by Karma Brown
One might think Mom and Alexis would get along brilliantly, both of them free-spirited and artistically minded—Mom had been a high school art teacher, who now dabbled with acrylic classes out of her home studio. But there had been plenty of explosive arguments between them over the years, the similarities not enough to dispel the oil and water quality of their relationship. I quickly texted Alex back, Be nice, and then clicked through to my email.
A few Welcome home! Hope you’re doing great. We miss you! emails from my team at Jameson Porter, and one from Brooke Ingram, my second in command and closest work friend (outside of Matt). She had sent me a card in the hospital that read “At least it’s not syphilis. Get well soon,” which had made me laugh hard enough to cry and told you everything you needed to know about Brooke. Today’s email was a running checklist of outstanding communications projects, which I’d asked her to send daily to keep me in the loop for when I went back to work.
Of course, like everyone outside of the doctors, my family, Matt and my best friend, Jenny, Brooke didn’t know about my memory lapses. Matt and I had agreed to keep it quiet, hoping things might reset themselves soon and it would be a nonissue.
Knowing I probably had only minutes until the oatmeal was ready and Mom—or Matt—busted me for being on my phone, I clicked on the Facebook icon. Twenty-six unread messages. I didn’t have time to deal with the messages or my bloated timeline, nor was I interested to see all those picture-perfect posts when my life felt like anything but.
Taking a deep breath, I glanced nervously toward the kitchen and then the bedroom before typing into the search box. I had almost done this a dozen times already but had so far held back because I knew it wouldn’t help things. But today...well, the urge was too strong to ignore this time.
A handful of names filled my screen, and I scanned the first few until I saw him. Daniel London.
The picture was tiny, but I recognized him immediately. My finger hovered over the “add friend” button, but then the bedroom door opened and I jumped, my phone dropping between the couch cushions. I scrambled to pick it up again, quickly closing Daniel’s Facebook page, which illuminated my screen.
“Everything okay?” Matt asked. Black. The thought popped into my mind. Matt takes his coffee black. Try to remember.
“Yes, yes,” I replied, feeling as though I had Mexican jumping beans inside my belly. “Alex texted. Mom’s making us oatmeal. Steel-cut.”
“Sorry I have to leave. I love oatmeal,” he said as he tightened his tie. I had the urge to write these things down: black coffee, likes oatmeal. “Going to say bye to your mom.”
“Matt?” I rose quickly onto my knees and grasped the back of the couch with both hands so I was facing him. He was only a foot away and close enough I could touch him if I wanted to.
“Yeah?”
Looking into his face, which carried the hope that I might say something revolutionary (like, I remember you now! I remember us!), I had the feeling he wanted to reach for me but wasn’t going to, because he wasn’t sure what I wanted.
I paused, regretting the urgency with which I had said his name. I was quite aware anything I said now would be insufficient, but I pressed on regardless. “Thanks for sleeping here. On the couch, I mean. Last night.” It was anticlimactic, and Matt was unsurprisingly deflated by my words.
“No problem,” he finally said before heading into the kitchen. I watched him go, then sank back down onto the couch.
No problem. I wished it were that simple.
7
“You look better,” Jenny said. She held up a white plastic bag, heavy with take-out food containers. “Lunch, as promised.”
The smell of whatever was in the bag wafted past me, and my stomach grumbled. I pulled her inside and set the bag on the kitchen table. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Feigning a last-minute headache relieved me of lunch with Mom and Alex, but the second I was alone I wished everyone would come back. It was too quiet and the silence meant I could ruminate on my situation without interruption. Thank goodness for Jenny and her bossy insistence she was coming over whether I wanted her to or not.
“What silverware do we need?” I asked.
“Way ahead of you.” Jenny opened her purse and pulled out two sets, rolled tightly in napkins. “I got you the chili. Beef chili.”
“Thanks.” I sighed. “I know I’m not actually a vegetarian, but I feel like I’m supposed to be.”
Jenny reached across the table to rub my arm before unrolling our silverware and flattening out the napkins.
“It was that documentary on Netflix, or that’s how I remember it. About how carnivores are ruining the planet. What’s it called?” I snapped my fingers, trying to bring the name to mind. “Something about knives...”
“Forks Over Knives,” Jenny said, prying the lid off her take-out container and stirring the golden orange soup.
“Yeah, Forks Over Knives. I can still picture all those tortured animals—God, even the chickens made me sad—but still, I want to eat meat.” I cringed, slapped a hand to my forehead.
“Look,” Jenny said, licking a drip of her soup from her thumb, “you’re a good and kind person who loves animals, even chickens, and it’s okay that you still want to eat them. You’re just a bit mixed-up. I’m the vegetarian.”
I rubbed my fingers deep into my temples. “Yes. You told me that.” It was Jenny who, after watching Forks Over Knives, had done a one-eighty two years ago—going from Friday night wings and a beef brisket sandwich obsession to stocking her fridge with vegan butter and cashew cheese overnight. I sighed. “I’m like a memory thief.”
“Luce, pace yourself. It could be like this for a while, right? And in the meantime,” she began, passing me a soft white dinner roll and a pat of melting butter, “my plan is to be like a battery pack for your memory. I’ll give you a boost whenever you need. We’ll get you sorted.”
“I think I need to make a list.” Testing my memory, I tried to recall where I kept the notepads and pens (hallway console drawer) and was encouraged to find them exactly where I remembered. With a deep breath I grabbed both and went back to the kitchen table, uncapping a pen. “I need to write down what I remember and then figure out whether it’s real or not.”
Jenny tugged the pad and pen out from under my hands and moved them over to her side of the table. “You know how I love lists,” she said. “But let’s eat first. Then we’ll work on it until we go cross-eyed. Deal?”
“Deal,” I replied, opening my lunch container and digging into my very meaty, guilt-inducing chili.
* * *
“Okay, where should we start?” Jenny asked. She had the notepad and pen on her lap but had yet to write anything down.
“I have no idea.” I was exhausted. A headache threatened and I felt too full from the chili, even though I’d eaten only half of it.
“Maybe with the stuff you know for sure?”
“Okay. Fine.” I sighed.
She raised an eyebrow, tapped the pen a few times against the blank page. “Tell me, without thinking too hard about it. What are you feeling about everything, right this second? One word.”
“Weird,” I replied. “It’s weird. Being here with Matt. Without...Daniel.”
“Weird,” she said, writing the word down in capped letters. Underlining it with a bold stroke of pen. “Yeah, that’s one word for it.” She grimaced, but in a comical, exaggerated way that made me laugh. I instantly felt better. It was easy with Jenny and I needed easy right now.
“So, I have to ask.” She clicked the end of the pen repeatedly. “Have you and Matt, well, since you’ve been home...you know?” She wiggled her eyebrows.
“No! God, Jenny, I just got home. I still can’t even—” The words caught in my throat. “Matt is my friend. I don’t... I can’t think about him like that.”
“Matt is
your boyfriend,” she said, enunciating the syllables. She spoke more gently now. “He’s a good guy, Luce. Better than good actually.” She underlined the word weird again, and as I watched her, another word popped into my mind. Afraid. Abruptly I started crying.
“Oh, no. Lucy. I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t think.” Jenny shook her head, grabbed my hands, pulled me from the chair where I was sitting and tucked me in beside her on the couch. I rested my head on her shoulder and cried harder. “This is messed up.”
“Yes, it is.” My voice cracked and I wiped at my damp face, my hands coming away with streaks of the mascara I’d carefully applied before she arrived, trying to look like I had my shit together.
“I know Matt is supposed to be my boyfriend. Obviously.” I gestured around the room, where photos of us sat on top of bookshelves and on walls. His constant presence in this place I still couldn’t picture him in.
“But I don’t remember him that way. And the memories of... Daniel.” I practically whispered his name. “They’re vivid, Jenny. They feel so real to me I can’t believe they’re not. I remember everything—the engagement, living here together, getting married. Everyone has to think I’m crazy.”
“Stop it. No one thinks you’re crazy.”
“Well, I think I might be a bit crazy,” I said, my eyes widening. “How did all this happen from hitting my head? How can I remember marrying Daniel when we supposedly broke up years ago?”
“Have you gotten in touch yet? With Daniel?”
I shook my head and thought back to my earlier Facebook search, which I’d abandoned after Matt came into the living room. “Besides, even if I did, what would I say? ‘Hey, Daniel,’” I began, pretending to type on my phone. “‘Hope things are good with you, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, and, oh, hey. I remember our wedding day even though I’m apparently the only one who does. All the best!’” I let out a harsh laugh, and Jenny smiled gently.
“I can help if you want,” she said. “We’re Facebook friends. He’s gone back to school.” I was instantly jealous, Jenny knowing things about Daniel I didn’t. “Grad school.” She paused then and took a breath, her face clouding over briefly. “He’s actually pretty lame on social.”
“What was that look about?”
“What look?” she replied.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I narrowed my eyes. “Jenny, you promised me you wouldn’t keep things—”
“No. There’s nothing.” She sighed and then looked at me directly. Softened her voice. “But, Luce, you’re with Matt, right? And Daniel is—”
“Not my husband,” I mumbled, picking a piece of lint off my black sweater.
“Not your husband,” Jenny repeated.
“What happened with us?” I was asking myself as much as Jenny. But she seemed to think I was searching for an answer from her.
“You never talked about it, after you broke up,” she said with a shrug. “Just moved out, went back home with your parents for a bit. You wouldn’t give any details and I didn’t pry. Figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.
“And then six months later I started hearing about this cute strategy consultant with great hair who did triathlons and was obsessed with hockey and made you smile when you said his name, and you never mentioned Daniel again.”
“Until I woke up a few weeks ago, wondering why he wasn’t at the hospital and where my wedding ring was.” I gave a wry smile.
“Hey, I have something for you.” Jenny got up and reached into her purse. She handed me a gold-toned plastic bag. I looked inside, pulled out a black-and-gray-striped tie and a receipt. I stared at the tie, not understanding, before looking back at her.
“You bought this when we were out shopping the day of your accident.” I glanced back at the tie, fingered the silky fabric. “I know you don’t remember, but you bought it...for your anniversary.”
I turned the tie over and read the label, but it carried no meaning. “A tie?” My memory chugged as it tried to slide the right pieces in the right slots. “I bought a tie?”
Jenny laughed. “I told you it was lame. I mean, a tie for an anniversary gift? But you said he would get it. It was an inside joke and you were very pleased with yourself.”
“I bought this for my anniversary. With...” I nearly said “Daniel,” before reminding myself that, no, there was no anniversary with Daniel.
“It was for Matt,” she said, confirming the truth once again. “For your three-year anniversary.”
8
I had the notebook with my memory list on the table, a slew of highlighters fanned out on the coffee table. The pink highlighter (the color I’d chosen to signify fabricated memories) was uncapped, the nonmarker end in my mouth as I scanned the list.
“Did we watch Forks and Knives?” I asked Matt, who was sitting on one of the living room chairs, catching up on work. It was Saturday morning, and almost three weeks since I’d come home from the hospital. My parents were back sleeping at their own place, my mother finally convinced I wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown and could cook for myself. And while things with Matt weren’t as awkward now, they were far from back on track. Most days it felt like we were merely roommates.
It didn’t help that I would twirl my wedding ring that wasn’t there, particularly when I was nervous or anxious—a gesture Matt caught more than once, looking wounded when he did. I had also made his coffee wrong twice since that first day, but he claimed he didn’t mind the sugar so much.
Sometimes I imagined I was living parallel lives, the knock on my head making it possible to see both timelines simultaneously. Or perhaps it was an elaborate setup, coordinated for reasons too fantastical to believe. I had mentioned as much to Dr. Kay at my appointment the day before, trying to lighten the mood. She had smiled when I’d said, “Maybe I’m a CIA operative who had memories implanted during a mission gone wrong?” before replying, “Well, that would make things easier to accept, wouldn’t it? So how are things going at home this week, Lucy?”
Damn, she was skilled at not allowing me to dodge my complicated feelings, to avoid talking about the things that kept me up at night and preoccupied during the day. I would much rather have discussed the theory, however implausible, that I was a rogue special agent versus accepting all this happened because a store didn’t throw salt on the ice outside their front door, and I had made a poor footwear choice—heeled booties versus sensible winter boots. All of which led to me slipping—so dramatically both my feet left the ground before I landed, hard, on the back of my head and knocked myself out.
“Forks Over Knives?” Matt asked, eyes still on his laptop as he finished typing. He was back from his dentist appointment—the one I’d noticed on the calendar that first morning I was home—and his mouth was frozen from having a cavity filled, so he sounded like he had a lisp. “The documentary? On Netflix?”
“Yes,” I replied, nibbling on the end of the highlighter. “Did we watch it?”
He nodded. “We did.”
I drew a thick pink line over Forks and Knives on my list with the highlighter, crossing out the and, writing over in its place with pen. “Did I mention wanting to become a vegetarian after that?”
Matt smiled, but his frozen mouth only half rose with the movement on the left side, making him look like he was smirking. “You did.”
“So what happened? How did I go from that place to two servings of pot roast at Christmas dinner?” It was so bizarre, not remembering such basic details of my life. Relying on someone else to fill in the blanks, trusting him to give me the truth. Because of course he could have told me anything and I’d have to believe him, which was unsettling at best and terrifying at worst. But as my anxiety intensified I reminded myself to take a deep breath and to remember Matt loved me. He didn’t want to hurt me and certainly wouldn’t lie to me.
“You declared yourself o
n a ‘meat break’ and then two days later you told me you missed bacon too much.”
“I missed bacon? That was all it took?” I shook my head. “Wow, I’m glad to hear I stand by my convictions.”
Matt laughed and then winced as he put his hand to his cheek. “You love bacon, Lucy.”
I did love bacon. Even as I thought it, I knew it was true, despite the memory of my turn to vegetarianism still feeling real. I could as easily be convinced my diet was meat free.
“Definitely not a vegetarian,” I murmured, highlighting the word vegetarian in pink. The whole vegetarian thing wasn’t new information, but I put it on the list for the satisfaction of crossing it off, even though seeing yet another pink line made me uneasy. “But at least I know I didn’t make the whole thing up. I mean, I did try not to eat meat and we did watch the documentary.”
Matt nodded, still amused. “Do you want to watch it again?”
“Definitely not,” I said. Matt smiled and then went back to his laptop. He squinted at the screen in concentration. “Hey, where are your glasses?” Matt always wore glasses to work, but it had only just occurred to me I hadn’t seen him wear them since I’d been home.
“Contacts,” he replied. “I hate them, but they’re better than always losing my glasses.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering when he had made the switch. Missing the way he looked in his glasses—handsomely bookish.
He closed his laptop, gestured to the notepad. “So what else is on today’s list?”
I had divided up the main list in chunks of five or so memories, which had been an exhausting task. My brain bruise had fully healed, but my mind was still “lethargic,” according to my doctors, and would be for a while. They had suggested not pushing things too much, offered gentle warnings that my “softer” memories could potentially lose some of their defined edges if I did.