"The Detour" by Luis Chamorro
- Roi Fainéant
- 6 days ago
- 13 min read
The Return
Dr. Harris is driving.
I sit beside him, watching the streets I am told I’ve driven through a hundred times—houses, strip malls, traffic lights—but none of it feels familiar.
This whole process has been… strange. Frustrating.
At home, I pass photos of myself—smiling, surrounded by people I don’t recognize—and I don’t feel like the person in them. Sometimes I catch flashes—quick, disjointed things that vanish before I can hold them.
I remember walking across a college campus—trees, buildings, footsteps echoing. Or maybe I dreamed it. I can’t name the school. I don’t know what I was studying.
Dr. Harris explained it all—the accident, the amnesia, the false memories—but it always sounds like he’s describing someone else’s life. Not mine.
I trust him—mostly—but sometimes it feels like he knows more than I’ve told him, naming fears I haven’t said out loud, even voicing things I hadn’t yet let myself think. Perhaps that is what all good therapists do.
I asked my parents once if we’d known him before. They said no. They did mention that he went to my high school. Years ago.
My parents say Dr. Harris is the right one for me. But when they think I’m not listening, I hear it in their voices. The tension. The worry.
How long…? What if he doesn’t…? Should we…?
“We just want him back,” they say.
Not me. Him.
I keep wondering what happens if I never remember.
Am I someone new now?
And if I do remember… does that make this version of me disappear?
I don’t know which one I want to be.
I glance at Dr. Harris.
The silence in the car suddenly feels oppressive. I try to say something—anything—to break it.
“How am I this confused?” I ask. “About everything?” He answers without glancing over. “It’s part of the process. Part of what we’re working through.”
A beat.
“We’re here.”
I hesitate. “Are we going in?”
“Principal Keller’s expecting you,” he says, motioning toward the gate. “Just head through there.”
I pause. “You’re not coming?”
He shifts slightly, eyes on the street ahead.
“You don’t need me there,” he says. “It’s best this way.”
He grips the wheel a little tighter but doesn’t say anything else.
I open the door and step out.
I glance back.
He’s still in the car—hands on the wheel.
Like just being here puts him on edge.
What’s up with him today?
***
Dr. Harris remembers the old campus: long corridors, open soccer fields, tall trees. The layout had been open, loosely structured—easy to move through, easy to slip away from. It gave kids room to push limits, to take risks. He thinks of the halls, the bell, the heat. Laughter. Voices filed away long ago—until now.
He shuts it down. Not now, he tells himself.
His chest tightens—and stays tight.
He tells himself some people get second chances. Not everyone. Not always.
He blinks. The present returns.
The new campus is something else—manicured lawns, evenly spaced trees, gleaming glass façades. It looks imported—from somewhere colder, wealthier. High walls surround the entire compound. You can barely see inside. He finds himself wondering: What are they trying to keep out? Or in?
He imagines a dress code. Pressed collars. Probably sweaters.
He’d said as much to his sister, the last time he saw her at her place. Her twins go there now—enrolled at the same school he can barely stand to look at.
She didn’t hesitate.
“You never see us—and when you do, it’s just to criticize.”
“Maybe you should look at your own choices first.”
“More structure might’ve helped you too, you know.”
A pause.
“Sorry, Daniel. That was harsh.”
“It’s all right,” he said. He left not long after.
He exhales slowly, careful not to let it register.
Getting Sam’s parents to agree hadn’t been easy. They asked endless questions, like they were working off a list—trying to sound brave, measured, but not quite managing it. But it was the mother, her voice suddenly tight and brittle, who asked the question at the end:
What if he doesn’t come back? What if this doesn’t work?
He told them this was their best shot. But memory’s fragile. Nothing’s certain.
Sam seems ready for this—whatever comes. But his parents… he’s not so sure.
Maybe it’s not just Sam they want back. Maybe it’s before. Back when bad things didn’t just… happen.
But they can. And they do.
He thought about saying it. Decided not to.
Still, he kept pressing—not just for Sam, and not just for his parents.
For him too.
The School
I reach the gate. The guard waves me through without asking anything.
I head toward the main building. Inside, a group of kids—nine, maybe ten—race down the hallway, shouting and laughing.
There’s something about the sound, the rhythm in their laughter.
“Where’s the school store?”
The question spills out before I know I’m going to ask it.
One kid points. “End of the hall, to the left. Same place it’s always been.”
He squints. “Why’re you going there?”
I shrug.
As I turn away, I hear a whisper—just loud enough to catch.
“Weird.”
“What?” I snap—too fast.
Another kid grins. “It’s just that… that place is weird.”
But something about the way he says it—the half-smile, the shrug—I almost laugh.
I reach the store, enter, and turn left toward a door with a sign that says Uniforms.
I stop for a moment.
Like I’ve been here before.
Then I push it open.
A boy sits behind the counter. An older man—his back to me—is stacking shirts on a shelf.
The boy looks up. “Can I help you?”
“I think I’m here for uniforms.”
The older man turns. His eyes light up.
“Hey, kid. Look at you.”
He sets down the shirts like they suddenly don’t matter.
He grins like he knows me. “How’ve you been? What can we help you with?”
His happiness is weirdly contagious. I feel it too—just a little. I keep looking at his face, hoping something will click. But I can’t tell.
“Yeah,” I say. “I was going to see the principal, but… I wanted to check on the uniforms instead.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “But I think it’d be better if you see the principal first.”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
“Come back after,” he adds. “Or whenever. I’d be glad to help.”
I want to stay. But I step into the hallway anyway.
Something shifts. The color of the walls. The echo of footsteps. Running late for class. I’ve done this. I think. Their faces flash through my mind—blurry but bright, sudden. The blond one. The tall one. The joker. My friends. A warmth moves through me—quiet, sudden. But it feels fragile. I reach for their names, their voices—but I can’t find them.
I want to see them again, so I head toward the 12th-grade classrooms.
I stop at the first one.
I peek through the door.
Students fill the seats.
I spot a blond kid near the window—he looks familiar.
“Mike!” I say, before I even think.
He looks up, confused. Nudges the person next to him. A quiet laugh.
He’s not Mike. Not even close.
Why did I think he was?
I freeze.
What was I thinking? What are they saying?
I step back. I shouldn’t be here.
I head toward the principal’s office.
I feel the floor shift sideways beneath me.
I reach for the handle—more to steady myself than to open the door—and pause.
God, I hope everyone forgets that. Or maybe that I do.
Then I open it.
A woman at the reception desk looks up and smiles.
“Hi,” I say. “My name is Samuel Becket. I’m… here to see the principal.”
Her smile widens. “Of course, Sam. We’ve been expecting you.”
Another woman appears—older, sharp-featured, her hair pulled back tight—but her voice surprises me, softer than I expected.
“Hello, Sam,” she says. “Please, come in.”
We sit, and she takes her time arranging the desk—phone turned face down, folder centered, pen lined up beside it—like she needs everything just right before she speaks.
“How are you doing?” she asks.
“I don’t know… I guess I’m a little confused. That’s kind of why I’m here. Dr. Harris says I went to school here but never graduated. It feels familiar… but I don’t remember it well.”
“Okay. Let’s take a look—maybe this will help clear things up,” she says gently, opening the folder and sliding a photo across the desk.
It’s me. And my friends.
Mike—the blond one.
Jimmy—the tall one.
Manuel—the joker.
We’re in our jerseys, soaked with sweat. Shouting, mid-jump.
And I feel it: the heat, the cling of the jersey, the smell of grass.
Someone kicked me—hard. I hit the ground, furious.
I rub my leg now, without thinking.
“That’s the day we won the state championship,” I say.
She hesitates.
“That was the championship game, yes.”
She looks at me.
“You all played your hearts out. But it wasn’t a win that day. Still—no one who saw it will forget that game. We were all proud.”
“But we’re all smiling.”
“It was your last game. You celebrated anyway.”
I nod. But something inside me tightens.
How do I know what to trust?
She reaches into the folder again.
“This is your graduating class.”
I take the photo and start scanning.
Mike. Jimmy. Manuel. Claire.
But not me.
My stomach tightens. I press my thumb into the glossy paper, hoping—stupidly—that something might change.
Nothing.
Principal Keller watches me for a moment. Then softly:
“You were part of this place, Sam. We missed you at graduation.”
I just stare at the space where I’m not.
“I should finish high school.”
“Yes,” she says, smiling. “Just a few steps left.”
I hesitate.
“But… why didn’t I graduate?”
Her smile fades—just slightly.
“You know what?” she says, soft. “Daniel is waiting for you. Dr. Harris, I mean.”
I nod. “Thank you, Principal Keller.”
“It’s good to see you, Sam.”
She pauses. Her voice catches, just a little.
“Really good.”
“And say hi to your parents,” she says quickly as I’m stepping outside.
My parents.
They make me feel safe—always there, always ready to help. I appreciate their attention, but sometimes it feels like they think I’ll break. Like they’re waiting for me to come back—to be who I was before.
But I’ve been here the whole time.
I take the long way back. The path outside feels clearer than the one through the building.
I’ve walked it before. With a girl—Andrea? Her arm brushed mine. She laughed. I want it to be true.
The vending machines—buzzing, faintly glowing. Manuel snatched the Coke from my hand before I could open it. “You’re too slow,” he said, already drinking. I shoved him. Hard. He nearly dropped it—then cracked up, head thrown back.
For a second, the anger rises—hot, sudden—then fades, like it was never mine to hold.
The Road
I reach the car. Dr. Harris is behind the wheel, window down, his arm resting against the frame. He glances over as I open the door.
“How did it go?”
“You were right,” I say. “I’m starting to remember.”
Something in his posture shifts—just slightly.
“That’s good,” he says. “Want to head to the park? Eat there?”
I nod. “Yeah. That’s the plan. My mom packed sandwiches.”
Heller Park isn’t far. We should be there soon.
We pull onto the street and drive in silence for a few minutes.
Then Dr. Harris starts asking questions—steady, clinical. Like this is routine.
“When did the school start to feel familiar?”
“What were you doing when you remembered your friends?”
“Do the memories feel like yours… or like they belong to someone else?”
He asks them one by one. Calm. Measured. And for once, I don’t feel lost answering.
I tell him about the uniform store.
“Yes. Jimmy used to work there. You, Manuel, and Mike would stop by all the time. You loved making up stories about the old school—scaring the little kids while they waited to get measured. Mr. Olivera said it was like the four of you ran the place.” He pauses, then adds quietly, “I always liked Mr. Olivera. He used to tease me that I was too loud, talked too much… but he was always asking me to stop by anyway. And I did. Until I couldn’t.”
I turn toward him, surprised.
“Really? Tell me more.”
“I don’t remember much more, Sam,” he says, voice soft. “And honestly… I’m not sure I want to.”
I think of asking something else—but stop myself.
He slows down—but not like someone being cautious. Like someone deciding whether to keep going. Then, just barely, his foot presses down again. The car creeps forward.
That’s when I realize—we’ve been driving too long.
The road narrows. Trees press in, blocking the sunlight.
Something about it feels off.
The seatbelt feels tighter.
Up ahead, the road forks.
One side is blocked—orange cones, a DETOUR sign leaning to one side.
The trees. The curve.
It all comes back—before I know why.
My chest tightens. I grip the seat.
Someone’s yelling. Tires screeching.
Then silence.
The car slows.
I glance over.
Dr. Harris’s knuckles are pale.
He looks… off. Unfocused. Distressed.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
“This is where the accident happened,” he says.
“You and your friends were lucky.”
He pauses.
“It’s not always like that.”
He says it like it hurts.
We both exhale—quiet, almost at the same time.
Back there he looked… scared. Not just for me.
Now the car is quiet.
We’re both here, but it feels like we’ve each gone somewhere else.
The Park
We pull into the park.
Dr. Harris parks beneath a tree. Everything feels quieter here.
“Let’s go sit on one of the benches,” he says.
We find one in the shade and sit.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
I know he’s told me before. But this time, it feels like the story is mine.
Dr. Harris watches me for a moment before speaking.
“You and your friends were on that road. Something went wrong.”
The sound comes back first. Engine. Whiplash. Pain. Then Nothing.
My heart races.
“It was me,” I whisper. “I was going too fast.”
The words spill out—sharp, reckless.
And I feel it: the weight of what I did, what I almost did.
“It was an accident,” he says—his voice is sharper than before, too fast. I flinch. He notices. Then, softer: “Maybe it was the road. Or the speed. But it’s done now.”
He shakes his head, gently.
“You hit your head. Coma for weeks. Post-Traumatic Amnesia.”
“They said the car overturned several times. It was the trees that finally stopped it”
A pause.
“We were hoping the school might jog something.”
He glances over at me.
“Looks like it did. Accidents happen, Sam. Your friends made it through. And you will, too.”
He leans back slightly, arms behind him on the bench.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done if my friends had been hurt,” I say.
I feel it again. The almost. Not just what happened—but what didn’t.
Silence.
I glance over. Dr. Harris looks pale—like someone pulled the ground out from under him.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is different—thinner, rougher, like it costs him something.
“I had an accident there too.”
I sit up. “When?”
“When I was your age.”
“And what happened?”
A long pause. Then his voice shifts—firmer, controlled. Back to normal.
“I don’t want this to be about me,” he says.
“Come on,” I say. “Tell me.”
He shakes his head.
“That’s all there is to it.”
But he does not look at me.
He reaches for the lunch bag and hands me a sandwich.
I’ve been open with him—more than with anyone. I know there’s more. He’s just not saying it. I’m tired of being talked around. Why can’t anyone just say what they mean?
I unwrap my sandwich and take a bite—slow, automatic.
He finishes his in three bites, like it’s something to get through.
He reaches for another one.
Unwraps it—just as a car pulls in fast, tires catching on the gravel.
My parents.
They are already out of the car.
My dad reaches me first.
“We called you! You didn’t answer. We were worried.”
“I told you—we were going to the park.”
“Why didn’t you answer?”
“You know I always put my phone on silent when I’m with Dr. Harris.”
“You were supposed to be back by now.”
“The road was blocked.”
His jaw tightens.
“You went through that road? Why would you do that?”
His voice rises—angry and afraid at the same time.
His hands move fast—frustrated, sharp. Like when the ref made a bad call.
Then I realize—he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to Dr. Harris.
I feel the blood rush to my head.
“Why are you talking like I’m not here?” I say.
“I am here. I’ve been here the whole time.”
“Why can’t you see that?”
I pause.
“I’m not something you need to fix.”
I look at my parents.
They’re out of breath, faces flushed, stunned—and suddenly I see it: they look older than I remember. Fragile. Like they’re the ones who might break.
I turn to Dr. Harris.
He’s calm. Silent.
“He knows what happened,” Dr. Harris says. His voice is firm—maybe too firm.
He finally looks up.
“I told you he could handle it.”
For a second, he says nothing, then, “He’s remembering.”
“Mike, Jimmy, and Manuel. I remember them,” I say.
I almost laugh.
“Can’t believe those assholes left for college without me.”
“I need to finish high school. I need to catch up with them.”
My parents freeze.
They glance at each other. I can’t tell if they’re about to laugh or cry.
My mom actually laughs—sharp and surprised. But her hands are still clenched, like she does not believe it yet.
“You’ll catch up with them soon enough,” she says. “You can give them hell when you do.”
The tension softens. Not gone, but loosening.
Like everyone’s remembering how to breathe.
My dad turns to Dr. Harris.
“Sam needs to get to physical therapy. Is it okay if we take him now? I will call you later.”
“Yeah, anytime.”
I reach for the lunch bag, but he stops me.
“Leave it, Sam. I’ll bring it back next time I see you.”
As I walk away with my parents, I start telling them how we used to scare little kids at Mr. Olivera’s.
“Of course we know,” my mom says—like it’s something she’s been holding onto for both of us.
My dad turns to me.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “When we couldn’t reach you today, we panicked. We drove by the school, but you were already gone. So we came here.”
“After the accident… seeing you in the hospital, in a coma—we didn’t know if you’d wake up. It was the hardest thing we’ve ever been through. And now, we just can’t help but worry all the time.”
“It’s ok, Dad.” I place my hand over his.
My mom rests her hand on my back—gentle, steady.
As I climb into the car, I glance back at Dr. Harris—still sitting on the bench. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but he looks like someone who needs help too.
He watches us go.
***
Dr. Harris tells himself today was a turning point. They’ve suffered enough. This should be the start of something better. Taking Sam down that road was a risk—especially without telling his parents. But it worked. Sam didn’t just remember—he faced it.
He remains on the bench, unmoving.
I don’t know what I would’ve done if my friends had been hurt.
And then—without warning—the memories arrive. Peter and Juan. He sees them here again—this park, these benches. Juan shoving his arm. Peter laughing.
Daniel, don’t be a chicken. Ask the girl out.
He hadn’t said their names in years.
The road comes back—too fast, too narrow, the curve coming up too soon, and then the feeling that everything had tipped, as if the world had spun sideways and couldn’t be put back.
He remembers thinking he could handle it. That he was in control.
He closes his eyes. Tries to keep it out.
But it’s not the crash that stays with him.
It’s Sam’s voice.
I’m not something you need to fix.
The words hit too hard.
His breath stutters. Hands tremble.
It was an accident. You didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It’s done now.
That should be enough.
It should be.
But it isn’t.
He glances at his phone. Missed calls. One after another.
He doesn’t check them.
Just sits.
Still watching. Still waiting.
The benches in the park stay empty.