The Life Lucy Knew

by Karma Brown

  “We love it. We’ve been slowly renovating our place, which is not something I ever thought I would do. But I’m practically a master tile layer now.” He smiled, and I returned it despite how disconcerting I was finding our conversation. It was ridiculous to think I still knew this Daniel—of course I didn’t. It had been years, and he was married and a whole different person now. For example, the Daniel I knew had plenty of skills, but home improvements would never had made the list (I had been the light bulb changer and toilet fixer and picture hanger in our relationship).

  It would have been interesting to consider him like this, if I could have extricated myself from the emotional side of things. Doing his master’s in education, swapping suits for jeans, rolling up his sleeves to lay tile and replace hardwood flooring and mud drywall. I wondered how I would have adapted to these changes, if we had stayed together. And, as quickly, wondered if I seemed different to him, as well.

  “What else has been keeping you busy these days? Still writing?” Daniel asked.

  “I write a lot of press releases and client memos, if that counts.”

  “It does. But I more meant your other stuff. The book stuff.”

  “Books, like novels?” I had no recollection of ever writing anything other than essays in university and a few short stories I had tried to get published postgraduation, without success.

  Daniel nodded. “You always had this notebook with you, full of first lines for novels you wanted to write one day.”

  “Did I?” I shook my head. “I don’t remember.” Where had that notebook gone? I made a mental note to put it on my list of questions needing answers.

  “I’m sure your press releases are impossible to put down.” He winked and I laughed.

  “Oh, and apparently I’m a runner now,” I said. “I’ve done three half-marathons, if you can believe it.”

  He whistled. “Impressive. And I won’t lie, it is a bit hard to believe.” We both laughed, hard, because Daniel-era Lucy hadn’t known the first thing about running. “Remember that time we tried jogging up the Casa Loma steps? I still feel bad about what happened to you.”

  “I do remember actually.” I winced at the recollection of my tumble down those stone stairs, rubbed my fingers absentmindedly into the wrist I’d broken in the fall. I’d had to wear a cast for eight weeks. “It was not my finest moment.”

  “Nah, you were a trouper,” he said. “I was impressed you didn’t pass out when they started the ring cutter.” Right. My engagement ring had been cut off my rapidly swelling hand in the emergency room. I looked to my finger, remembering how gorgeous it had been and how much I had loved wearing it. Felt gloomy it was no longer there.

  “I guess somewhere along the way I finally figured out how to run without tripping.” I was encouraged our memories lined up, at least on this event. Glad we had this coffee date if for no other reason because it reinforced I hadn’t completely rewritten the past. “But hang on...” I was remembering something about that run and my broken wrist, and the timing of it. “That was only a week before our, um, party.” I tried not to squirm, having brought up our engagement. But there was a question I needed answered right now. Daniel nodded, confirming I had the timeline right. “Did I have a cast for the party? Because of my wrist?”

  “You did.”

  “Black fiberglass. I remember.” It came out in a whisper, my mind preoccupied by another critical detail: the rose petal bath with Daniel, which had made us late for our engagement party. There was no way I would have been in the bath, doing what we were doing, with a cast.

  I was confused, the memory clashing with his confirmation of events. Had that bath happened at a different time? Were we late to another event, and somehow I had mashed the two things together? Or had I made it up entirely? “Um, were we late for the party?” I asked Daniel. “Like, piss-our-mothers-off late?”

  He frowned, reaching back in his own memory. “I don’t think so. I met you there, because you were at your parents’ place and came with them.”

  “We didn’t go together?”

  “Nope. Your mom was helping you with your hair, because of the cast.” Daniel glanced at his phone, some sort of notification appearing on his screen with a gentle buzz. He looked up again and said something else, but it was as though I went underwater—I could see he was talking but couldn’t hear the words.

  I tried to listen, especially because he seemed to be repeating himself. But my brain was busy attempting to reconcile my memory with reality, and as I pushed—forcing my mind to bend, to adapt—it felt as though the floor beneath me tilted. I jerked the way you do when you’re nearly asleep and have the sensation of falling and Daniel put a firm hand on my upper arm.

  “Lucy!” Daniel looked as worried as I felt. He kept his hand on my arm. “You all right?”

  “Yeah. I get these headaches. Sometimes they make me a bit dizzy,” I said. I waved away his concern, though I was fairly certain if I stood up now I would hit the floor. “Concussion leftovers. I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded. The floor was solid and stationary again under my feet.

  “Good.” He let out a breath, relaxed his hand on my arm. “Not about the side effect, but about being okay.” Daniel glanced at his phone again, picked it up. “Hey, I’m sorry to eat and run, but I have to make a call before class,” he said, smiling apologetically.

  “Of course.” I followed his lead, put on my toque and coat. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to ask how things are going with you and your master’s. Maybe next time.” I smiled, wrapped my scarf around my neck.

  He stood and put on his coat, zipping it right up to his chin. “I would love that.” Then he hugged me, and I leaned into him. Was nearly overcome again, his body so recognizable against mine. I wanted to grab hold and never let go. “Same time next week?” he asked.

  “Same time next week,” I said, reluctantly stepping out of his embrace. I had to wonder if he wanted to see me again, or was simply being kind with my whole admittance of the head injury thing. Maybe I’d end up canceling next week. We could be friends, and the memory of him as anything more would fade, lose its clear edges the way memories tend to do. Or maybe (just maybe) I would tell him the truth.

  Regardless, it was clear after our coffee a problem remained, one I didn’t know how to easily solve: I still loved Daniel.

  17

  “How are things going with Matt?” Mom held up a gauzy white top that looked like at least a dozen other tops she had hanging in her closet. She glanced at the price tag, clucked her tongue and carried on. Even though she could have easily spent the money, she had these rules about the price of things. A top had to be less than forty dollars, unless it was cashmere and then she made an exception, on occasion. Pants and skirts were given a little more leeway for whatever reason, up to sixty, and shoes could go up to a hundred, but they had to be leather and “sturdy.” I once bought a pair of ballet flats for over two hundred dollars—they were worth it, the most comfortable shoes I ever owned—and Mom brought it up every time I wore them. “Two hundred dollars,” she would exclaim. “For a glorified slipper!”

  Today we were hunting for a new top for her, appropriate for a fancy dinner out. This was our fourth stop and no luck so far. I hated having nothing better to do, but I didn’t—aside from an appointment later in the afternoon with my neurologist, Dr. Mulder, where I would hopefully be given the green light to get back to screens and, ideally, work.

  “Things are fine, Mom.” I didn’t want to talk about Matt, because talking about him led me straight to thinking about Daniel. And I wasn’t in a good place to unravel what was going on with Daniel, or rather, how I was feeling about him. I mean, there was nothing going on with Daniel, but try explaining that to my discombobulated memory, my grief-struck heart.

  So I focused us back on the task at hand—shopping. I pu
lled a deep purple silk shirt off a rack and held it up. “What about this one? It looks nice with your hair.” She took it from me and held it against herself, frowning as she sashayed in front of the store’s full-length mirror.

  “Not bad,” she said. Then she turned over the price tag. “Oh, good grief. No.” I glanced at the tag—one hundred and ten—and put it back on the rack. “But it is pretty. You’re on the right track, love.”

  “Why do you even need a new top?” I asked, following her as she weaved between the racks of clothes. It occurred to me she was creating busywork for us—an excuse to get me out of the house, to make me feel needed. Her praise for my fashion sense was the giveaway. Mom thought I wore too much black, not enough jewelry, and wished I would abolish my beloved ponytails forever. “Dad doesn’t care about stuff like this.”

  She paused for a moment, a gold-hued cardigan in her hands, then shook her head. “You’re right. This is silly. How about some lunch? We have—” she tugged the arm of her coat up to look at her watch “—an hour before your appointment. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, though I wasn’t hungry. And I had a feeling Mom would be circling back to things I didn’t feel like talking about. Sure enough, as soon as we sat down with bowls of soup and a plate of salted rosemary focaccia in front of us, she started up again. We sat side by side at a bar table, watching winter-wear-bundled people walk by the window as we ate.

  “Any questions you have for me from your list?” she asked, dipping a strip of bread into her lentil soup.

  I swallowed a spoonful of my own soup, shook my head and broke off a piece of bread. “Don’t think so.”

  “Lucy, what’s going on with you?” Mom put her spoon down, turned toward me and wrapped both her hands around my arm nearest to her. I had been about to dip back into my soup but was now pinned, my spoon sticking up out of my hand.

  I looked over at her. “Nothing is going on with me. What do you mean?” Except everything was going on with me. My memory was still a mess. I’d had coffee with Daniel. I hadn’t told Matt about it. “Could I have my arm back now?”

  She sighed deeply but released my arm so I could get back to my soup, even though my already-weak appetite had waned. “I’m worried about you, sweetheart,” she said. “Dad, too. What did Dr. Kay say, about how things are progressing?”

  “Dr. Kay thinks I’m doing very well,” I replied. “She thinks I’m making excellent progress.” I stuffed some bread in my mouth to give myself a break from answering anything further, and Mom nodded.

  “Okay, good. I’m glad to hear it, because if things aren’t working out with her, your dad and I are happy to help you find someone else. Someone better suited to your particular situation. To your goals.” She dipped her spoon back into her soup, and now I watched her.

  “Mom, you know I may never fully recover my memory, right? I may be stuck with these strange half-baked memories forever.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said, but she didn’t look at me. Stared into her bowl as though the answer to everything could be found there.

  “Mom. Mom.” I waited until she looked at me, and then I saw it. How scared she was for me. And that scared me. Now I put my hand on her arm and squeezed reassuringly. “It’s going to be fine. I am okay. Yes, I’m confused and upset and I feel like I can’t trust my own mind some days, but I am okay.” It was important she believed this, even if I had a hard time selling it to myself.

  I pulled out the memory list from my purse. I was using a small notebook, and I turned to the page where my pen marked the most recent question I’d written down.

  What happened with Margot? I laid the notebook on the empty space between us and pointed to the question. She read it, looked back to me.

  “Okay, so I know Margot and Daniel are married.” A piece of rosemary bread was caught in my throat and I took a big sip of water to get it down. “But did I know they were together? Before my accident? And were we still friends, Margot and I?”

  Mom glanced back at the list and seemed to be stalling. “Please tell me, Mom, if you know something. I hate how you guys are always coddling me about this stuff.”

  “We are not coddling you,” she said, annoyed at the suggestion. “We care about you and are trying to help.”

  “Fine, then tell me. Did I know about Margot and Daniel?”

  “Yes,” Mom said. “You told me they were dating, but you were already with Matt and, quite honestly, you seemed fine with everything.” She wiped her fingers with a napkin. “As for whether you were still friends with Margot back then, I’m not sure. I do know I didn’t hear much about her after you and Daniel broke up.”

  I nodded and swallowed hard. Felt nervous about the next question. “Do you know why Daniel and I broke up?”

  Mom shook her head, placed her hand over mine. “I don’t, love. You never told us. Came home one day with your overnight bag and said it was over.” She pushed her used napkin deep into her empty teacup, swiveled so she fully faced me. “I thought you two would get back together, quite honestly. Told your dad it was probably prewedding jitters. But you were very clear it was over for good. We canceled the wedding venue a few days later, and you know what? I never once saw you cry about it.”

  I felt incredibly disappointed, having pinned all my hope on Mom and what she might know about my breakup. I had hoped to avoid asking Daniel, but it seemed no one else in my life had the faintest idea about what went down between us.

  “It’s so strange, isn’t it, how your mind decided to ignore all that? How it zipped things together and gave you and Daniel a happy ending. Our brains truly are amazing.” Amazing. That was one word for it, though not the one I would use at the moment. She checked her watch, sprang into action. “Are you finished?” She glanced at my soup and I nodded, though it was three-quarters full. “We should get going.” She put on her coat, buttoning it quickly. “I thought we might walk, if you’re up to it.”

  As I gathered my stuff, I thought about what she’d said. It was strange and disturbing, and for the hundredth time since coming out of the coma, I wished my mind had chosen another aspect of my life to confabulate. I also wished I had worn my more practical boots, versus the heeled ones I chose that wintry day, completely inappropriate for the weather but a much better match to my outfit. Or that the store had known about the leaky awning, the pool of water that had gathered outside the door and frozen solid overnight into a slick, clear patch of ice that looked like wet sidewalk pavement. That I hadn’t chosen to buy that tie in that store that day for an anniversary I had no memory of.

  So many things could have happened differently, though I supposed it also could have been much worse. The doctors did say I was lucky to come out relatively unscathed—at least medically speaking. But that was of little comfort these days as I navigated this disordered world of mine, gingerly putting one foot in front of the other as though I was walking the edge of a cliff, blindfolded.

  18

  At my appointment I was cleared to go back to work in the next week, which was a huge relief. As suggested by Dr. Mulder when I was discharged from the hospital, I had been keeping a symptom log for the past few weeks. He was pleased to see the headaches had tapered off and the dizziness seemed a thing of the past.

  “How’s the memory doing?” Dr. Mulder asked.

  I paused, and Mom—who had insisted on coming into the appointment with me—took over. “She’s been working very hard.”

  Working very hard? I had a fairly impressive memory list going, had kept all my appointments with Dr. Kay and was determined to find my way back to preaccident-Lucy. But when it came to what I actually remembered, I was not much further ahead than I had been the day I woke up from the coma. The same holes existed, and some of what I did remember from the past few years was fictional. However, Dr. Mulder seemed satisfied by Mom’s answer. “Good. Keep up with the therapy.” He flipped through the pa
ges in my chart. “Who are you seeing again?”

  “Dr. Kay,” I said.

  “Amanda Kay? Great. She’s fantastic. Well, Lucy, I think everything is looking great. How are you feeling about things?”

  Mom shifted in her chair to look at me, but I kept my gaze on Dr. Mulder. “Pretty good,” I replied, then quickly added, “I’m managing.” It felt like the most truthful answer I could give. I may not have been thriving, but I was managing.

  “You’ve faced some unique challenges, Lucy, and it seems you’re handling it all very well,” Dr. Mulder said, giving me a warm smile.

  “Thanks,” I said, because I wasn’t sure what else to say. “So, does all this mean screens are okay now?”

  “Screens are fine,” Dr. Mulder said, continuing to smile like an indulgent grandparent. Probably thinking about how us twentysomethings were addicted to our devices—the unbalanced priorities of today’s youth. Then he gave me a more serious look. “Unless you see an uptick in headaches or any dizziness. Keep the log going for a few more weeks, especially as you start back to work, and be cognizant about how you’re feeling.”

  He shook my hand, then Mom’s. “All the best, Lucy. I’m thrilled to see how well you’re doing.”

  Mom called Dad as soon as we were out, to let him know how the appointment went. I wanted to remind her the headaches and dizziness had been the least intrusive side effects—the ones we had expected to dissipate, unlike my memory issues. But she was so delighted to be delivering good news I stayed quiet, smiled and nodded as she prattled on first to Dad and then to me as we made our way back to my apartment.

  * * *

  I thought Matt would be relieved I could go back to work, but he was mostly concerned.

  “You’re sure he said you’re ready? It’s going to be a lot of time on the computer, Lucy.” He frowned, used a spatula to transfer the pesto sauce he’d made from the food processor to a bowl. He dipped his finger into the forest green mixture and tasted it before adding another teaspoon of salt. The kitchen smelled amazing, the garlic and crushed basil leaves filling the small space. I leaned against the counter nearby and marveled at his culinary skills. Daniel had been a terrible cook, and I wasn’t much better. I remembered Jenny suggesting we get a good handle on delivery options near our apartment so we didn’t have to subsist on toast and canned tomato soup after we were married.