erase her memories or attend counseling until the divorce decree is signed by all parties and myself. What Mr. Hamilton chooses for himself is not at question here.” The judged frowned at Evan’s lawyer. “I must now ask for proof that Mr. Hamilton has kept the majority of his marital memories intact as per section eight, paragraph three of Laws of Marital Dissolution.”

The lawyer blinked.  “I have sent the proof, your honor.”

The judge paused for less than a second as the information transferred to him. “Accepted.” Then the judge steepled his fingers together and adopted a serious expression. “If Mrs. Hamilton gives up her vanilla lime memories, she must also relinquish her memories of her child. Is that what your client is asking her to do?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Even knowing that the complications of Nilla’s birth has made it impossible for Mrs. Hamilton to have another baby?”

“Yes, your honor. Surely giving up her grief offers more mental stability for Mrs. Hamilton than the remembrances of a dead child.”

I put my hand against my mouth seconds too late to cover the groan of agony. Nor could I control the tears streaking my cheeks. 

“The origin of the child’s name and the pregnancy are intertwined with vanilla lime candy, which belongs exclusively to Mr. Hamilton,” continued the lawyer. 

He didn’t care about the pain choking me. None of them did. 

The lawyers, the judge, the bailiff … not a single one would ever understand the joy of carrying a baby or the devastation of losing one. 

They would never be parents. 

And neither would I. 

“Grief is part of the human experience,” said Dawn. “Mrs. Hamilton doesn’t want to forget her baby.”

“I will take that, and all that I’ve heard in this courtroom, into consideration. Let’s adjourn for five-minute recess and then I’ll render my decision.” He slammed the gavel. 

It was almost as if I felt that blow enter my chest.

And bruise my heart. 

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“I’m sorry the judge ruled in favor of your ex-husband,” said Dawn as we entered her office.

“You did more than what was required of you,” I said.

“Do you need me to go to the Memory Separation Center?”

“No,” I said. “I consider our business concluded.”

“Understood.”

I watched my lawyer step into her recharge pod. 

“We appreciate you using Garner & Android Associates for your marital dissolution.” Dawn’s neck contracted as the machine connected to her recharge port. Her eyes closed and the pod’s glass door slid shut. 

On the door, a hologram survey appeared. I gave her the highest recommendations, of course. The last question materialized: What could we have done to serve you better? 

Get me vanilla lime. Save the memories of the only child I would ever hold in my arms. 

Instead, I wrote N/A.

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“How do you feel, Mrs. Hamilton?” asked Dr. Lewis.

I looked up at the smiling face of the Memory Separation Specialist. I felt my temples, and realized the headgear had been removed.

“You might feel dizzy in the next few days, especially as your brain readjusts to the memory erasures. We recommend three days rest before resuming your regular activities.”

“What … what got erased?”

“If you wish to know which memories were deleted, please refer to your medical paperwork and divorce decree. However, Mrs. Hamilton, I recommend that you refrain from seeking information. Our procedure ensures that your memories are irretrievable. In other words, we can’t return what has been deleted. Do you understand?”

“Yes. My memories are gone forever.”

“The process includes destroying the physical remnants of the memories we’ve removed.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Mostly photographs and mementos,” replied the doctor. “Not that those objects will restore what we’ve taken. Still, it’s a requirement of your divorce decree.”

“Oh.”

Dr. Lewis smiled. “Do you have any other questions?”

I shook my head.

“Okay. Consider yourself discharged. Remember, stay home and rest for the next few days.”

“I will.”

Ten minutes later, I stood outside the Memory Separation Center. Cold wind and gray skies promised snow. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets. In the right pocket, I found a small, round object. I withdrew it and looked at the wrapped hard candy. It was white with green stripes.

I studied it, baffled. I didn’t remember liking hard candy. Is that what got erased? Memories of candy? Weird.

I unwrapped the plastic and popped the candy into my mouth. Ew. Gross. What flavor was this? Lime and … vanilla? I can’t imagine ever liking such a combination.

I spit the candy into my hand and deposited it in a nearby trash can. I wiped my sticky hand on bottom of my coat. The doctor said to go home and rest, so that’s what I would do.

As I walked to the bus stop, my thoughts wandered to my recent divorce. Evan and I should’ve never gotten married. Dissolving the marriage was a blessing for both of us. After all, he wanted children.

And I never would.

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What memories do you keep? What memories do you discard? However you answer these questions, the choice is yours. For now. One day, however, you may find yourself facing the same dilemma as Mrs. Alice Hamilton … in the Substack Zone.

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