The Whispering Dead (Gravekeeper #1) - Darcy Coates Page 0,59

his own before she could object. He swirled the drink for a moment, his eyes thoughtful, then said, “Can I ask an odd question?”

“Go for it.”

“What’s your favorite dinosaur?”

“Huh. I don’t know.” Keira put her head back as she thought. “Guess I’d have to go with the velociraptor. The claws are pretty cool.”

“Did you learn about them through a movie or a book?”

“No…not that I remember anyway.”

“Hmm.” Mason gave her a searching look, and Keira lifted her eyebrows.

“I’m guessing you prefer the T-rex?”

“Ha! No, just…trying to puzzle something out. I don’t think your memory loss is a typical case. I wasn’t sure whether I should say something, but…well, if you’re leaving, you’d better know now.”

Keira sat a little straighter. Mason’s expression suggested he didn’t have good news, so she waited quietly for him to collect his thoughts.

“There are basically two types of learning,” he said at last, and he put his cup aside. “Implicit and declarative. Implicit is for things that become subconscious or muscle memory, such as walking or playing the piano or being able to speak. Declarative is more focused on conscious learning, like remembering the queen’s name or movie plots or your friends’ faces.

“When someone suffers from memory loss, they usually lose the declarative but retain most of the implicit—an artist could forget his wife but still be able to paint. I thought this was what had happened to you. You seem generally healthy and mentally sound; you just can’t remember anything. But strangely, you seemed to have retained certain declarative memories as well.”

“Ah, like the velociraptors?”

“Exactly.” Mason rubbed at the back of his neck. “You remember the dinosaur, but not when or how you learned about it. Correct me if I’m off mark here, but it seems like the only part of your memory that’s been damaged is the part that relates to you: your experiences, your opinions, your identity.”

Keira stared at the ground. She dug through her mind again, searching for stray memories. Knowing what to look for, she realized she actually had retained a swath of knowledge. She’d known what Zoe had meant when she’d referred to James Bond. She could remember that the sun went down in the west. Mason’s hair color reminded her of chocolate. But she didn’t know what chocolate tasted like. She couldn’t remember ever seeing the sun set. She didn’t know which James Bond movies she’d watched or whether she’d enjoyed them. It was unnerving, and she put aside her cup so she could wrap her arms around her torso defensively. “What does that mean?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea. I researched it late through last night, but I couldn’t find any comparable cases. Generally, patients either lose all of their memories or just a segment of time. I’ve never heard of a case where an identity is erased but the rest is left untouched. It’s bizarre.”

Keira scowled at the stone path surrounding the fountain. “Just once, it might be nice to be normal.”

“Hey.” Mason’s knuckle nudged the underside of her chin, bringing her attention back to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Like I said the other day, we still don’t fully understand how memories are stored. This could be a normal, albeit extremely uncommon, variation.” His eyes seemed to darken a fraction. “I just wish I could do more to help. This can’t be pleasant for you.”

Keira deliberately relaxed her pose. “It’s not that bad, actually. I can’t miss what I don’t remember. And you and Zoe have been amazingly kind; I never expected to feel so welcomed here.”

“Zoe’s going to miss you like crazy. Most people don’t have time for her or her theories, and I know she’s started thinking of you as her friend.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “I guess all three of us were looking for some kind of friendship.”

Keira snorted. “No, I don’t believe that about you for a second, Mr. Congeniality. You said it yourself: this town loves you.”

“You’d be surprised. I’ve been feeling lost since I came back from med school. I was gone for nearly four years. Most of my friends have moved away, and the only one who’s still here has changed so much that it’s hard to recognize him. You’re right—people do like me, but in a detached, he’s-a-good-kid sort of way. There’s no one I can really talk to. Meeting you was like…like…” His gaze became distant for a moment, but then he clapped his hands on his