A Haunting of Words

by Brian Paone et al.

  It didn’t help. Once again, she failed to recognize me. Based on her sincere bewilderment, it dawned on me that she wasn’t playing a game or hard to get. She had a serious problem.

  As frustrating as the situation was, I couldn’t give up. I really liked her. Hell, I’d already fallen hard. And I knew what it felt like to be deemed weird or a problem. To have people give up on you because your head’s been messed up for a long time. Because bouts of depression, stupor, or rage consumed you. Because you couldn’t just snap out of it like everyone said you should. I knew what it felt like to be a lost cause.

  Rather than run away, I embraced the challenge that was Mattie Kim. The more I got to know her, the more my need for her grew. One fed the other. I came alive around her. Discovered pieces of myself in her. Devising new and creative ways to please her tapped into a part of my brain I’d forgotten or never realized existed. It awoke a sense of purpose, fulfillment. I’d never been happier in my life.

  One night, I pretended to be a singing telegram courier and squawked out an off-key rendition of Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” I thought my plan clever. I thought wrong.

  My stunt tanked spectacularly. I was the creep coming on to a client’s love interest. But that’s the thing, another chance always presented itself. A new day to set things right.

  Not to pat myself on the back, but I considered my latest endeavor a stroke of ingenuity. I arrived early and waited. When she sailed down the stairs, I blasted Extreme’s “More Than Words” on my phone and held up the signs I’d spent hours toiling over at the office:

  Mattie, you don’t know me

  but I know you

  You make films about killer bunnies

  and social issues

  You have beautiful thick hair …

  now

  But you were as bald as Mr. Clean

  when you were born

  and not nearly as pretty as him

  At the theater, you buy

  the largest tub of popcorn

  and drench it in butter

  Get sick and throw up afterwards

  but can’t help ordering it

  Every. Single. Time.

  You’re Korean, born in Seoul

  but tell assholes you’re Chinese

  That Jackie Chan is your uncle

  who trained you in kung fu

  and you’re not afraid to use it

  You like 90’s music, jazz, and hip hop

  You laugh in all the major keys of life

  I love listening to them all

  That earned me a kiss. Of course, it still took another four hours to cajole it out of her. Rome wasn’t built in a day either. I’d pay for the late rendezvous at work but I didn’t care. My heart soared with elation.

  “You’re—”

  “Too much?”

  She shook her head. “Just right. Come here.” She tugged my tie and slipped her arms around my neck.

  Her lips tasted every bit as sweet as I’d imagined. Soft, warm, with a faint savor of peppermint, her mouth melded with mine with a tenderness that quickly flamed with urgency. Frenzied desire roiled through my flesh. My body pulsed, throbbed, not only with the heat of her, but the intense shock and sensation of pouring myself into this wondrous being.

  When she pulled away, my body leaned forward, innately following hers—hard and ardent as a magnet, stayed only by the press of her palm on my chest. I opened my eyes to discover a sheepish smile. My own was one of awe and longing.

  The next night when I entered the station, Mattie didn’t have her earbuds on nor was she dancing. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, searching, expectant. My stomach flipped. Something was very wrong.

  Her head tilted in my direction, eyes lighting up as soon as she saw me. Her body stilled; the world hushed. Her gaze lingered on my face before it swept past me. But that singular, glorious moment of recognition was the sun orbiting the earth. I braced the handrail and inched down the stairs.

  As optimism grew, my pace quickened, and I rushed to greet her. “You waiting for me?”

  Anticipation and mystification infused her features. “I don’t know. I’m waiting for someone.”

  I dug up a blank name tag from my bag, scribbled Someone, and slapped it on my chest. “That would be me.”

  She laughed harder than I’d ever heard her laugh before. A luscious serenade to my ears. She was so beautiful it hurt.

  To my amazement, a few days later she walked up to me.

  “Hi. I know this is going to sound strange but do we know each other?” Her face flushed. “I swear I never do this. Going up to random guys, it’s not—God, I sound like an idiot. I really have no idea—”

  Learned something new every day. She babbled when she got nervous. I delighted in our sudden role reversal, to see her flustered for a change. Although I’d been tempted to let her wiggle a little longer on the hook, my heart broke for her.

  “Mattie, right?”

  The relief on her face was priceless. And women thought it was so easy.

  “Yeah. So I’m not losing my mind. We do know each other.”

  Every muscle in my body yearned to haul her into my arms. I stuffed my hands into my trouser pockets to restrain my exhilaration yet I couldn’t contain the huge grin. “We do.”

  From some dark crevice of her mind, it was clear she was reaching for me, fighting to be with me. Up to this point, our encounters never strayed beyond the confines of the train station. For the first time since we met, I believed in a possibility beyond our current limitations. I believed in the possibility of us. When you’re trapped in limbo, you can’t conceive it. I’d been there before not that long ago and knew how bleak things could look. That night, I had hope. That night, two words broke through the haze and crystalized what I once thought unattainable: a future.

  I didn’t know exactly how I should handle this situation, but I knew someone who would. I couldn’t afford to screw things up.

  In the past, I had always lain down on the sofa. This time, as I waited for Doctor Levine, I sat upright and took in the artwork on the walls, the fake plants in the corners.

  “Hi, Miles. It’s been a while. How’ve you been?”

  “Whoa, Doc. Looking good. You dropped a whole person.”

  “Midlife crisis. Some men buy sports cars, I treated myself to a gastric bypass.”

  Most people would find his humor irreverent or inappropriate, but I always appreciated that about him. He’d joke, Why take things with a grain of salt when you can take them with a sense of humor? Just as effective and tastes a whole lot better.

  During the three years I’d been under his care, he taught me to cope by finding the good in things, in situations, in people. He encouraged me to go back to school and embark on a new career. My recovery would not have been possible without him.

  “I’m actually not here for me. I mean, yes, it’s for me, but I really just wanted to pick your brain about something for a friend.”

  He nodded his head. “A friend. Of course, go ahead.”

  “I’m kind of seeing someone.”

  “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

  “Seeing might be the wrong word. I’m not actually dating her. That is, we’re not boyfriend and girlfriend. Or going out on real dates—but I’d like to. Really, really like to.”

  “So what’s the problem? Ask her out.”

  “This girl, she’s amazing. She’s a film student at NYU—brilliant. I’ve seen clips of her work. She’s funny, intelligent, artistic. She’s perfect. She just has this thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “Some kind of amnesia. You ever watch the movie 50 First Dates?”

  “With Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore? Sure.”

  “It’s kind of like that but different. Anyway, in the movie they called it Goldfield’s Syndrome. But are things like that real?”

  “Let’s clear up a few things. First, they made up that term for the movie. Second, there ar
e a number of disorders that can affect memory loss. But without reviewing her medical records and evaluating her in person, I couldn’t make an accurate diagnosis. Was she in an accident?”

  “I don’t know.” I rubbed my palms on my thighs, anxious for answers. “Can it be repaired? Maybe with medication or surgery?”

  “Couldn’t start off with something easy? Like dating triplets? What’s her name?”

  “Mattie Kim. I know her situation isn’t ideal but she’s special. I really like her.”

  “She sounds lovely. But …”

  “But?”

  “Are you sure you’re ready to tackle such a big undertaking?”

  What the hell was he talking about?

  “Doc, you’re the one who taught me never to give up on myself. Why would I give up on her?”

  He shook his head. “But her condition’s different. Physical trauma isn’t like emotional trauma. The way the brain functions, heals. It’s unpredictable at best. Do you think it’s wise to get your hopes up?”

  But, but, but. Didn’t he have any solutions to offer? My being there was precisely because Mattie had given me hope. Who was he

  to dismiss her? We all carry baggage. In this day and age, who isn’t damaged? And what about her heart? Her soul? My aggravation mounted. His job required asking questions. What I needed now were answers. “Doc, all I want to know—”

  “Wait. You said her name is Mattie Kim? As in Matilda Kim?” Trepidation darkened his eyes. “Miles, where did you meet her?”

  “Rockefeller Center station. Why?”

  “Hold on.” Without ceremony, he marched out of the room and returned with a thick folder with my name on it and set it on the coffee table. “Remember why you first came to see me?”

  “I told you, it’s not about me.”

  “Isn’t it?” He slipped out a newspaper clipping from the file. “I want you to read this.”

  It was an article from The New York Herald.

  Young Woman Pushed to Death on Train Tracks

  A horrific tragedy cut short another life last night when twenty-year-old Matilda Kim was pushed to her death at the Rockefeller Center subway station. The only daughter of Korean immigrants, she graduated from Frank Sinatra High School and was an undergraduate studying film at New York University.

  Mattie, as friends and family called her, had just left work and was on her way home when she was accosted by a man.

  I scanned through the rest, picking up bits and pieces.

  According to witnesses … Jamar Johnston … intoxicated at the time … shoved her … oncoming F Train … died instantly.

  Train operator, Miles Ferguson … drove the lead car … tested negative for alcohol … investigation … Ferguson’s performance or equipment malfunction … contributed to her death.

  Notes and flowers … a candlelight vigil …

  The remaining words careened off the page as vertigo spun through my body. It couldn’t be.

  “No. That’s not her. That’s not my Mattie.”

  “Look at the picture. Are you sure?”

  Cap and gown, diploma in hand, the beaming face of a pretty Asian girl stared up at me.

  “You’re wrong. This—this girl’s too young.”

  “That’s because it’s her high school yearbook photo. Think about it. Her name, ethnicity, background. The location.” He sighed. “How many Matilda Kims do you think there are? You like numbers. What’re the odds it’s a different girl?”

  Odds? All those days lying in the dark. All those sleepless nights. Living from one bottle to another. Popping pill after pill. What had been the odds I’d ever climb out of that chasm?

  “Obviously something triggered your guilt, and it’s conjured up—”

  “I’m not conjuring anything!” I crumpled the article, jumped up, and paced the room. “She’s real. I see her. Feel her. She’s as real as you or me.”

  “Miles, it wasn’t your fault. You were cleared of any—”

  “I’m telling you, it’s not her!”

  Why was he trying to take her away from me?

  “Maybe we ended our sessions too soon. Perhaps we should get you back on your old schedule.”

  “No. I’m seeing clearly for the first time in a long time. Why won’t you help me? I mean, Christ, Doc. I’m just, what? A deposit on your Hamptons vacation rental? Fuck you!”

  I chucked the folder at him and stormed out.

  “Miles. Miles!”

  I raced the twenty blocks to the station where I waited for Mattie. A little after 11 P.M., she floated down the staircase, her body swathed in light. I flung myself at her.

  “Mattie, please tell me you know me.” I touched my forehead to hers. “Please.”

  Confusion tinged her expression. “Do I know you?”

  Oh, god. Not again. Not square one. I couldn’t go back there.

  Without the aid of any games or fanfare, she spoke my name. “Of course I know you, Miles.”

  Her acknowledgement ruptured a levee of emotions. A sense of rightness. Belonging.

  I cinched her in my arms and kissed her hard with everything I was and had. Willed her body to mine. My hands raced over her, desperate to absorb and consume every inch; crushed her to me, leaving no space between us. The lights flickered around us as I delved deeper into her mouth.

  My voice was gruff. “I love you, Mattie. God, I love you so much sometimes I can’t breathe. Tell me you’re real. Tell me you love me.”

  She cupped a palm on my cheek. “I know you. I know the real you. And now you know who I really am too. Don’t you?”

  Like bolts of lightning, terror and anguish struck my body as realization set in. Who was Mattie Kim? The girl who brought me back to life. But the question begged another. Who was I? The guy who took hers away.

  Tears trickled down my face. I trembled. My voice cracked. “Oh god, Mattie. My sweet, sweet Mattie. What did I do to you?” I gripped her jacket and fell to my knees. The words crawled up from my throat. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  She stroked my hair. “Shhh. It wasn’t your fault, Miles. You have to stop feeling guilty.” Even in the worst of times, leave it to Mattie to find absurdity and grace. “No one does fucked up like us, huh?” Squeezing my shoulders, she lifted me up.

  “You must hate me.” I pleaded with my eyes. “Hate me. Hit me!”

  Her skin grew paler, more translucent. Her eyes began to fade, already saying goodbye.

  “I was angry. For a long time. And then, I wasn’t.” She held my face. “You can’t imagine how much I’ve enjoyed getting to know you.”

  Her lips brushed against mine—slow, sensual, comforting. “I love you, Miles.”

  A train clattered in the tunnel. The sound a rattling of chains.

  “You’re leaving me, aren’t you?”

  Her lips curled up but her eyes weighed down with sorrow. “I don’t want to.”

  “Then don’t. I want to be with you. Always. Forever.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  I smiled and entwined my fingers with hers and kissed the back of her hand. Hope and euphoria coursed through us. Bound us.

  She passed me an earbud. I was surprised to discover a different tune playing. I perked up at Goo Goo Dolls’ “Iris.”

  After all that had transpired between us, what was the probability of our being together? Infinitesimal? Impossible? Sometimes the universe gifted us a rare second chance. What, in statistics, we might call an anomaly. I called it a miracle.

  “You sure?”

  I squeezed her hand. “Fuck it. I choose us.”

  She cranked up the volume. When everything seemed made to be broken, life had a way of proving us wrong.

  The train roared toward the station. The lights sputtered, dimmed. Light bulbs sizzled and exploded in a brilliant display of fireworks. We ran. Leaped to a future, blinding and beautiful.

  Linda stared at a row of action figures. Her hands shook and her heart pounded. E
ach beat throbbed inside her brain. Since Peter’s accident, Jimmy hadn’t been the same. He’d always been a demanding little boy, but since his father died, he’d become vindictive and unforgiving.

  A boy rolled through the aisle on a skateboard, and a slender blonde chased him. Her red heels clicked against the tile. How did she keep from stumbling? Linda glanced at her worn-out white sneakers. It had been years since she’d even thought about wearing a pair of heels.

  The woman grabbed her son by his hood and pulled him toward the checkout. He lowered his head and followed. Linda sighed. That’s how normal children behaved.

  She scanned a row of action figures—the variety overwhelming— and then stared at the ceiling. Which ones did he have already? Not a toy in sight he didn’t own.

  Her mouth curled into a grin. She shook her head. “That’s it,” she said to herself. Why hadn’t she thought of it before now? It was so simple.

  She’d take Jimmy to choose his own present. No way he could be mad at her for bringing home the wrong gift. The odds of her finding anything he liked or didn’t already own were slim. There would be no repercussions with this plan, only her and her son celebrating what should be a happy event in a little boy’s life. Or so she hoped.

  Yes, it was the best way. The safest way.

  Jimmy swung a sword above his head, mounted his stick horse, and galloped back and forth. He stopped outside Linda’s bedroom door.

  “It’s my birthday. Wake up!” he said, banging the sword along the banister. Its gray plastic blade clanked and clattered against the wooden poles. No response. He pounded both fists on the door. “I said, wake up!”

  Linda’s eyes popped open. She squinted away from a yellow beam shining through the window. The clatter grew louder. She stretched and slid her foot around the brown shag carpet. Pink fuzz tickled her toe. She wiggled one foot into her slipper, stopped, and cocked her head toward the door.

  The house grew quiet. Heavy breathing whispered through the crack. She shoved her foot in the other shoe and tiptoed around the bed. Easing her hand toward the doorknob, she placed her eye to the keyhole. A single brown eye peered back.