The Life Lucy Knew

by Karma Brown

  I considered the question for a moment. “Then I figure out how to fall in love with him all over again.”

  * * *

  It had seemed so obvious, what I wanted to do about Matt, when Dr. Kay asked me during our session. But once I got outside her building and had a moment to think it through, I felt paralyzed. Matt and I had tried—really tried—hadn’t we? There were the photo albums, the reminiscence therapy, the play-by-play re-creation of our first date. So much effort for such little return. Shouldn’t I feel something more by now, even if my memory wasn’t back?

  And then, in a flash, I realized the problem. Matt had really tried, that was true. But what about me? Could I say the same?

  No, I couldn’t. While Matt did everything he could think of to jog my memory, all the while accepting it might never work but sticking by me nonetheless, I played along but kept one foot outside the circle. I had allowed myself to stay distracted—mostly by Daniel—and that had hurt all of us, but Matt especially.

  Dr. Kay’s office was beside a parkette, and I had a sudden urge to take off my shoes and walk barefoot in the grass. Jenny was working on a documentary on something called “earthing”—walking barefoot on dirt, or sand, or grass, or some other natural surface—to eke out electrons from the earth. It sounded a bit (a lot) out-there, but its proponents swore to a host of benefits: everything from generating feelings of happiness to reducing anxiety to helping with insomnia, and Jenny had been pretty psyched about the whole thing. Told me she’d been doing it every day for fifteen minutes at the park near her work, and felt ridiculously joyful afterward; she suggested maybe it could help with my memory. “But if not, trust me, you’ll still feel fantastic.”

  And for whatever reason, it seemed like exactly the right thing to do at this moment. So I sat on the bench, took off my shoes and rolled up my pant legs into wide cuffs. Then I started walking, the soles of my feet initially ticklish as they settled into the grass. Soon I was walking in a large circle around the grassy parkette, furiously typing a message to Matt on my phone as I did.

  My ten minutes of earthing didn’t jog my memory or change my life, but as I slipped grass-stained feet back into my shoes I reread my message to Matt. Then with a grin, I hit Send.

  42

  After sending Matt the text, I walked back to the office while I waited for him to respond (what was taking him so long?), and with every block closer, the more my anxiety ramped up. Because while I had made a decision about Matt—which I couldn’t do anything about until I heard back from him—I’d also made one about the Brooke situation.

  All weekend I had been running scenarios through my mind, everything from backing off and biding my time until I could build up examples showcasing Brooke’s incompetency, to going into HR today with a printout of my grievances and a plan to replace her. But none had sat quite right with me. I didn’t want to work indefinitely with someone who was gunning for my job, and willing to use my accident and aftereffects to get it. Nor did I want to end my time at the firm by marching into HR and ruining all the goodwill I’d built up. Unless I had hard proof, going in and accusing Brooke of such a thing would be the equivalent of career suicide.

  It was Dr. Kay, again, who helped me figure out what to do in the end. The whole “it’s time to get back in the driver’s seat” thing had been effective, and I appreciated how right she was. I had been waiting—for someone else to sort out my mess, for my memory to reboot, for an obvious answer to every difficult question to be revealed, to get back to the Lucy I had been before the slip and fall. And by letting everyone else—my parents, Jenny, Alex, Brooke, Daniel and Matt—drive the car for me, things had gotten seriously off track.

  “Even though I know nothing about cars,” Dr. Kay had said with a laugh at the end of our session. “Let’s stick with this analogy for a moment. You, Lucy Sparks, have the map. You always have—it’s been inside you all along, even if you can’t remember every street name, or shortcut, or which route is free of construction delays. So when you’re feeling confused, or angry, or lost, remember—you have the map.”

  It was time to make my own choices, and good or bad I would deal with them. Finally back at the office, I answered outstanding messages and emails, shared a quick coffee with Mary in the break room, then typed out the letter I’d been writing in my head for the past couple of hours.

  * * *

  “Lucy, hello,” Greg said when I knocked on his door later that afternoon. “Come on in.” He gestured at the chairs in the sitting nook in his office and got up from his desk to join me as I sat down.

  “How are you doing?” he asked, his brow crinkling.

  “Well. Thanks for asking,” I replied. Then I got right to it, didn’t want to spend time on idle chitchat knowing what had to come next. “This isn’t easy for me, Greg, because I’ve loved working here. And I wanted to tell you directly because you’ve been a great mentor to me over the years.” Without another word I handed him the envelope, which he opened, unfolding the letter inside. I watched his face as he read the short note, which I had signed only minutes earlier, hoping I was doing the right thing.

  “I have another copy for HR, which I’ll drop off to Susan after we’re done here,” I said. Greg folded the letter and nodded. “I also wanted you to know I’m not leaving Jameson Porter for another firm. This isn’t about me being unhappy with my job, or this place.”

  “And I don’t suppose I can change your mind?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I appreciate you’d even try,” I said. “I know it’s been difficult, having me out for so long and then only back for a couple of weeks.”

  “Is there anything we could have done differently, Lucy?” I suspected a similar question would come from Susan, but the tone would be different. From Greg it was meant as an almost-apology—the timing of my resignation so close to my return, he was concerned they had let me down by reintegrating me too quickly. But Susan would be worried I had already had an informal conversation with an employment attorney.

  “Nothing at all. You’ve all been wonderful,” I said. “And not just recently. For the past four years, too.” I stood and held out my hand, which Greg shook warmly. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

  “Thank you, Lucy. We’re going to miss you around here. Especially me. No one writes up a report quite like you do.” He smiled.

  “Well, you still have me for two weeks, so it’s not goodbye yet.” I returned his smile. “I do have a couple of suggestions for who might be a great fit for the job. And Brooke will be a fantastic resource for whomever you choose. You’ll definitely want to keep her where she is. I would have been lost without her help these past couple of months.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Greg said, and if he sensed anything other than my absolute support for Brooke, he didn’t show it. “And I agree. Why don’t you put some thoughts together and let’s have lunch later this week to discuss. Sound like a plan?”

  “It does,” I said, thanking him again before leaving his office and heading to Susan’s. After I gave her the other copy of my resignation letter—Susan was glad to hear I didn’t have any formal grievances to file—I went back to my office, smiling at Brooke when I stopped by her door.

  “Hey, Brooke, thanks again for handling that release for Greg the other day. Glad we caught it before the outlets turned it around.” I cringed for effect. “It would have been a nightmare.”

  “No problem at all,” she said. “Happy to help.”

  Then I frowned, gave her a confused look. “But the strangest thing about that. It was a duplicate. For some reason a few of my recent releases all had old client names in them, and I found two versions of each. Any idea what happened there? I mean, you were the one who sent it to Greg for me, so I thought maybe you might know.”

  “I have no idea,” she said, her frown matching mine. I could tell she knew I was onto her, but was working h
ard to hide it. “That is strange. Maybe it was a program bug?”

  “Maybe.” I waved my hand, as if shelving my concern. “But no worries. I figured it out and fixed them, and explained everything to Greg and Susan. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  “Oh, let’s hope not.” She looked somewhat stunned, which, I have to say, made it even easier to smile.

  “See you for the meeting at three?” I said, and she nodded mutely, realizing she was being dismissed. I felt great as I settled back into my office—I was liking this new, in-control Lucy and considered maybe it was some sort of electron magic from my mini earthing experiment—and then my phone buzzed in my pocket.

  Excited (and nervous) that Matt had finally gotten back to me, I grabbed for my phone and read the message. But it wasn’t from Matt; it was from Daniel.

  I need to talk to you. Please come over tonight—9:00 p.m. I’m here alone.

  He had written his address and closed the message with two simple words.

  Please come.

  And though I knew I shouldn’t have gone, I found myself standing outside Daniel London’s house and ringing the doorbell at 8:58 p.m.

  43

  As soon as the front door opened I knew I’d made a mistake.

  “Hi again, Lucy.”

  At first I was too shocked to say anything. Stood statue-still on Daniel’s front porch—a swing full of nautical-themed striped outdoor pillows (nicer than the ones on my couch at home) to my left, a large urn filled with winter greenery and white sparkling orbs on the right. It was a small house but gorgeous—the kind you’d find in a House & Home magazine, the clear touches of a skilled designer visible everywhere.

  “Margot. Oh. Hi.” My mind raced for a way to explain why I was here, on Daniel and Margot’s front porch, late on a Monday night. I came up blank. Margot stared at me, unsmiling, and I wondered if I should turn around and walk away. But then she smiled and seemed to come out of the trancelike state from a moment earlier. “Come in, come in,” she said, ushering me inside.

  If I thought the house was beautiful from the outside, I was in awe of its interior. Sweeping ceilings, intricate crown molding, beautiful art, everything in its place. Definitely magazine-spread-worthy. “Your home is stunning.”

  “Aw, thank you,” Margot replied, glancing over her shoulder as she hung my coat up on one of five antique brass hangers by the door. “Daniel and I did almost everything ourselves.” I hadn’t meant to give her my coat—had no intentions of staying—but was still in shock from finding Margot on the other side of the door, and my reaction times were off. “I baked some buttermilk blueberry muffins. Cravings.” She smiled again and rubbed her stomach, then gestured for me to follow her into the kitchen.

  For a moment I stood by the front door, unsure what to do, but then I quickly unzipped my boots and followed her. The kitchen was clearly the central spot of their home—a large square island of white marble right in the middle, reclaimed wood stools lining one side. Two dozen muffins—striped and spotted where deep purple blueberry juice had oozed out during baking—sat on cooling racks on the island, and the sink was full of neatly stacked dishes yet to be washed. Margot took two plates from the cupboard and set a muffin on each one, handing me a plate even though I didn’t say I wanted a muffin and was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to eat it.

  Where was Daniel?

  She sat on one of the stools and took a big bite of muffin, blueberry juice staining her fingers and a corner of her mouth. “These are so much better with fresh blueberries, but frozen will do in a pinch.” She took another bite, then stopped chewing. “Sit. Eat,” she said. “Are you going to make a pregnant woman enjoy her muffin alone?”

  “Sorry, no. Thanks.” I sat down awkwardly two stools over and broke off a small piece of muffin, which was still warm. I ate it, despite my nerves making it nearly impossible to swallow anything but my own saliva, and told her how delicious it was. “Maybe I can get the recipe,” I said, trying to break the icy tension hovering between us. Margot seemed happy I asked, and smiled wide as she wiped a crumb from her lip.

  “Totally. I’ll email it to you.” Then she put her muffin down. “Better still, I’ll text it to you right now.” And she pulled her phone out of her back pocket.

  “Do you need my number?” I asked, but she shook her head. “Already have it,” she replied, which was odd. I wondered how—did I give it to her at the party the other night?

  I was about to tell her there was no rush, but she seemed determined to send the recipe immediately and so I stayed quiet and nibbled another piece of muffin while she tapped out the message. She paused only once to stare up to the ceiling as she mumbled about whether it was one teaspoon or one tablespoon of baking soda. “And...done.” She put her phone down and I felt mine buzz in my sweater’s pocket.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to check that? Make sure it came through okay?” It didn’t seem like she was asking—more like demanding I do it—so I pulled my phone out and was quite certain all the blood in my face drained when I saw what was on the screen. A message from Daniel.

  Margot’s Buttermilk Blueberry Muffins

  I quickly looked up at Margot, my heart beating so fast it was all I could do not to press both hands to my chest to keep it from exploding from my chest.

  She popped the last bite of muffin in her mouth and held up the phone, the one she’d used to send me the text with the recipe. For a moment I stared while she chewed and swallowed, then with her next words everything fell into place.

  “Daniel’s phone,” she said, pulling another muffin from the cooking rack. “Want a second one?” I shook my head slowly and she shrugged, placing the muffin on her own plate.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Margot said, carefully tugging the parchment paper wrapper from the muffin. “Why did I send you a message about meeting me—or Daniel, I guess—here?” She licked her fingers of the blueberry juice.

  “I know what happened on Saturday, at the Maddy,” she said. Then she sighed. “Danny told me yesterday.” Danny? “When I mentioned seeing you at the party and that I’d told you about the baby, well, he sort of broke down then. He felt terrible about the whole thing.” Her elbow knocked a few muffins off the cooling rack. “What a mess,” she muttered, using a nearby cloth to clean up the purple smudges before they ruined the white marble. I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the muffin splatter, or the entire situation.

  “Margot, I don’t know—” My mind couldn’t move quickly enough, and even if it could, what would I have said? I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to. It’s complicated.

  “Stop. It’s fine,” she said, which confused me even more. “Of course, I’m not happy about it.” Her lips moved into a frown to prove her words. “But there’s been no real harm done.” And back to her muffin she went.

  I swallowed hard and coughed when some of the muffin crumbs got caught in my throat. Margot took a glass off the open shelf by the sink, then turned on the faucet and let the water run. She held one finger in the stream and, when she was satisfied with the temperature, filled the glass and handed it to me.

  “Thanks,” I said. I took a big sip and the cold water moved the muffin bit along.

  “Look, I’m not blaming you,” she said, back on her stool. “You know how Danny is,” she said. How he is?

  “Sorry, I’m not sure...what you mean.” Thump, thump, thump went my heart. I took another sip of water, trying to calm down.

  “Ah, that’s right. The whole memory thing. Yeah, Danny told me about that, too. I’m sorry you’re going through this, Lucy. It sounds terrible.” She paused then, gave me a knowing look. “What I meant is it’s not like either of us should be surprised you and Daniel reconnected. He’s always been a flirt. He got caught up.” She shrugged, continuing on with her second muffin, and I thought back to Alex’s comment ab
out the pretty bartender at our engagement party. The fact Daniel had been engaged when I met him. The picture grew clearer...

  “Margot, do you know why Daniel and I broke up?” My voice quavered, but I held her gaze.

  Her face stayed still for a moment, and then...a nod. “I take it you don’t remember?”

  “I do not,” I said. “Are...are you the reason we broke up?” This last part came out quietly and I held my breath. Waiting for the answer no one had yet been able—or willing—to give me.

  I expected her to say, Yes. I’m sorry, yes. To tell me Daniel had been unfaithful, the two of them hooking up behind my back a couple of months before our wedding, and I steeled myself for her response. When she finally answered, I detected a hint of pity in her tone. “No.”

  “No...?”

  “You’ve got it backward,” she added softly. “It wasn’t because of me, Lucy. I swear to you.”

  I nodded, because I needed her to go on but couldn’t trust my voice.

  “Danny and I started dating about six months after you guys broke up. I had been in Ecuador, volunteering as a translator with an entomologist friend of mine, so I was pretty off the grid.” I thought back to the wedding I remembered, tried to picture Margot there but couldn’t. Of course, the wedding hadn’t been real, but I understood now why I couldn’t place her in any of my memories around that time—she hadn’t even been in the country.

  “I ended up with malaria, came back earlier than expected and ran into Danny at an art exhibit a couple of months later. We started dating, I went to design school and he left his father’s firm and then we got married and, well, here we are.”

  At her explanation a sense of calm settled over me. There was no malicious story here, at least not when it came to Margot. But then I remembered something. “Wait...you said I got it backward. What did you mean?”

  “Lucy, I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you this.” Margot seemed uncomfortable, and I moved to the edge of my stool, wanting to get closer to her. To the truth. “I know you don’t remember, because of your accident, but, well, maybe it’s better that way?”