by Karma Brown
But what would that do to him, if I up and left? Declared his Lucy dead—gone the day she slipped and fell, obliterated as her brain shifted across the midline with impact, leaving deep bruises where so many of her critical memories were stored. No, I couldn’t leave him. Even if staying meant letting go of Daniel, for whom I had feelings that were comparatively easy to articulate.
I loved Daniel, but I owed Matt the chance to know if our past could catch up to my present.
“Lucy?” I brought my attention back to Dr. Kay. “It’s okay to imagine a different future than the one seemingly laid out in front of you right now. You are not held to anything, or anyone. You are responsible only to yourself. And what you want is as important as what anyone else wants from you.”
“But what if...” I wiped my tears, took a breath to settle my jumbled-up insides. “What if I don’t know what I want?” And what if I figure out what I want, but can’t have it?
She squeezed my arm, then handed me a tissue. “You will, Lucy. I promise, you will.”
22
A small notepad rested on the table between us, and Matt was grinning.
“What’s up?” I asked, somewhat nervous about the eagerness with which he had pulled me over to the table and asked me to sit. Barely giving me a chance to get my coat off after I came in from my session with Dr. Kay, the sting of Daniel forgetting about our coffee date lingering. It was nearly dinnertime and I could smell something delicious wafting out of the kitchen. The table was set with two plates, silverware and water glasses, but there was also a long row of spoons and forks down its center, along with a dozen wineglasses.
Matt continued grinning but didn’t immediately answer my question. Or fill me in on why the table was set like this, or the reason his fingers tapped excitedly against the notepad’s cover. “When did you get home?” I asked.
It was only 6:05 p.m., and by the look and smell of things Matt had to have been home for at least a couple of hours. Consultants at Jameson Porter—especially those on partner track—typically didn’t leave the office by five o’clock, let alone earlier.
He shrugged. “I came home after lunch.” I saw his laptop sitting open but asleep on the coffee table and felt guilty about how much work likely lived behind that dark screen. He had taken so much time off these past two months and I couldn’t help but worry what that meant for his upcoming bid for partner.
Turning my attention back to Matt and his blatant excitement, I slowly unwrapped the scarf from my neck. “So, are you going to give me a clue here? What’s the occasion?”
“This,” he replied, holding up the notepad and then slapping it against the open palm of his other hand. I stared at the notepad, then at him, and my eyebrows rose with impatience.
“A notebook?”
“Not only a notebook,” he replied. “I’ve been doing some research—on memory—and it gave me an idea for how to get some of the missing pieces back.”
My heart sank as I took in his words. I had the distinct feeling I was about to be tested or something, and knew inevitably I would fail at whatever he had planned and we would both feel worse about everything for it.
But all I said was “Okay...”
“Okay.” Matt pulled his chair in and opened the notebook. He held up a bookmark that had been tucked into the notebook’s pages—it was made of a caramel-colored wood, with a leather toggle on its end and bicycles etched into its surface. “I know you won’t remember this, but you hate that I dog-ear pages of books. And you especially hate how I fold the bottom corner instead of the top.”
“I do?” I tried to recall this hate he spoke of but couldn’t. I did, however, remember the first morning I was back home and noting how Matt marked the spot in the book he was reading. While I had found it odd, I couldn’t remember any stronger emotion about it.
He nodded. “You do. So you got me this bookmark shortly after we moved in here.” He held it out to me and I ran my finger over the etched-in bicycles, along the stiff leather toggle strings. It had barely been used.
“I’ve tried,” Matt said, as though reading my thoughts. “But, well, old habits die hard.” He grinned and showed me the edge of the notebook, where I could see a dozen little corner folds along the bottom of the pages.
“Back to my research,” Matt began, setting his finger on a line of text on the first page of the now-open book. “I read up on memory loss and treatments, and it seems spontaneous recovery is a real thing. Lucy, you could get your memory back—all of it, even—one day, like, poof.” He made a fist near his head and then pulled it away, opening his fingers quickly as he did. I nodded, because this was not news. The doctors had mentioned spontaneous recovery, which was how they often handled amnesia in movie plot lines, the character getting a second whack to the head and remembering everything.
“Right,” I said, my tone guarded because I wanted to acknowledge the possibility but without too much enthusiasm. Clinging to something as unpredictable as spontaneous recovery wasn’t a good idea for either of us. Maybe it would happen, but more likely not. I—we—had to learn to live with present circumstances, including my false memories.
“I know it’s a long shot, don’t worry. But then I came across this thing called ‘reminiscence therapy,’ where we would talk about past experiences and use tangible cues—like scent and taste—to help trigger your natural recall.” Matt was animated, his words tumbling out. “We’ve already been doing that a bit, right? With the photos and your list. But this is more specific and not just visual, what I’m proposing we try.”
I nodded, but even though he told me not to, I worried about his excitement. Was concerned about the possible (probable?) disappointment. The photos had unveiled one memory, of the ski trip, but unfortunately it triggered the confabulation rather than the real thing.
“It’s not a quick fix and it may not work at all,” Matt continued, watching for my reaction. “But I thought maybe it was worth a try.”
I hesitated only briefly. “I’m game,” I said. “So how do we do this?”
“Great. Amazing.” Matt exhaled, ramping back up again. “I made a list, wrote down a few experiences to get us started.”
“Lists are good,” I said, smiling.
“Lists are good,” Matt replied. “I’ve also got props, like more photos and food. Oh, and wine.”
“Wine is also good.”
Matt smiled, and it went practically ear to ear. Please don’t let me disappoint him again.
“First thing is the infamous Halloween party. I know I already told you about it, but I think we’re supposed to talk about the experiences multiple times. Plus, I found a picture.” He shuffled through the photos on the table and put one on the top. My hair was whooshed to the side, as was Matt’s tie, and we did look as though we had been hit by a huge gust of wind. We also had that decidedly drunken look—heavy-lidded eyes and disheveled smiles—and were tangled into one another, me tucked into Matt’s arms, his chin resting on my head, our hands holding up a huge bottle of tequila.
Matt snapped his fingers and jumped up. “Hang on, almost forgot.” He disappeared into the kitchen for a minute and came back with a bottle of tequila—same brand as from the photo. He cracked the lid and poured the clear alcohol into two shot glasses and handed me a slice of lime. “Tequila requires lime. But don’t worry, I washed it.”
I had a strange feeling in my belly when I looked at the lime in my hand, but it was gone before I could figure out why. “Thanks,” I said, turning my attention back to Matt.
“So I already told you about that night when you saved my sorry ass from having no costume and we won Most Original and then got very drunk on that tequila right there.” He pointed to the picture. “But what I didn’t mention was that was one of the best nights of my life.” His voice softened, and I felt a lump grow in my throat, along with a twinge of jealousy at how intact his m
emory was. Matt handed me one of the shots of tequila and then took the other one, clinking his tiny glass to mine. “Bottoms up.”
We tossed back the tequila, which burned all the way down, and chased it with the slice of lime, the sourness puckering my lips.
Matt then proceeded to tell me the whole story again and I listened carefully, laughed and smiled and blushed in all the right places, and did two more tequila shots while staring at the photo. Still, nothing happened.
“It’s okay,” Matt said when I admitted it didn’t seem to be working. “Remember, this isn’t a quick fix, right? I’m grateful you’re even willing to try. I know this can’t be easy for you. Ready for the next thing?”
I nodded, warmed and bolstered by the tequila. “Ready. But I have a feeling I could end up very drunk tonight.” I glanced at the row of wineglasses. “This could get messy.”
“Don’t worry,” Matt said, smiling. “I’ll take good care of you.”
* * *
I did get drunk. Very drunk. There was no spontaneous recovery, but at least the process felt productive. Like we were doing something. And if nothing else, it reminded me I couldn’t wallow in what had happened to me. Moving forward was the best option, and with the sort of clarity one gets from consuming too many shots of tequila and a lot of good wine, I decided that was exactly what I was going to do. Put the past in the past, and embrace the future. I repeated the mantra a few times out loud, and soon Matt joined me, becoming the thing we said prior to doing yet another shot.
Matt took me through a handful of experiences. There was the walking ghost tour in Niagara-on-the-Lake, but we’d visited too many wineries prior to the tour and were so tipsy by the time it started we couldn’t stop giggling, distracting the tour guide and other guests. Then after I jumped from behind a door at one of the supposedly haunted houses and shouted, “Boo!” nearly giving a retiree from Ohio a heart attack, the unimpressed guide took us aside and suggested we might do better with a different sort of tour.
Matt liberally poured wine from what he said had been our favorite winery on that trip, and produced a photo of me making a scary face behind some unsuspecting white-haired tourist, the flash causing my face to go whitewashed and my eyes red. I laughed hard, choked a little on the wine but still couldn’t remember.
He also cooked a meal we’d enjoyed during a trip to Austin—a work trip for Matt but one I had apparently tagged along for to partake in a long weekend. The photo showed me standing in front of a food truck, my hands weighed down by two grocery bags each holding enough food for a small dinner party. Matt said we ordered one of everything, including four kinds of barbecue, blue cheese coleslaw and banana pudding for dessert. Tonight he’d made the coleslaw and pulled pork shoulder—now I knew what had smelled so delicious—even attempting to replicate the sauce, which he had tried to procure but was a well-kept secret and he hadn’t been able to sway the food truck’s owner to share it.
And with every memory Matt recounted, every experience we’d shared, every bite of food and sip of wine that had meant something to us, I hoped it would be the thing that did it. We ate until I thought I might burst and drank until things became blurry and beautifully uncomplicated, but still I remembered nothing.
23
It took me two days to recover from the hangover, and I still wasn’t a hundred percent by Wednesday when I got a text from Matt midday telling me to be ready to go out for seven o’clock and to dress casually, but in warm layers. Also to pack an overnight bag (we were staying downtown somewhere) and to drink as much water as I could stomach to counteract the alcohol we’d be consuming. I groaned at that last part but promised to be ready, warm and hydrated. I also texted, So which T-shirt is my fave? and then with his response packed Matt’s ancient, butter-soft Toronto Maple Leafs shirt into my bag to sleep in. I was going to do everything I could to make tonight a success, even if I had no idea what that entailed.
Dressed and waiting by six-thirty, I set a huge glass of ice water beside me and flipped through my memory confidence list (I added the T-shirt note), wanting to do some work on it before my Friday appointment with Dr. Kay. But I couldn’t concentrate, my mind on what Matt had planned for us. I gathered it had to do with this reminiscence therapy, and expected tonight would be another test I couldn’t prepare for. Like when you dream you show up to a class you aren’t registered for—organic chemistry was always the one in my dreams—and surprise! There’s an exam, but you didn’t study for it because you’re not actually taking organic chemistry and it’s worth a hundred percent of your grade, and with rising panic you realize this can’t end well.
I tried to reassure myself this wasn’t actually a test; I couldn’t pass or fail. But running alongside that mental track was one telling me Matt had probably planned a night full of things I should know—used to know. Of course, there was always the chance something would trigger a memory and I could only hope it would happen while I was with Matt—and be about Matt. The last thing either of us needed was for another memory of Daniel to expose itself, taking over valuable real estate in my mind.
I wiped my damp palms against my jeans and tried to decelerate my heart rate. I wanted—no, needed—for this to go well. By 6:50 p.m. I’d worked myself into a mild frenzy, anxious about the date but unable to stop thinking about Daniel. About how much simpler things would be if I were waiting for him to get home instead. The guilt was swift and overwhelming and I needed to alleviate it before Matt walked through our front door. And so I was downing a second glass of wine—the ice water untouched—when I heard his key in the lock.
“Luce?” Matt called out from the foyer. He stood by the front door, unclipping his bike helmet. “Hey there. Wow. You look hot,” he said, smiling at my multiple layers of clothing—jeans, ski socks and a wool sweater over two long-sleeved shirts. “And I mean that both literally and figuratively.” I laughed, more relaxed now thanks to the wine.
Fifteen minutes later Matt had changed, tossed our bags into the car, and we were on our way. “How was work?” I asked.
Matt gave me a quizzical look but kept the smile on his face. “Good. Nothing new to report since the last time you asked. Five minutes ago.”
I put my hands over my face, the wool from my mittens tickling my nose. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice muffled with my hands. “I’m nervous!” I was obviously doing a terrible job pretending not to be, so I might as well be up front about it.
He reached over, keeping one hand on the wheel, and pulled my hands away from my face, holding on to them and squeezing. “Don’t be nervous, okay? Tonight is about nothing more than having fun. I promise. No expectations.”
I smiled at him, leaned my head back and closed my eyes. “Was I this neurotic about stuff? Before, I mean?”
Matt laughed, and I turned to look at him. “Honestly? Yes. You’re a bit of a worrier.”
“Good to know.” I laughed, too, still holding his hand. A couple of minutes later we pulled into a Green P lot and I recognized where we were. “But it’s April,” I said, glancing at him as we walked near the waterfront. “The ice is gone, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Matt said. “But we don’t need it. Come on.” He pulled me toward the outdoor rink, which had now reverted back to its postwinter concrete surface, and we sat on a bench on its edge. Matt had one of those reusable canvas grocery bags at his feet, from which he brought out a tall thermos and paper cups, doubled up to protect our fingers from the heat of the beverage. Handing me the cups, he opened the valve on the thermos and poured the dark brown liquid.
“Hot chocolate?” I asked, the smell wafting into my nose. I brought a cup closer and sniffed, the scent sharp. “Ah, grown-up hot chocolate. Nice.”
“When I was a kid, I wanted to be a hockey player.” Matt sipped at his steaming-hot cup, blowing a few times across its surface. “But I was a terrible skater. Like, worse than you can imagine. ‘Two left
feet,’ my grandfather used to say.”
I laughed, sipped the hot, boozy beverage. “What’s in here?”
“Bourbon,” Matt said. “My grandmother used to make a thermos of it for my grandfather when he took me skating at the outdoor rink by their house. He was determined to teach me to skate but apparently needed something to smooth out the frustration. We spent a lot of weekends on that rink, and still I never learned to skate well.”
Looking out at what used to be the ice-skating rink, I wondered about why Matt had brought me here tonight. He seemed to know what I was thinking, pointed to the left side of the rink, and I followed his hand. “See that spot right there? Over by the bench? That’s where I wiped out on our first date. I twisted my ankle and you had to help me off the ice.” He grinned and I tried to picture it. Matt grimacing with pain, me supporting his lanky frame.
“You brought me ice skating on our first date? But why? If you can’t skate?”
“Because you said you loved ice skating but didn’t get to do it much anymore.” He shrugged. “So I thought it would be romantic. Keep in mind, it was a couple months past the costume party, and I knew Jake had asked you out and I wanted to make a big impression.” He laughed, big and genuine. “And that’s exactly what I did. But not in the way I’d hoped.”
It had been February 15 and apparently very cold, but it hadn’t snowed in close to a week, so the rink was bare aside from the thousands of blade slices marking its surface. It was busy, Matt said, and so being agile was critical. Otherwise, you could take out an entire family with one wrong move. “We started with skating and spiked hot chocolate, then I’d made a reservation at Bymark so you could try that thirty-dollar burger.” I nodded appreciatively, perking up at the restaurant’s name and famously overpriced hamburger.