“Hello?” I called out.
“Jordan Landau?” he said with his head cocked to one side.
“Yes . . . ?”
“Hi,” he said, taking a few steps into the middle of the street. “Sorry . . . I’m Travis, Travis Andrews.”
“Oh,” I said. “The name on the cards.”
“The cards . . .” he said.
I smiled at him. “The flowers. The chocolate . . . ” It was no feat of memory to open my eyes and see all the ways he’d apologized and wished me well. So I felt completely comfortable for the first time since getting to Long Island. “Thank you. It’s been really sweet, but you didn’t have to do all that.”
“I feel awful. I’m so sorry about what happened.”
“I’d feel even worse about the size of my ass, ” I said, and as I did, he looked around over his shoulder to take a peek at his ass. I felt horrible and rushed to explain, “No, not your ass, mine. The one that has grown exponentially since you’ve been supplying chocolate nonstop.”
“Well, good thing that flowers aren’t edible,” he said. “And at the risk of sounding like I’m checking out your ass, which I’m not—I mean I couldn’t because, well, it’s behind you—it looks like it’s a pretty good one.”
My face felt hot. Even if I’d started it, this was beyond my comfort zone. “Can we not talk about my ass?”
“We can definitely not talk about your ass,” he said with a laugh. “I’m sorry. How are you?”
“I’m okay . . . all things considered.”
“Now that’s a great thing to hear,” he exclaimed. Nice guy. He felt so familiar to me. Not just because I’d seen him at the accident, but because I immediately felt like I knew him. Like I’d known him for a long time. But I was quite sure I hadn’t. He’d have been hard to miss. He was tall with spiky black hair. Not moussed and jelled spiky, just out-of-control messy but perfectly messed. He had piercing blue eyes and a day’s worth of stubble that showed up prominently against his fair skin. He looked like he’d be the lead singer of a band from the neck up, but the J. Crew sweater told me otherwise. It was the perfect blend, the amalgam most women will secretly admit they want most of all, like a guy’s virgin whore fantasy: the rock star who’s giving up touring to devote his life to you.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said.
“Jesus, I’m sorry. Yeah, you too. Sorry . . . you’re probably wondering what I’m doing out here. On Thanksgiving.”
“Kind of,” I said.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m okay,” I said, trying to reassure him. He seemed so lost.
“So I had time today, and I was going out east on the island. And you weren’t in the hospital anymore. So your parents . . . I have this friend at the police department. Anyway, it’s not malicious or anything like that. This is sounding really stalker, isn’t it?”
I wondered if he had a family and thought about inviting him in for our dinner, but I knew my mom would have a fit.
“Okay,” he said and then paused, as though that was all he’d come with. But more came. “Did you lose your memory?” he said abruptly.
“It’s hard to say,” I told him and looked away, feeling the creeping anxiety of my charade.
“You don’t remember?” he said. It had been unintentional. Slow on the uptake, we both laughed. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”
“I’m okay. Really.” I couldn’t figure out why I felt so guilty faking my amnesia to this guy. Probably because he was the one who’d caused it. Or would have been if I’d actually had amnesia. Anyway, I felt bad. He seemed so genuine.
And he’d said I had a nice ass.
“Do you have Thanksgiving plans?” I blurted out suddenly. I don’t know why, and I knew he couldn’t come in, so I regretted it as soon as I said it.
“No, not really. I was going farther out on the island. It’s a funny story,” he said. “Well, not really funny but . . . weird?”
“I like weird.”
“My dad passed away a few years ago . . .”
“Sorry. Definitely not a funny story,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s not the funny part. A buddy of mine was trying to cheer me up and he bet me a hundred bucks that he could charm us into a stranger’s Thanksgiving dinner. And he did. He has this magnetic personality, and he talked our way in with a bottle of wine.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, so it became sort of a tradition. He’d really look forward to it—plan it for weeks. Always made it to dessert. I wonder if he still does it . . .” he said and trailed off in thought. “He was an amazing guy. Could sell you on anything.”
He was staring. Not at me exactly but at my hand. I looked down and saw the object of his distraction. The bottle of wine.
Now, Jordan B.C. (before concussion) wouldn’t have given all this a second thought. She’d have mumbled something terse or unintelligible at this point, turned in the wrong direction, taken a few steps, doubled back in embarrassment, and disappeared inside the garage. But she wasn’t there. So Jordan A.D. (amnesia dabbler) spoke up.
“Where should we try first?” I asked.
Oh, the thought did strike me that if I disappeared into the neighborhood with my mom’s wine she’d probably think the worst, call the cops, and never again let me out of her sight. And I was heart set on moving back to my apartment the next day. But he laughed the most darling laugh.
“Even if. Even if. It won’t work. My friend isn’t here anymore. He moved away.”
“But you were there,” I said, now stepping toward him with a look over my shoulder to make sure we couldn’t be seen from my house. “How did it work?”
“It was really all him,” Travis said. “He was an actor.”
“Listen, I’m serious,” I said after a pause. “If you don’t do this with me, I’ll sue you for everything you’ve got.”
He scratched the side of his head slowly. “Well, I would hate to lose eighty-five dollars in loose change and free video-rental coupons.” Then we looked at each other, our eyes wide with the rush of that manic moment. And I knew I had him.
“There are rules,” he said with mock sternness and a sneaky smile as we got into his car and rounded the block, slowing down to scout our first foray. The car was nice but nothing out of the ordinary. He kept it well, but there was a stack of papers in the backseat under a small anchor. An anchor? Weird. But still, it was just quirky enough to be contemplated. I had no time to analyze it further. He had a healthy moderation in his sense of order, and I was buzzing with wonderment . . . at myself. A situation like the one I was in could be threatening or exhilarating, depending where you sat. I was in the front seat, passenger side.
“No threats. No crime. No sob story. Bring your A game.” We screeched to a quick stop. “We are gentlemen and shall be received as such.”
“Gentlemen?” I asked.
“Gentlemen,” he said.
“So you never want to be taken for a burglar.”
“Or a pervert, no, correct.” He pointed at his pants. “So, slacks, wool or a wool blend.” He kicked one foot up to show. “Shine on the shoes.” He pulled open his coat for effect. “Belt matching the shoes, cotton button-down—no silk or exotics.”
“Like what, mohair?”
He nodded. “It’s family time. All cleaned up, face washed, hair combed. Smiling.”
“I’ve got all that, and my Sunday best on to boot,” I said, showing off my new pencil skirt, Ella Moss top, and Kors boots. “Well, Thursday best.”
“You look great,” he said. “And then the speech.” He cleared his throat. “We are two gentlemen from the city. We’ll change that bit. We were drawn here to this community in hopes of sharing the fellowship of the season with new friends. If you would permit us to join you, we would humbly thank you, not only with our gratitude but also with these spirits for your table.”
I was silent for a moment. “You memorized that whole thing?”
�
�Yep.”
“And they bought it?”
“Never had to knock on more than five or ten doors. In seven years.”
“So this is how orphans get their jollies,” I said.
He peered out and the car rolled forward again. “When do you have to be back?”
Back. As in, will I be on the news, a holiday-turned-tragic piece, by the time I get back? “I’ve probably got an hour and a half.”
“Okay, it’s about two, a little after, so we’ll have to find someone who’s sitting down early.” We spotted a house with blue siding and white shutters, and a ragged turkey flag fluttering from a pole by the side door. A few more cars than seemed normal crowded around the place.
“First victim,” he said.
He looked at me. “I’m Travis. You’re Jordan.”
“Are we related?”
“Jesus, you’re worse off than I thought,” he said.
“No, for the story here,” I corrected.
“Ah. No—it’s not a story. We are honest people with a simple, courteous proposition. So . . . We are two gentlemen—er, a lady and a gentleman—from the city. Remember?”
“We are . . . in your community,” I began. Then I went quiet and pulled my lips in, and that made him nervous, I think.
“Just let me do the talking,” he said.
We stepped up to the door, and a little round face wrapped in a drape saw us and disappeared. The doorbell rang inside. Then the door opened. A smile started on Travis’s mouth, and he opened it to speak.
But I beat him to it.
“We are a gentleman and young lady from the city. We were drawn to this community in hopes of sharing the fellowship of the season with new . . . friends. If you would allow us to join you, we would thank you with both our gratitude and this bottle of . . . spirits for your table.”
The man looked at me, then Travis.
“No,” he said, and the door drifted shut.
I licked my lips and stared ahead.
“I think you ad-libbed some,” he said. “But wait a minute—how did you . . . I mean, what about—” He spun his finger at his temple. I know he was asking about my amnesia, but he used the universal hand sign for crazy. I went with it.
“They tell me it’s retrograde amnesia,” I said. “People, things from before are foggy as hell. But I’m sharpy sharp on things since the crash.”
We believe whatever we don’t pay a lot of attention to, so he was on board—but he wanted to be clear: the next attempt was his. So we walked casually, confidently to the door of a split-level, totally out of place but homey anyway among the sprawling ranches with add-ons, mini-mansions, and doomed bungalows in the neighborhood. He took the bottle of wine. The door swung open and a very pleasant lady of about fifty with a headband on stood there.
“We are a gentleman and young lady from the city. We were drawn here to this community in hopes of sharing the fellowship of the season with new friends. If you would permit us to join you, we would humbly thank you, not only with our gratitude but also with these spirits for your table.”
The lady stood frozen for a second; then her open mouth smiled and she looked back over her shoulder. “Well, all right. We don’t eat till five, so you can watch football till then or play Nintendo with Lyle.”
I was stunned. She was going for it?
“You’re awfully kind,” Travis said with a charmingly earnest grin. “But we’re very hungry now, so . . . thank you anyway and happy Thanks-giving.” And he turned and walked back to the car. I watched him for a moment before waving and smiling to her, wanting to retract my head between my shoulders into my chest, then ran after him down the sidewalk.
“Bye,” she called out, as though it were a question.
“Oh my God!” I screamed when we’d slid back into the car and pulled away. “We were in.”
“Told you,” he said, doing a great job of hiding his own amazement at the early success, and—I thought—a little nervous that we might have just thrown away the prize. “But that dinnertime wouldn’t do. This isn’t a kidnapping.” Something about the word seemed to stall him. He looked at me, and those eyes . . . I felt so strange. About all of it. Like I really wasn’t Jordan anymore. At least not the Jordan I was before. Jordan B.C. “You have a schedule.”
“You know, I’d invite you to our dinner, but my . . . ” I trailed off. “I don’t know that they’d get it.”
“Please. Don’t wreck the adventure with an easy out.”
So we drove on, now about a mile from my house. Though it was still early, signs of gatherings were everywhere. We tried two more in close proximity. Both speedy rejections. The second one before the speech was fully out.
“You’re gonna get that every so often,” he confided as we stood on their sidewalk, looking back at them peering out at us.
“If you can’t appreciate this art, I have nothing but pity for you,” I said, shaking my fist at the house.
We got close at the next place, but the very old man visible down the front hallway looked terrified, so we didn’t push the issue with the lady, sweet and apologetic as she was. After the next “no,” I could tell Travis was slipping into defeatism or losing heart or maybe worried that I’d think he was obsessed and not wanting to push whatever luck this little adventure represented. So we talked a little more in the car. Then I saw it was nearing 3 P.M.
“One more shot,” I said.
“You call it.”
We went up and down two blocks. I told him to stop in front of a particularly unkempt place, a few extra cars in the drive, Indian corn on the door, plastic lawn chairs on their sides on the lawn. Fulfilling their destiny, I guess.
We stepped up and he cradled the wine in two hands. I assumed the silent-partner stance, slightly behind his right shoulder. Ding-dong. The front door opened, then the storm door, just a few inches. A man in a stretched sweater leaned out and looked at us, dead-eyed.
I seized the moment. “You’re not gonna believe this,” I said, throwing up my left arm to express my own disbelief. “It’s really a total joke, but the joke’s on us apparently. My brother here and I were going to surprise our grandmother, and just had our car break down on our way to Grammy’s place in Philly, and now the truth is, we’ll never get there in time for dinner at this point, so it’s a total loss. Unless, that is, unless you could find it in your heart to let us eat with you guys, and we’d give you this wine we got for her . . . so there’s that.”
He didn’t react at first, not at all. We half suspected, I think—I did—that we’d crossed some line and were now in for trouble. As though he was going to chase us out into the driveway with a rolling pin or something.
“Sure,” the dead-eyed man said, now smiling, almost laughing. “We were just sittin’ down. I was just gonna run out for wine, so you got good timing.”
And for the next hour and ten minutes, we enjoyed an out-of-body experience in the company of Mitchell and Jeanine Verdanetti, little Mitch, Angie, Albert, Therese, someone else whose name I never got, and a pushy dachsund named JoJo. We listened much more than talked, so guilty did we both feel about my lie yet so amused by the whole affair. I complimented Jeanine on her cranberries and asked her for the recipe. Who knew candied pecans in cranberry sauce could be so good?
We ate fast, helped clear the table and load the dishwasher until Therese kicked us out of the kitchen, then we took our leave, thanking them so aggressively that I’m sure they thought nothing of our early exit—except as part of a great story for next year at the Verdanettis.
We drove back to my house in near-total silence. I thought he might be mad at me. It started to sour the experience almost, and I didn’t know why, but I got choked up and thought I might cry, but then he looked at me and smiled and shook his head.
“I know you’re currently lacking in the memories department. But I know I won’t forget this, and I hope you won’t either,” he said.
“I’ll try not to,” I said.
He a
sked for my number, but I said I didn’t know it, so he gave me his card and said to call him when I got settled back in my place. Then I found my business card and slipped it to him without another word.
“Lord, Jordan,” my mother said when I’d come back up from the cellar and plunked down on a kitchen stool in her path. “I haven’t seen you all afternoon. What happened to that bottle of wine I sent you for?” This was the reaction I’d hoped for, but still, I’d been gone for two hours. How could she not have wondered where her poor little amnesiac had been?
“We were all out,” I said. “I just grabbed whatever cabernet was next to it.”
She looked at the bottle. “That’ll do. Now we’re sitting down in a half hour—don’t go far.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. And it was true.
I wish I could say my own Thanksgiving was as much fun, but it was mostly what you’d expect from any other dinner we’d shared for the past couple weeks—my mother loading up on the wine and pointing at people as she spoke to them, Walter cracking bad jokes, and Sam throwing curveballs at me left and right in failed attempts to trick me. Finally, she got so frustrated that she just lashed out at me.
“This is total bull,” Sam said. “I may not be able to prove it yet, but she’s faking it!”
“Samantha Danielle—stop it right now,” said my mom finally, uncharacteristically speaking up to defend me, in her full-on you’re-in-trouble voice. “Your sister has had enough abuse for one night. She’s not faking. It’s clear that she doesn’t have all of her faculties; this situation is very grave and very real and the power of attorney will allow us to provide the proper care for her.”
“Power of attorney?” Sam and I said at the same time.
“Yes,” my mom said matter-of-factly.
“What exactly is that?” I asked, fully aware that I couldn’t freak out on the outside like I was on the inside. I told myself not to panic.
“It’s simple, dear,” she went on. “The social workers and hospital staff agreed that we should set up a durable springtime power of attorney.”
“I think you mean ‘springing,’” said Walter.
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