by Shari Ryan
Current Day
In the moment of being alone and in front of a mirror, I’m relieved to recognize my reflection and recall the features that have grown older with me throughout my mere twenty-nine odd years in this world. I keep staring at my eyes each day, wondering if there’s a lost look gazing back, but I’m not sure what that type of look might be.
With the pads of my fingertips, I pluck the top three buttons on the top of my flannel shirt and tug the right sleeve off my shoulder.
As if Mr. H can see through the door, I hear his fist tap softly against the aged wood. “Dani,” he calls in, questioning if I’m in here even though he saw me jog up the stairs and close myself into our bedroom fifteen minutes ago. I appreciate the respect of my privacy, but my husband has never knocked on a door in this house. We aren’t strangers—we weren’t strangers. We’ve basically been together half our lives.
I pivot and stare at the door as if he can see the look in my eyes through the wooden slab that separates us. Maybe he senses I’m just on the other side because the door nudges open and he’s in the doorway, hands in his pockets with a look of affliction tugging at his half-lidded eyes. “Hey,” I greet him, casually as if nothing is wrong; as if I didn’t confess to forgetting his name today.
“Hey,” he replies in the same nonchalant expression. “What are you up to?”
I shake my head, wishing he wasn’t curious, but not surprised that he’s up here making sure I’m not rocking in a corner. I assume that’s what he thinks he’ll walk in on, someday. To imagine finding horror in the path of my current state of existence, makes me appreciate being on this side of the fence, which is selfish. However, it’s not as selfish as wishing to trade spaces with anyone, especially Mr. H. “I was—I just—I’m going to put on a sweatshirt,” I say, stumbling over each word, admitting to the lie before I’ve had a chance to try and hide the truth.
Mr. H takes a few steps in toward me and pulls his hands out of his pockets. “I spent some time thinking on the way home and just now while I was downstairs. As much as it pains me, I agree with Jean’s theory of allowing your brain to recall the information—my name.”
“What about what I want?” I recoil with haste and anger that shouldn’t be directed at him when my reflection is just a foot behind me, deserving the wrath. This isn’t his fault.
“Do you want to get better?” Mr. H asks. The sincerity in his broken voice is an overwhelming addition to the pain filling the whites of his eyes coated with small, red lines.
I don’t believe my answer has any correlation to the outcome of my life. Therefore, it’s hard to say anything other than, “It’s not my choice, and I don’t have a say.”
“So, you were trying to look at the tattoo on your shoulder,” he says, outing me.
I shrug. “There’s a chance it won’t come back to me. There’s a chance I’ll forget more of you.” It’s all matter-of-fact, things we know, things we’ve avoided, things that are looming in front of us.
“There’s a chance it will come back to you,” he says, leaving off a response to the part where I said I’ll forget more. I was wrong about that because there isn’t a chance it will happen. According to the specialists I’ve seen so far, it is going to happen. We just don’t know when.
“How long do we wait?” I ask him.
“However long it takes.” He seems unsure about his answer, which means it’s only a matter of time before he breaks and tries to fix me again. Mr. H takes another couple of steps in toward me and holds his hands out for me. “It’s me,” he says just before cupping his hands over my shoulders. “It’s just me.” He pulls me in and presses my head against his chest, forcing me to listen to the quick beats of his heavy heart. “I love you, Dani, and nothing could ever change that. Nothing.”
I relax in his hold and inhale the musky cologne he’s been wearing for at least ten years. The scent urges me to nuzzle the side of my face against the cotton of his tee shirt.
You are my girl
Mr. H starts to sing in a low hum. His words vibrate through his chest and against my skin.
My one and only
His fingers snake through the long strands of my hair, cradling the back of my head, offering contentment within his shielding arms.
From the depths of my soul
To your heart, I’ll be
The shade from the sun
And the light just behind the tree
Always here
Always there
I’ll always be
The last of his words fall silent against a whisper, and chills skate down my spine just as they have every time he has sung to me. The connection allows me to remember this part of him. I wish I could say his voice cures the broken pieces of my life, but I’m still broken, and still missing his name.
I close my eyes and focus on the sound of his heart and the smell of his shirt, relaxing to the point where my knees feel weak. His fingertips trace small circles against the back of my head, and his touch is making it hard to stay awake.
“Maybe cake will make me remember,” I mutter against his shirt.
“Cake,” he says, stating my request rather than asking.
“Yes.”
Mr. H covers my ears with his hands and turns his head away from me. “Aly-girl, get ready to go. We’re getting cake!” Mr. H holds his hands in place for another minute longer because I’m sure he’s trying to help me relax, and I’m sure Aly is screaming out obscenities about us forcing her out of the house. She’s only been home for twenty minutes and probably just got comfortable.
“We can go later,” I tell him.
“We’re getting cake,” he confirms. He lifts his hands away from my ears, and I’m surprised to hear silence within the house. Aly does love cake though, so maybe that helped ease the burden of asking her to stand up from her beloved bed.
“You should call the guys. We haven’t seen them in a few weeks.”
Mr. H pulls away and glances down into my eyes. “I—” He sighs, frustrated as always when I bring them up lately. I don’t think he wants them to know the details of my situation or look at me the wrong way, but they aren’t like that. Mr. H is being overprotective. Usually, he’ll go out himself with them, but once a month we’ll all go. Maybe if Mr. H is still in an overprotective mode, he’ll help me out just this one time and trigger a memory so I can call him by name. “Not tonight, Dani. Let’s get through this first.”
“This?” I snap. “This isn’t going away.” If I was injured in an accident and had a deformity on my face, would you want me to wear a mask so no one would notice? Or would you tell me to act natural and no one would notice? I know his answer. He’s never cared about what other people think of him, but of me, he’s on guard—possibly a loose cannon waiting to explode.
“I’m trying my best here, I really am. Jesus, Dani. I want to help you remember, but I don’t know how to without just spelling it out to you. I’ve been wracking my brain, and it’s not exactly like I can Google how to make my wife remember my name.” I don’t think he meant that to come out as crude as it sounded, but I can’t blame him since I Googled it earlier too. “Google has nothing.”
“You looked?”
“Other than recording a soft whisper of your name on a mix-tape and having me listen to it all night long, there was no real answer.”
“A mix-tape?” Mr. H questions.
“The article was old and written by a creepy looking guy who still can’t get a girl to remember his name.”
“Are we going or not?” Aly groans from the doorway. “Why is it dark in here and why are you hugging in the dark?”
The sound of Mr. H inhaling sharply through his nose has become more prominent throughout recent years. It’s his “dad coping breath” as I call it. “Well, the sun is hiding behind the clouds right now, and I love your mother, so we are hugging. How’s that?”
“Lame,” Aly says, her phone blaring to life with neon colors, illuminating her still-adorable
button nose. “How was your marriage counseling today?”
“Aly, enough,” I scold her.
“Just wondering.”
“We aren’t going to therapy to fix our marriage. There’s nothing wrong with our marriage. It’s to help us with my memory issues. We’ve talked about this.” We have talked about this, and yet, I’m questioning our appointments too. Do we really see Jean so she can help with my memory? Or is it because our marriage is going to go through hell until I can’t remember what marriage is anymore? God knows, she isn’t helping with my memory right this second, despite her plan of forcing me to recall information on my own.
“Want to see your uncles?” Mr. H asks Aly. “Text them and see if they’re free.”
“They’re more fun than you guys, so yeah,” she says, flickering her speedy blue nails across her phone’s keyboard.
“I can’t remember Dad’s name,” I tell Aly, feeling Mr. H’s hand tighten against my waist.
“What?” Aly asks, laughing as if I’m joking.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about, but I’d rather be honest with you than hide what’s happening.”
“It’s nothing I have to worry about? You’re kidding me. Is there like a countdown until you forget my name too?”
Her words are like tiny knives, blades dragging down the center of my chest, slowly torturing every one of my nerve-endings. She must know it’s my worst fear to forget anything about her. I’ve expressed my concerns, trying to be as mild as possible without lying about this condition. I know she’s angry at me, and at the world, but until she’s ready to forgive me and understand, there isn’t much more I can do to make this easier for or any of us.
“Aly,” Mr. H says, sounding disappointed. “We need to be a family right now. Can you put the teenage drama on the shelf for a minute and just be with us for a little bit?”
Aly rolls her eyes and continues typing away on her phone. “Sal and Johnny can come. Devin is at birthing class—what is that? You know what, never mind. Don’t want to know.”
“You’re right. You don’t, and I like to hear that,” Mr. H tells her.
“Please don’t tell them what I just told you, Aly.” Despite asking, I assume it’s too late. Aly is the queen of gossip, and if she can shock the pants off someone, she’s going to give it everything she’s has within the first two seconds of a conversation.
“I won’t,” she says. I’m shocked, but grateful if she’s telling the truth.
“So, um, why aren’t we just telling you Dad’s name? Wouldn’t that solve this issue?” Aly asks.
“Don’t say it,” Mr. H snaps back. “The doctor wants her to try and recall it on her own.”
“That’s dumb,” Aly says, her focus still locked on the screen of her phone.
“Yes, it is dumb,” I agree. “But, we’re following doctor’s orders.”
I want to add that in addition to following doctor’s orders, I have no say in the matter, but this argument isn’t well suited for a teenager’s ears.
Mr. H straightens my shirt, placing the loose collar back into place, so my shoulders are once again covered, and I thread the buttons back through the holes, silently agreeing to ignore the tattoo on my back.
Aly is out the front door and sliding into the back seat of the Jeep by the time I reach the coat closet. “She must be cold. Should I grab her jacket?” I ask, retrieving my warm black fleece from a hanger.
“Baby, it’s seventy-five degrees outside. You’re going to be hot in that, and Aly is fine.” It’s not seventy-five degrees outside. It was chilly when we got home earlier. I remember because I was shivering in the car.
“Are you just being funny?” I ask Mr. H, curious to see his reaction. I can always tell if he’s trying to fool me or being serious, but he looks just as confused as I feel at the moment.
“It’s August, Dani.”
August sounds like a hollow word, hearing it escape from Mr. H’s mouth. I close my eyes to remember August—what it means because I know the word, but I’m unfamiliar with what it means. “Okay,” I tell him, trying to convince myself that the word August isn’t important right now, not as important as Mr. H’s name is.
I replace my fleece on the hanger, then run my fingertips across the fabric of all the other hanging coats. One winter coat for each of us, three fleece jackets, and three raincoats, all meant for different seasons. When I turn back around, Mr. H is gone, but I didn’t hear the storm door open or close, so I make my way into the kitchen, searching for my husband. He’s behind the granite-covered island with his head resting against the refrigerator door. “What are you doing?” I ask.
Mr. H snaps upright and turns around to face me. “Dani, sorry. I was just catching my breath.” I’m not sure why he’s out of breath. He wasn’t running or moving around much at all.
It’s because I’m hurting him. Each day for almost a year, I have woken up to a face full of pain and despair, but also a pair of eyes holding hope, and arms ready to show love, and lips to whisper the words, “I love you,” so many times a day in case I forget how much he loves me.
“I’m destroying your life, one day at a time,” I admit out loud. My throat tightens in response to hearing the words bounce off the kitchen appliances.
“You could never destroy my life,” Mr. H says with a look of sincerity, but the sound of his words come without a hint of truth.
Yes, I could easily destroy his life, but I will try everything in my power to give us more time. However, that would also be a lie, and we don’t need two of us lying. I have no power or control, and the fate of our marriage is a part of life we won’t know until we get there. “Let’s have cake, okay? Go out to the car. I just need to grab a bottle of water real quick,” I tell him.
Mr. H opens the refrigerator door and grabs a bottle of water, hands it to me and forces a smile onto his sealed lips. “Lock the door on your way out,” he says.
I watch Mr. H push through the storm door, pause and reach back for the inside doorknob, then turn the lock.
I guess I’m as good as useless now.
The seal cracks on the bottle of water as I twist the cap off before taking a quick swig. With a couple of deep breaths, I twist on my heels, spotting today’s mail on the kitchen table. The mail would have our names.
The guilt gnaws at my stomach with each step I take toward the worn chestnut table our family has sat at for more years than I can count, but I’m not doing this for selfish reasons. I need to relieve Mr. H of his pain. If my condition is inevitably going to cause my family more pain than myself, I need to protect them for as long as I can.
I grab the envelopes and thumb through them, finding a car brochure made out to Mr. H, offering me his name in the form of relief.
Seven
Twelve Years Ago
I WAS 18 YEARS OLD
Cake is my whiskey, which sounds ridiculous since I’ve never tasted the stuff, but Daniel, my father, showed our family just how important whiskey was to him, and while I would never use cake as a weapon of emotional destruction, I imagine his love for whiskey is mildly comparable to my love for cake. It’s the closest comparison I can imagine.
This little pastry shop with more cakes than any other baked goods and has been my favorite place to visit since I was in grade school. That was when I first learned about my love for cake. I’m unashamed to be known in here since they were expecting me today, on my birthday, which would have been very sad had I not gone out with Lexi tonight.
They must have seen us walking in from the parking lot because candles are encircling the cake, lit with perfect flames that illuminate Marcy’s weathered face, pale from a lack of daylight.
“Happy birthday, Dani,” she says, her voice is loud and strong for such a small woman. “I was hoping I would see you tonight.”
“Here I am,” I tell her, beaming with appreciation.
“Eighteen—goodness gracious. Where has the time gone, and where is my sweet little Alyson?”
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br /> “In bed, thankfully,” I gush.
“Of course. Well, blow out the candles before the wax drips. Just—don’t forget to make a wish. That’s the most important part. You need a wish for your eighteenth birthday.”
A wish. I can’t change the past, and even if I could, I would be afraid of altering my present. That’s what the therapist has been trying to make me understand these past couple of years. The comprehension is there, just not completely saturated with understanding. I can only look toward the future.
To a future without fear. I hope this year will bring me happiness and replace some of my fears with a touch of confidence to re-strengthen my soul.
I blow out the candles through two quick breaths. “Thank you,” I offer. Marcy smiles and pulls the cake back behind the counter. “I’ll bring it out to you in just a moment.”
“She’s so freaking adorable,” Lexi coos as she pulls a couple of tables together. “Marcy has a sweet spot for you obviously. I’ve been coming here my whole life too, and I don’t think she’d know my name if she was handed a short list.”
“You don’t have a passion for cake like I do. That’s why,” I tell her.
“Passion, obsession, what’s the difference, right?”
“Exactly.”
Lexi and I dig into the cake while I keep an eye on the door, wondering if the band will show. It seems like a joke when I think about it. Even if these guys had no fans, I still don’t think they would want to come to a pastry shop of all places to hang out with Lexi and me. I’m sure they have better things to be doing.
“So, Johnny is a Leo,” Lexi says with a mouthful of cake.
“Roar,” I growl, teasing her. “How did you manage to find out his astrology sign while trying to swallow his tongue?” I pop the first bite of cake into my mouth, letting the spongy texture settle on my tongue before allowing the decadent chocolate to glide down my throat. This is all I wanted for my birthday.