“Hi, Jordan. How are you?” she chirped.
“Fine.” What the hell do you want? “And yourself?”
“Great. Did you have a nice weekend?”
“I did, actually. What can I do for you, Lydia?” I didn’t know what she was playing at, but I wanted her to get right to it.
“Well, we used to work so well together, you know. And now, just because you’re getting your own projects, I don’t know why that has to stop. I mean, we’re all one big team here at the agency.”
“Rah-rah!” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster. “Go team!” She looked at the picture of Todd and me again. Then she exhaled this big sigh.
“I have this pretzel campaign that’s just killing me.”
“Tying you up in knots?” I tossed out, mildly pleased with myself.
“Yes. I was wondering if maybe you had any ideas for it. Maybe you can think on it and we can get together later to brainstorm?”
“Let me look at my schedule. Lunch. Meeting from two to three.” I paused for effect. “Nope, don’t think I have time for that today . . . Sorry.”
“Come on, Jordan,” she came back testily, then composed herself. “I could really use your help.”
“I’m quite sure that you could. But, frankly, Lydia, I think you’ve used me plenty already.” Then with a quick change in tone in my best fake nice voice I asked, “Was there anything else?” She just walked out.
About an hour later, I looked at the picture of Todd and me for about the tenth time. Something was definitely up with him. He was acting all kinds of weird, and it was really bugging me. I called him and told him to meet me at Cozy’s after work. They had the best pea soup in all Manhattan and I was long overdue for my fix. Plus, in the doe-eyed, Who-am-I? innocence of my fake amnesia, I was constantly having to pretend not to know the things I really liked and consequently having to dodge favorite items on menus and in stores when in the company of my concerned handlers. With Todd, I could slump back into the comfortable mode of me. And then there was the bonus that pea soup always grossed Todd out, and any chance I got to gross Todd out with my food consumption, I relished. Todd was playing hard to get. He said he was busy for the next two nights but would be available the next after that. We set a date for then, and hung up—certainly not a standard Todd-Jordan interaction. I looked forward to working out whatever was going on.
* * * * *
On my way to meet Todd at Cozy’s I bumped into Lyric Lady. She raised one eyebrow when she saw me and sniffled. “‘If you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills . . .’”
I froze. She of all people would have no interest in me having or not having my memory—yet I didn’t think it was a good idea to let on that I recognized the “Landslide” lyric or that I knew it was my turn to answer back. I felt guilty ignoring her because, really, what impact could she have on my life?—but still, I felt I had to protect my lack of identity. So, I brushed past her and kept walking.
“Humph,” she muttered. I felt bad letting her down, but I choked back the answer, The landslide will bring it down. “I know . . .” she called out after me. At least I thought that was what she said, but I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to be sure because if I had heard her right, I didn’t even want to begin to think about what that meant.
* * * * *
Todd had ordered the clam chowder. I was blissfully slurping down my pea soup, savoring the buttery sourdough croutons—pure heaven. He, however, was scowling at his bowl.
“This is the worst clam chowder I’ve ever had,” he said. “The worst. What’s in clam chowder? Clams and potatoes. I don’t see a potato. Frankly I don’t even see a clam. How are they even calling this a chowder?”
“You’re in a mood,” I said.
“I was fine before I was handed this consommé. I mean, what could be so wrong with throwin’ in some potatoes and a clam or two. Just for shits and giggles?”
“You ever think about that phrase?” I asked. “Who came up with ‘for shits and giggles’? What’s it supposed to even mean? It’s like someone just decided to make up a saying and put two words together that really have no business being together. Some anonymous moron who has no business making up sayings.”
“You’ve put some serious thought into this,” he said.
“No, it just hit me when you said it. That and I wanted to take your mind off your soup.”
“Well, if the soup alone wasn’t enough to ruin my appetite, dissecting ‘shits and giggles’ has done the trick. Too bad I wasn’t eating chocolate pudding. Then I might even have cause to hurl.”
“Sorry.” He sat there looking disappointedly at his soup. And at me. And out the window. Something was up. And it had nothing to do with the lack of clams in his chowder. Although, I was about to find out that metaphorically, it kind of did. “Okay, so now you want to tell me what’s really bothering you?”
“Ah . . . you’ve seen through my charade,” he said.
“Which is?” I asked, still not knowing.
“You know. I mean, c’mon, Jordy,” he said. “You must know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“This accident of yours. While it’s been extremely convenient for your big master plan, I gotta tell ya, when I got that phone call . . . it scared the shit out of me. My entire life flashed before my eyes. Mind you, I wasn’t even in the accident, but I realized . . . the best part about my life . . . was you.”
I looked up, my spoon in my mouth.
“While you’ve been reveling in ‘the new you,’” he continued. “I’ve still been madly and sadly in love with the old you. Pass me the crackers.”
I was stunned. I really was. How do you come back from that? It was one of those big declarations that’s supposed to make you realize that this is the person you are meant to be with. Or maybe you don’t realize it until later, after you’ve gone through a bunch of stuff and made some more mistakes and then learned your lesson. Of course by then you’ll be entangled with someone else or he’ll standing at the altar and you have to make some grand gesture to win him back even though you had him all along. But this was veering toward the unrequited territory that would be heartbreaking for at least one party. Either way, this was some heavy shit. And of course my response was the height of lame.
“Todd. Todd, Todd, Todd! You’re like my brother!”
“You couldn’t come up with something better than that?” he snapped. “God, Jordan. That is so lame!”
“But it’s true! I’ve known you since I was practically born.”
“So, I’m losing this war based on familiarity? Shouldn’t someone who knows you and loves you, the real you, be some kind of comfort?”
“It is a comfort,” I said. “It’s a huge comfort. And that’s why I want you to always be there. If we were to ever get ‘involved’ and things didn’t work out, as is inevitably the case . . .”
“Always the pessimist . . .”
“Seriously,” I pleaded. “Then what? I lose my best friend.”
“Who says it’s not going to work out?” he asked. He had no idea how great things were with Travis. And even though I was about to try to prove my point that nothing ever worked out, I was hoping that in the case of Travis and me, things would be different.
“How many relationships have you had?” I asked. “Not counting the plethora of one-nighters.”
“A few,” he said. Defensively.
“And how many of them have worked out?”
“That’s not fair!” he practically yelled. “They haven’t worked out because I’ve been in love with you since we were in grade school!”
“Todd, don’t do this. We know each other too well.”
“Again I’m failing to see why this is a bad thing. Yes, we know each other very well. How is that bad?”
“Because I need you to be my friend. Can you please just be my friend?” What seemed like an eternity passed, but I’m sure it was only seconds. It sucked.
But T
odd took it on the chin and responded in true Todd form. “Do I have a choice?” He smiled his trademark comforting smile, but I could see through it that he was crushed. I hated it.
I reached over the table and mussed his hair a little. It was beyond stupid. I may as well have said, “Way to go, champ” or something equally trite. “Thanks for being such a sport, buddy o’ mine.” I hated myself. But the last thing Todd wanted now was for me to feel sorry for him. So we struggled through our soups—or soup and consommé—said some hurried good-byes, and ran like hell in opposite directions, eager to put the horrendous evening behind us.
* * * * *
I needed to talk to Cat, whose apartment wasn’t that far from Cozy’s, but I couldn’t bear to play up the amnesia charade just now. I tried to think of different ways I could call her and pretend to have no memory of our relationship or the fact that she was a shrink, yet use her for her shrinkability. Just thinking it to myself sounded awful, but I needed to talk to someone with her perspective. Cat knew both Todd and me better than anyone in the world and I knew I could trust her. But how could I spill my guts to her about the shifting of my familiar and comfortable relationships while still pretending to be a detached amnesiac?
I called her on my cell—told her that I’d found her number programmed in my phone and I needed to talk to someone. She told me to come over and gave me directions, thankfully unaware of the fact that I was already halfway there.
When I got to Cat’s office there was another emergency meeting taking place and it wasn’t of the flustered-friend kind. The door burst open and I saw—and heard—a twelve-year-old girl there who was crying hysterically. Her hair was five different colors and looked like she’d cut it with a butter knife. Her nose was pierced, and she was wearing way-too-low-cut jeans. Her mother and father followed close behind and nobody looked pleased.
“Fuck you, I’ll kill you in your sleep,” the girl hissed.
“See? You see?” her dad said to Cat.
“Becky, that’s a terrible thing to say,” Cat calmly said. “I know you don’t really want to kill your parents and so do you.”
“You’re right. I don’t want to kill them. Because I don’t want to go to jail. But I do want them dead. They should kill themselves! Make the world a better place!”
And my mom thought I was trouble. “Maybe I should come back another time,” I said.
“Maybe you should go fuck a cow!” Becky suggested.
“Maybe I will,” I calmly said back.
“You can’t because cows are female, stupid bitch.” This girl was twelve.
“Becky, that’s enough,” Becky’s mom said. “I know our time is up. Thank you for all your help, Cat.”
“Yeah, thanks for nothing,” Becky said, and then turned to me. “Your turn, psycho. If I’m still seeing a shrink by the time I’m old like you, I hope somebody runs me over.”
“Somebody did run me over, actually,” I gleefully responded. And wanted to add, “but here’s hoping that if it does happen to you and you get real amnesia, it will wipe out every memory of the wicked little person you are now.”
Once they left, Cat gave me a big hug. “How’s it going?” she asked, and then pulled back from her hug to look me in the eyes when I responded.
“It’s going okay. Work is going good. Better than good, in fact.”
“Great,” she said. “But . . .”
“I know you mentioned before that you are a psychologist,” I said hesitantly. “I didn’t know what the protocol would be on needing a friend to talk to who could . . . help . . .”
“Please! Of course! Tell me what’s going on . . .” she urged.
“It’s about Todd. ”
“What’s up?”
“He told me he loves me. Over clam chowder.”
“What?” she shouted at a decibel so high I was certain her little fetus heard it.
“I know! I mean . . . I think I do? I mean—that’s new information right?”
“Brand-new,” she said, mouth agape. “Shocking.”
I wasn’t sure how to play it, so I went with what I thought I’d do if I really did have no memory. “I didn’t know what to do, but I had a feeling that he and I were just good friends . . . I mean . . . I don’t know. You knew me before. Did I have feelings for Todd?”
“You loved him,” she said, “like a brother.”
“That’s what I said!” I exclaimed. “I felt awful.”
“He’s going to feel hurt and maybe angry. You need to prepare for that, but remember, you’re not responsible for his feelings.”
“But,” I said, “I kind of am.”
“Really?” she asked. “You’re that powerful?”
“Not powerful—I . . .”
“Don’t put that on yourself. People may have feelings as a result of your actions, but you don’t make them feel the way they feel—they just do. All you can do is be honest and treat people with the kindness they deserve. I’m sure you weren’t mean to him.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“So maybe just give him some breathing room. Allow him to feel whatever he’s going to feel, and let him make the next move and guide the two of you back into the friendship.”
I looked at her stomach to see if she was showing yet, but she wasn’t. Once we’d covered the Todd dilemma, it felt like there wasn’t anything safe for me to bring up and she didn’t know what to talk about either so we just got quiet.
“You want some tea?” she asked.
“No, I should let you go.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’ve had a long day and it’s Christmas this weekend. I’ve yet to shop for anyone. Granted, I have no idea what people would like or want, but I have to get them something.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” she said as I put my coat on, and when I was walking through the lobby of her building that’s what kept ringing in my ears. “It’s the thought that counts.”
And feeling silly and brazen, I decided I was going to do all my Christmas shopping at Duane Reade. What did I know? I was just a memory-deprived daughter and sister, so for once my lapses in taste could be excused.
22.
a partridge where a
partridge shouldn’t be
The lack of shame that came with supposedly not knowing any better brought a freedom that I’d never felt when shopping for gifts. I’d always been such a people pleaser and gotten so deeply panicked buying presents for my family in the past that my palms got sweaty at the thought of Christmas shopping. But wandering the aisles of New York’s quintessential drugstore on Christmas Eve morning, I started to really get into it. If I didn’t know these people and looked at them as the outsider that I was pretending to be, what would I see? What would I think they needed?
My dad was easy. In aisle two I spotted a rubber-clad waterproof flashlight and it seemed like a perfect “dad” gift. For my mom I went to the cosmetics section. A big bottle of Jean Naté, a cosmetics kit that was assembled in a stainless-steel box, and last, some face scrub, because I knew how important she thought a good scrub was.
Samantha was a little different. What do you give the girl who’s got everything she ever asked for but nothing she truly needs? The girl who’s made you feel less than for your entire life. The girl who’s so busy blowing hot air, trying to trip you up, and make you fail that—and then it hit me . . . a blow-dryer. So she could blow her hot air all the livelong day. And not one of those expensive $200 T3 dryers that I’d heard Lydia touting even though her hair still looked like a mohair sweater and, if I wasn’t mistaken, had started falling out since she got that fancy dryer. Sam was getting the Conair special: $15.99.
I took all my packages to the counter and threw in a roll of wrapping paper and a disposable camera so I could capture their expressions when they opened their gifts. I did a cursory wrapping job back at my place and then hopped on the train to join the fam for the festivities. I had my overnight bag packed for exactly one night.
That was as long as I could stand.
My stepdad picked me up at the station. I looked out the window during the car ride home, taking in all the decorated houses, for a moment feeling jealous and wondering what it would be like to have been born into a different family. But as soon as I thought it, I came to a realization: Even though each of the houses we passed looked like a Norman Rockwell painting, I knew that behind most of the facades was probably just another dysfunctional family with its own set of problems. No matter how much greener the grass was or, in this case, how much more ostentatious their Nativity scene–decorated lawns and reindeer and Santa sleigh rooftops were, I didn’t know what was really going on inside. And to that end, I thought, nothing is ever really as it seems, is it?
Which brought me to Travis. There was something a little too good to be true about him, and I hadn’t let myself think about it, because I was too busy getting caught up in the cotton-candy dream haze that was the getting-to-know-you phase. But he couldn’t have been that perfect. Nobody was. The only questions were, how deep the bad shit was going to go when it did finally surface, and would I be able to see past it? Embrace it? Or would my newfound, no-bullshit persona be less forgiving?
When we pulled up to our house, the familiar decorations brought back vivid memories, which I did my best to disguise with an expression of vague wonder. The lights outside, all white, because my mom thought colored lights were tacky; the wreath on the front door that, no doubt, was made by Mrs. Kornblut; and the jingle bells that hung over the fireplace screen, rung only once a year—a motion alarm to signal that Santa had come or gone.
Forget About It Page 21