Chapter 108 State-dependent learning
There’s something called state-dependent learning.
The idea is simple, your brain recalls things better when you’re in the same state you were in when you first learned them. Same environment. Same mindset. Same version of yourself.
When you're in class, it's much better to sit in the same seat every day, as well as take the test in that same seat. You can recall memories easier if you're in the same state as when you learned it. It also means memory isn’t just stored, it’s conditioned.
Triggered and unlocked by feeling. I don’t think anyone tells you that the same thing applies to pain. Or fear. Or the quiet, careful ways you learn to exist when something is wrong.
Because sitting here now, my parents in the same room, my body feeling like this again...I’m remembering things I didn’t even realize I’d kept. Not clearly, not in full scenes. But in instincts.
I can feel the "state" of being sixteen clicking back into place. It’s an effortless, terrifying slide. Suddenly, I remember the exact geometry of how to sit so my father doesn't see the tremor in my hands. I remember the specific pitch of voice I need to use with my mother. Light enough to be convincing, but not so bright that it sounds like a lie. I'm back in the classroom of my first diagnosis, and all the lessons I thought I’d forgotten are rushing back with the clarity of a physical blow.
I know what to say and what not to say. I'm the fighter, the one who manages the emotions of the people around him. I'm the son who makes it easy for them.
It’s a strange, bitter sort of muscle memory. I look at Michael, who's standing a little off to the side. He's watching me with that piercing, gaze of his. He’s the only part of this "state" that doesn't belong to the past. The new variable in a very old equation.
“I don't feel too bad,” I tell my dad.
It comes out lighter than I feel, but he gives a short, approving nod anyway, like that’s enough.
I gently disentangle myself from my mum, and she lets me go slowly, her hands lingering for a second before settling in her lap. "I’m sorry I couldn't make it to the airport. The medication I'm taking makes me incredibly sleepy."
The sixteen-year-old version of myself and I are back in the seat. We’re taking the test again.
My father gives a curt nod, his universal sign of understanding. "That’s okay. Rest is the work right now."
"Besides," my mother adds, her eyes flitting where Michael is still standing, "it gave us a chance to get to know Michael a bit better on the drive." She gestures toward the vibrant yellow tulips she’s placed on the table. "He’s already won me over."
I turn to Michael, a small, knowing smile tugging at my lips. He looks remarkably composed for a man who just spent forty minutes in a car with my parents. He holds out another bouquet. A wild, asymmetrical arrangement of deep violets and pale greens.
"Don't worry," he says, his voice dropping into that warm, intimate register that always feels like a secret. "I bought you one, too. Didn't want you to feel left out."
I blink, heat rising in my cheeks before I can stop it. I look away, focusing intensely on the pattern of the rug. It’s a strange, prickly sensation....having my romantic life exist in the same physical space as my parents. This is the first time they’ve ever stood in a room with a partner of mine.
My mum lets out a soft, almost relieved breath. “It’s such a comfort knowing you have someone looking after you,” she says, her voice gentler now. “Honestly, I think I would’ve worried myself sick otherwise.”
She begins to look around the apartment then, her eyes wandering over the bookshelves and the framed prints. It hits me with a sudden, sharp pang that this is the first time they’ve ever visited me. In all the years since I moved away, our relationship has always been anchored in my return to their home, never their arrival in mine.
There’s a pause. Then, with a small, curious tilt of her head, she says, "I never knew you liked plants so much."
Michael lets out a soft laugh. When I turn to him, his expression is teasing. “Told you there's a lot of them,” he says, his voice light and airy, then he adds, "I’ll put some coffee on while you three catch up."
My mother waves a hand dismissively, though her smile remains. "Oh, no, that’s quite alright. We aren't really big coffee drinkers this late in the day. Just point me toward the kitchen and I’ll get started on a late lunch."
"Mom, you just got here," I say, shifting on the cushions. "Rest for a minute."
She shakes her head, already scanning the perimeter of the room with a practiced, maternal eye. "I can’t sit in a house this cold, Ryan. And I don’t mean the thermostat. It’s clear you two don't cook nearly enough in here."
Michael walks to the door for a second and returns with a bag of groceries. "Then we can all move into the kitchen, I'm sure there’s enough room for all of us."
So, we migrate.
The four of us squeeze into the small kitchen space. My mother immediately stakes her claim at the stove as she ties an apron she brought in her own suitcase. She never did like help in the kitchen. To her, cooking is a solo performance.
Michael settles into the chair beside me at the table after navigating my cupboard to find the hibiscus and ginger blend that settles my stomach. He sets three steaming mugs down, and for a long moment, we all just nurse the ceramic.
I’d spent the last forty-eight hours bracing for a clinical interrogation. I’d rehearsed the data, the timelines, and the reassurances I’d need to dispense to keep them from spiraling. I was certain every sentence would start and end with the word cancer.
But it doesn't happen.
Instead, the air fills with the mundane. My mother gossips about people from back home. Mrs. Gable’s hip replacement, the new pastor’s questionable taste in hymns...names and faces I can barely summon from the fog of my memory.
With my dad, it’s easier in a different way.
I ask him about things I know he likes. Safe topics. Things that don’t require much from me, but give him something to settle into. And he does. He talks, going into detail that’s probably unnecessary, but I let him. I let him have it.
Because it feels normal.
Because it gives him something solid to stand on.
Michael is the glue. He’s charming and genuinely curious, asking my dad follow-up questions that keep him talking when my own energy starts to flicker. He bridges the silences I’m too tired to fill.
I watch him listen to my mother’s stories and I feel a profound, quiet surge of gratitude. I’d pictured a disaster for some reason. A house full of weeping and sadness. But this is something else entirely. It's quieter and kinder.
More livable.
I glance at Michael, just for a second. At the way he reaches for his mug without thinking, relaxed and present. I reach under the table, my fingers finding his knee. I give it a quick, firm squeeze. He doesn't look away from my mother, but he covers my hand with his own, his thumb tracing a slow, reassuring line across my knuckles.
I realize that the "state" I'd remembered, the one from sixteen, was incomplete.
Back then, I was doing this alone. Now, I have Michael Foster.