by Karma Brown
“You were drunk—we all were—and we were up on the roof, polishing off a very expensive bottle of booze courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. London. I pulled you aside before we went back down to the party, told you I was worried about Daniel. That he’d been a bit too ‘friendly’ with the pretty brunette bartender earlier. A bit too handsy for someone about to get married to someone else. But you said Daniel would never do anything like that. Accused me of being jealous and suggested I should worry about my own ‘nonexistent’ love life. I think you even called me pathetic.” Alex laughed, and I cringed. Strange how I remembered the night of our engagement party, and being up on the roof, but had conveniently blanked out on this particular detail.
“Sorry. I’m sure I didn’t mean it. I was drunk, right?”
“Oh, you meant it, little sister. But it was fine, didn’t bother me.” I envied Alex’s confidence, her ability to trust herself so completely. She had always been self-assured and cool, and I wished I could be more like her, especially these days.
“But why wait until now to tell me?”
“You weren’t ready to hear it before.”
I let out an exasperated groan. Her revelation didn’t fully explain things but certainly planted some doubt in between my memories and feelings about Daniel. I wasn’t in the mood to play games.
She held my gaze, repeated it again, slower this time. “You weren’t ready to hear it.”
“And what makes me ready now?” I threw my hands up in the air.
“You asked.” I wanted to throttle her.
“I asked you before, Alex.”
“No, you didn’t. You asked if I knew why you broke up, specifically. And I don’t. As far as I know you didn’t talk about it, with anyone. Besides, it was a couple of months after the engagement party, so it probably had nothing to do with the bartender.”
It seemed I was the only person who knew exactly what happened (aside from Daniel, of course), and there was a good chance I would never remember it.
“Hey, don’t go dark on me now,” Alex said, taking in my expression. “Silver linings, okay? If things hadn’t gone south with Daniel, you never would have met Matt. And Matt is a good one, Lucy.”
But I wasn’t interested—yet—in seeing the positives here. Plus, it cut deep, thinking about Matt. What did any of it matter if I couldn’t remember our relationship? “Well, silver linings are overrated,” I grumbled. “Nancy McPherson taught me that valuable lesson.”
“I think she taught you to never take bad advice,” Alex said, a smirk on her face. “She was a piece of work. I never liked her.”
“It’s always a risk to fully trust another person.” I spoke quietly, mostly to myself.
“That’s depressing,” Alex said in response. Then she screwed the lid back on the peanut butter. “Also, not true.”
“Yes, it is! Think about it. Nancy. Daniel. Mom and Dad. Even Jenny and Matt.” I enumerated them on my fingers. I tried not to get defensive and wondered when silver-lining-Lucy had disappeared. Maybe it was when Nancy McPherson stabbed me in the back and went to the dance with the boy I liked. Maybe I could blame Daniel, and whatever happened to end our engagement. I wished I knew, because maybe then I could figure out how to get that Lucy we all used to know back. “Seems everyone has let me down, especially recently.”
“Oh, really?” Her sarcastic tone was hard to miss. “How so, Princess Lucy?” I hated it when she called me that—it had been a common nickname when we were kids, Alex often suggesting my parents treated me like the “baby” I was. In fairness to her, it had been true my parents focused more on my good behavior and more on Alex’s rebellions, so I supposed things had been somewhat unbalanced. But even if I was seven years younger than her, we were adults now, and her pulling out this particular childhood jab incensed me.
“By keeping me in the dark about everything I can’t remember!” I knew it was safe for me to lash out at Alex, and so I was going to let it come. “Can I trust Mom and Dad to tell me the truth? Do I believe Jenny when she says she has no idea why I broke up with Daniel? I mean, she’s my best friend. I didn’t tell her anything? And what about Matt? He’s been holding stuff back right along with everyone else. Do you all have my best interests in mind? Because being lied to sucks, Alex. All I can count on is the truth, and you guys seem determined to keep even the smallest scraps from me.”
“Hang on a second, killer,” Alex said. “Now you’re creating a worse version of reality.” I glowered but didn’t respond. She got up and put the peanut butter back in the cupboard, grabbing an apple from the fridge. “Want one?” I shook my head, and she came back to sit with me, polishing the apple against her thigh.
“Look, sweets. This blows, okay? No one would argue you got a crap deal here. But you know what I’ve been seeing? People going out of their way to accommodate you, and trying to make this better somehow for you. Mom and Dad keeping up this ridiculous ‘we’re still together and in love’ ruse so you don’t have to deal with the shittiness of going through their breakup. Again. Jenny has literally been sick with guilt about not giving you the exact lay of the land. And Matt, well, Lucy, Matt has been a mess.”
“A mess?” I asked, feeling an uncomfortable heaviness spreading across my chest.
“Did you know he’s been going to therapy, too? Or that he’s lost, like, fifteen pounds because he’s been so stressed about what’s happened? Or that he’s probably been pushed off partner track for the next year or two because of all the time off? Or that he’s spent hours over at Mom and Dad’s trying to figure out ways to jog your memory? All those photo albums? Matt put those together. In his ‘spare’ time, which with work and worrying about you has meant he’s barely slept and, if you ask me, is holding his own life together by a thread.”
She set the apple down beside her and took my hands in hers. “I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty, so stop it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” I was close to tears but nodded. “What I’m saying, Lucy, is this has never been just about you. Yeah, you’re the one who slipped and hit her head and ended up with a memory like those moth-chewed dress-up clothes from Grammy’s attic, but you aren’t the only one suffering because of it. You’re wrong if you think you can’t trust us. Dead wrong.”
I was quiet for a moment and Alex, satisfied to have said her piece, let go of my hands and bit into the apple. She chewed, watching me thoughtfully as she did. What Alex had said hit me hard. I had taken for granted how much they all loved me, how much my accident had changed them, too. You are only as strong as your weakest link. And I was the weak link, but not because of what I could or couldn’t remember—because I had been pushing everyone away, unwilling to accept the help I desperately needed and insisting the problem was mine (and mine alone) to solve.
“I wish I didn’t have to question everything,” I finally said, my voice thick and shaky. I sniffled, wiped my nose with my sleeve. “I also wish I’d been wearing my winter boots and had ordered Matt’s tie online. And that I hadn’t hit my head in the first place.”
“Me, too, Luce,” Alex replied, then she laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“All your wishing reminded me of when you were little, and every time you made a wish—whether it was on the first star you saw at night or from blowing away dandelion fluff or a birthday candle—you used to screw your eyes shut and say, ‘I wish for chocolate cake!’”
“I miss silver-lining-Lucy,” I said, resting my head on her shoulder.
“So do I,” Alex said, leaning her head against mine. “She’s a hell of a lot more fun.”
“Hey,” I said, smacking her arm in protest.
Alex put her arm around me and squeezed. “Don’t worry. She’s still in there.”
32
My mother was nothing if not persistent, and it wasn’t long before I found myself sitting across from my parents at their kitchen table, a cup
of lukewarm tea in front of me along with a plate of raw veggies and hard-boiled eggs. My mom, being diabetic, claimed to never having a sweet tooth, and so while another mother might serve fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies or banana bread with tea, mine believed savory snacks completely reasonable accompaniments.
They had told me the whole story, again, because I didn’t remember hearing it the first time. They had decided to split up just after Christmas, though they were still living in the house together (in separate rooms) and planned to until they sold it and found other places to live. Dad had gone to Mexico with some of his golf buddies, without Mom, which explained his tanned arms in the middle of winter. Mom was dating, Dad was not, but he didn’t seem to begrudge her for moving on and even managed to say what a nice man Carl was. Though if you asked me, he seemed a bit sad to be saying it.
“But the two of you,” I began, trying not to get emotional. “You love each other. A lot. Am I remembering things wrong?” Did I confabulate a sweeter relationship than the one they had? The grateful smile Mom would give Dad when he asked if she needed a snack, always fussing over her and taking care of her. The way he would pat her bottom and give her a wink when he thought Alex and I weren’t watching. The Sunday nights when they would go to bed early—saying we were not to bother them unless someone was bleeding or not breathing—and Alex and I naively thought they were tired. How Mom always went out of her way to make Dad—who had a serious sweet tooth—his favorite desserts, even when she couldn’t eat them. How she would puff up with pride when she talked about what an amazing professor he was and how lucky the university was to have him, every chance she got. It made no sense.
“No, honey, you’ve got it right,” Dad said, and he and Mom exchanged a smile. But now that I knew the truth I could see the difference between them. They cared about one another, but that spark—the love—it was no longer there. “Your mother and I will always love and respect one another. But sometimes what used to make sense doesn’t make sense anymore.” The frankness of his words hit me hard. Wasn’t that exactly what was happening with my own life? “People can grow apart, even after thirty-some years.”
I nodded and pressed my lips together.
“Do you want more tea?” Mom asked, but I hadn’t even taken a sip. I shook my head. She pushed the plate of snacks closer to me and I ignored the vegetables, taking half a hard-boiled egg instead.
“So how did I take this news the first time?” I asked. I sprinkled a little salt on the egg, then bit into it.
They glanced at each other again. “Pretty much like this,” Mom said. “Perhaps a little more angry, a bit less emotional.”
“I wish you had told me right away,” I said. “It wasn’t fair, keeping it from me.” I popped the rest of the egg into my mouth and Mom looked pleased for a moment—about what, I wasn’t sure—before her face slid into a frown.
“We know that now, and wish we had, too, sweetheart,” she replied, heaving a big sigh. “Once we realized you didn’t remember things quite right—” understatement of the year “—your dad and I thought it would be easier to tell you later. After you’d gotten your feet back under you again.”
“But we made a mistake,” Dad added. “And we’re so sorry, Lucy. We didn’t want things to be harder for you, but, well...seems to be exactly what we’ve done.”
I realized why they had done it, because it was exactly what I was doing with Matt. My parents had tried to protect me, to cushion me against the truth when my life had blown up into a million little pieces I might never be able to put back together. Their instincts were bang on even if their execution was flawed, and so I couldn’t stay angry with them.
“It’s okay,” I said, and I meant it. “I understand why you didn’t tell me right away. I probably wouldn’t have told me, either.” I smiled, and Mom grabbed my hand and kissed it, holding it against her cheek. “But no more secrets, okay?”
“No more secrets,” Mom said, finally releasing my hand, and Dad nodded. I put another half egg on my plate, then noticed Mom looked sheepish as she watched me. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Well, you said no more secrets...”
“And?”
“And you don’t like eggs, Lucy!”
I frowned. “Of course I like eggs.” I thought back to my childhood, and Sunday morning breakfasts. Pancakes with real maple syrup and one sunny-side-up egg sprinkled with paprika. My mom always shoving hard-boiled eggs wrapped in waxed paper at us on road trips, to keep your strength up, which meant so we didn’t have to stop to eat fast food. “I’ve always liked eggs.”
“You used to, but then you got food poisoning from some egg salad at the deli in your office building a couple of years ago. You were so sick you had to get an IV at the hospital. Said you would never touch another egg again.”
“What? Really?” I had no memory of that. Tried to see if I could recollect anything, but I couldn’t. I glanced at the egg on my plate and it looked delicious to me. “So, then why did you put eggs out? Doesn’t that seem, I don’t know, sort of mean?”
She shrugged. “I’m as surprised as you are. The eggs were for me. I thought you would just eat the veggies. You do need to eat more vegetables. But look, now you like eggs again!” She beamed at me. “See? It’s not all doom and gloom, Lucy. Good things can still happen.”
I wasn’t sure we could make the leap from going back to liking eggs to other good things happening, but I smiled at her regardless. “Good things can still happen,” I murmured, picking up the egg and biting into it, not hating it at all.
33
My office looked exactly as I’d left it. It was a relief to know where everything was, how to log in to the computer system, that it was easy to recall the client and project names I’d been working on before my accident. A giant balloon bouquet floated in one corner of my office, nearly identical to the one from my hospital room. Except these balloons said Congratulations rather than Get Well Soon. I wasn’t sure what I was being congratulated on exactly, but it was likely hard to find the right sentiment for someone returning to work with a brain full of false memories.
Mary Steener, one of Jameson Porter’s shared personal assistants who also handled reception duties for the communications team, was the first person I saw. “Lucy!” she exclaimed, holding a large flower arrangement of yellow, pink and orange tulips. She had to crane her neck severely to the right to see around it and into my office. “You look fantastic, sweetheart. Fantastic.”
Mary was in her late fifties, a single mother who was never late for work and had been with Jameson Porter for nearly fifteen years. She was always dressed meticulously, nary a hair out of place or painted fingernail chipped, and she was also a well-known office gossip who often said the wrong thing for the situation. But she was bighearted and meticulous and hardworking, and so her wagging tongue and occasional lack of tact was overlooked.
She set the flowers down on my desk, the wide rainbow of tulips completely obscuring my view, and I shifted my chair over so I could see past them. “These beauties are for you. From upstairs.” I knew that meant the flowers were from the consultants and strategy group (Matt’s team), who occupied the floor directly above ours. “So how are you doing, honey? We’re so glad to have you back.”
“Thanks, Mary, it’s nice to be back. And I’m doing well.”
“You sure look it. Especially for someone who can’t remember anything.” She laughed. “I’m kidding, hon. Honestly, how could you forget us?” I smiled as hard as I could.
My second in command, Brooke Ingram, came up behind Mary and caught my eye. Brooke is two years older than me, and I was hired after her. I’d heard she was none too pleased when I was brought on—she had wanted the director job, but the partners felt she wasn’t quite the right fit—but if that had been true, she got over it fast. She was great at what she did and I trusted her implicitly.
“Oh, hey there, sweetie,” Mary said to Brooke. “I didn’t see you there.” Then Mary strode over to my desk and pulled me out of my chair for a hug, which lasted about five seconds too long. I finally disentangled myself, Mary’s perfume lingering between us like a scented cloud, and straightened my suit jacket. Brooke tapped on her watch a couple of times and I nodded. “Thanks for bringing the flowers, Mary. But I need to go into a meeting with Brooke, so I’ll talk to you later?”
“You bet. Have a great day, you two,” Mary said, smiling as she exited my office. Then she leaned her head back in and lowered her voice. “I’ll try to hold back your calls.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I’d like to take my calls.” I smiled and Mary winked before turning to leave. I would probably have to go out later and explicitly tell her not to hold my calls. Mary was the type who believed she knew what people needed better than they did. She blamed it on having too much “mother energy.”
“I should have had four kids,” she would say. “But because I didn’t, you’ll all benefit!”
“Thanks for the rescue,” I said to Brooke, who had taken a seat in one of the chairs in my office. I pushed the vase of tulips to the very far side of my desk. “I’d forgotten about Mary and her overabundance of helpfulness.” I laughed but then stopped when I saw Brooke’s face.
“Seriously?” Concern was etched on her brow.
“I’m joking!” I said. “But I probably shouldn’t do that, right?”
“Probably not.” Brooke laughed.
“So, what have people been saying? About me.” I cringed, waited for her answer.
She shrugged but looked uneasy. “That your memory isn’t what it used to be.” She paused. “Is that true?”
I sighed. “It’s true.” I had decided there was no point in trying to fake anything or hide the issue. It would only fuel the rumors and I didn’t need to be putting out those sorts of fires along with everything else. “For some stuff. But my work memory seems okay. So far I remember everything about this place.” Brooke smiled, looking reassured.