“As your lawyer, I would rather be present for any dealings with the plaintiff.” Plaintiff? He was referring to me as the plaintiff?
“Your lawyer!?”
“Ben, really. I’ll handle this.”
“Call my cell if you need me,” Ben said and then left. He almost clipped me on my shoulder as he walked out.
I tried to reason with Travis. “Travis. Look at me,” I pleaded. “It is a coincidence! I was getting your surprise.” I waved the T-shirt in front of him, which he had no interest in whatsoever. “I had no idea about any of this!”
“Well, regardless of how I actually got the papers, it says here that you’re suing me. Jordan, if you do this,” he said, and then finished the rest without even looking at me, as though I were no longer there, “I can’t open my restaurant. I don’t have time or money to deal with all this. Plus, my already way-too-expensive car insurance will skyrocket. And I’m trying to save up.”
“I’m not suing you! I promise! I would never!” I practically screamed. “God, this is so crazy. This is obviously my mother’s doing. She’s been trying to talk me into suing you since day one. She even asked me to start going to physical therapy so it would better the case—which I didn’t do, by the way!”
He looked up. “And now, even to get a lawyer to defend against this—”
“And your lawyer? Ben? I heard you guys talking when I was at your door. What’s his problem?”
“Same as mine now,” he said, and then shifted his feet ever so slightly. “He never thought we should have gotten involved. He just wanted me to smooth things over originally. Just in case. He was looking out for my best interests.”
Now I was pissed.
“Oh . . . I get it. It was just damage control all along? I had no intention of suing you, but you, on the other hand manipulated me into your little plan? ‘Oh, you’re so great, let’s go to my romantic lighthouse, blah, blah, blah . . .’ and I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Was this all just to make sure I didn’t sue you?”
“Well, if it was, it sure didn’t work—did it?”
“I can’t believe you!”
“I can’t believe you!” he said. I threw the shirt at him. He pulled it off his head and looked at it. He could see that it was the shirt I’d described at dinner, that I’d actually had it made. And there he was, standing there with the T-shirt in one hand and the subpoena in the other. But he said nothing. So I turned around and walked out.
* * * * *
The minute my feet hit the pavement outside Travis’s apartment I lost it. It was too much to even wrap my head around. I’d been worrying about how to tell him I’d never lost my memory—creating little scenarios in my head for coming clean about the whole thing and how he’d react and how I’d defend myself and how we’d ultimately work it out—but never in my little fantasies had a lawsuit filed by my mother entered the equation. I walked with two fingers in my mouth to keep from sobbing out loud and the other hand across my eyes to keep strangers from seeing them. From the side, I must have looked as though I was trying to twist my head off.
I hated my mother. Hate didn’t even seem strong enough. Loathed. Was loathe worse than hate? Despise? Detest? Deplore? Deplore wasn’t very strong. Generic hate would have to do. Leave it to her to take a perfectly good pretend case of scrambled consciousness and make it a real case of scrambled consciousness. Every chance she got.
I was walking down McDougal Street bawling my eyes out, literally wailing like a little baby, when something dawned on me (besides how stupid I looked and how badly I was embarrassing myself): It felt as though this was all happening to me. My modus operandi was to be the victim. Everything happened to me, people did things to me, I was suffering because he did that and she did this. But nothing was ever my fault. And that was all very convenient for the old Jordan because the old Jordan didn’t take responsibility for anything.
Now that was forgotten. I had to figure out what my part was in it and what I could do to try to fix it. It was time to shed the victim status and stop subscribing to the belief that everything happened to me. Things just happened. And it was my job to turn things around—not sit back and take it as though I were a bystander in my own life.
I’d faked amnesia. Yes. Signed the paper giving my mother power of attorney? Check. But I hadn’t granted her permission to bulldoze the beautiful, if slightly dishonest, relationship I was developing with Travis.
As I walked home, I thought about things my mom had done in the past, arguments we’d had, slammed doors and slammed phones . . . and I remembered a conversation I’d once had with Cat when she asked me why I had anything to do with my mother.
The answer was totally obvious to me: “Because she’s my mother.”
“What does that mean?” she said and added, “and don’t give me biological statistics.” Cat wasn’t overly sentimental, and as far as she was concerned, just because someone shares the same blood as you doesn’t give her the right to be an asshole. And her corollary to that rule was “Life’s too short to deal with assholes that aren’t paying you, and even they have limits.”
“It means I love her, and she’s the only mother I have,” I said. And while it was still true at that second, I couldn’t help feeling like I’d been somehow shortchanged in the mom department, and it certainly wasn’t the first time I’d felt that way.
So that was the old me. Did the new me still feel that way? Did the new me subscribe to the belief that you don’t have to have a relationship with someone who doesn’t respect you—even if that person is your mother? I didn’t know the answer, but I did know I was going to call the woman and demand some face-to-face time so I could figure it out. That and get her to cut out this lawsuit crap.
When I got back to my apartment I was emotionally spent. I fell onto my bed in a pathetic heap and heard a crinkle, rolling over only to find it was a printout of the lighthouse poem. Travis. That was the other variable. Besides being furious at my mother, there was the whole Ben-is-my-lawyer—you-are-guilty-until-proven-innocent—by-the-way-I’m-no-longer-that-perfect-guy-you’ve-been-falling-in-love-with-I’m-a-COMPLETE-ASSHOLE thing.
What was up with the Ben thing? Maybe Travis wasn’t the guy I’d thought he was all along. Maybe he was just some jerk covering his ass so he didn’t end up in a lawsuit. I didn’t even remember going to sleep. I just cried and cried and when I opened my eyes it was the next morning. I called my mom and asked that she meet me for lunch. I forgot to be stern at first, given how angry I was at her—it was the old Jordan calling—but then she started to hesitate, and then I didn’t ask anymore. I told her to be there. And after agreeing reluctantly, she was in the middle of upbraiding me when I hung up.
23.
power(less) of attorney
When I got to the Blue Water Grill my mother was already seated and drinking. I imagined she was on her second “Whatever your best merlot is” with several more to come.
“Hi, Mom,” I said with venom, and took the empty seat. The one facing the wall. I know you need to respect your elders and all that, but my mom always demanded she sit “facing out” so that she could have the nice view. I’m sure that’s proper etiquette in dating—the man allows the woman to face out, but is there a rule that states your mother always faces out? I’m an adult female, which would mean that we’re both women, no? So why did she always get the good seat? “Thanks for meeting me.”
“It sounded urgent,” she said as she sipped. “Whatever could be so important?”
“You filed a lawsuit on my behalf against Travis.”
“Travis?” she said, acting confused. Like she had to place the name. And there it was—right pinky to the bangs. A few pushes of the hair out of the eyes, and then the fingers would run in a line to the rear of her head, as though they were looking for an exit. The telltale part, I’d come to call it. The unmistakable sign that Mom was lying.
“Yes, Mom,” I said in a tone she probably hadn’t ever heard from me. “T
ravis. The guy you filed the lawsuit against. Unless there’s more than one lawsuit you’ve filed on my behalf?”
“No, dear. Just the one. Sorry . . . I just didn’t know his name offhand.” Bullshit.
“Well, you have to unfile it,” I demanded.
“I’m sorry, Jordan,” she said in an almost apologetic tone, “but we can’t do that.”
“I’m not suing him,” I insisted. “Whatever you did. Undo it. Cancel it.”
“No,” she said.
It was a simple answer—one she’d told me all my life without any qualifications. It was never, “No, because of this . . .” or “No, and here is why.” It was always just plain “no.” And I guess, as my mother, she had had the right to say no to many things throughout my life. Like when I asked to be an only child again at the age of eleven, five years after Samantha was born. (“No.”) Or when I asked if I could have my own apartment at the age of fourteen, because she was constantly yelling at me for playing my music too loud and having my own pad would solve the problem. (“No.”) Or at fifteen, when we’d gone to London for vacation, and I asked to have wine with dinner and argued (truthfully) that the United Kingdom stipulated that alcohol could be consumed (in the home) from age five with parental consent. (“You’re working my last nerve, Jordan.”)
And, fine—she had every right to nix those requests. But this was different. I was an adult. This was my life. And even though it had technically been my life since I’d turned eighteen, my life had really only become my own the day I got in that accident. And, as such, I needed more information before I could know how to respond.
“‘No,’ what, Mother? ‘No’ . . . why? What’s your reason?” I asked in as calm a tone as I could.
“We are suing him and that is the end of the story.” She took a big gulp of her wine and motioned to the waiter that she’d be needing a refill by tapping her fingernail against the glass. “It’s all filed. The ball is already in motion. There is a lawsuit taking place, and that is that.”
“Okay.” I said. “That much I understand. Yes, currently there is a lawsuit between him and me, but I didn’t file it and I don’t want to sue him, so I’m asking you to stop it. I’m fine.”
“You are not fine, Jordan. You have amnesia!”
“Well, I like it, okay? So stop the lawsuit.”
“No, I won’t. I’m your mother and I care for you and this is best and you’re not in any shape to make this decision.” The waiter came over and refilled her glass.
“I’m not asking you to do this. I’m telling you to. I’m an adult. You can’t file a lawsuit for me. I can stop it myself, but you did it with your lawyer, so just undo it.”
“No. I won’t. We are suing him. And while you may be an adult, you aren’t ‘all there’ since the accident. Listen to yourself. You like having lost your memory? Do you even know what you’re saying? I doubt you do. I am your legal guardian and as such have power of attorney, which now, in its most literal sense, gives me the power to hire an attorney.”
She had a point. As far as she was concerned, I was gravely injured and grossly wronged, and she was trying to protect me and punish the person who’d inflicted this on me. But that didn’t stop me from freaking out.
“You can’t do this!”
“I’ve done it, dear. As I said, the ball’s in motion.”
“Well, stop the ball,” I said, in a decidedly noninside voice. “Stop the fucking ball!”
“Jordan, watch your mouth!” A few people turned and looked in our direction. Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my mom from my vision, which I was thankful for, because I couldn’t stand to even look at her.
“Mom, please!” I urged. “You have to stop it. Please! I’m begging.”
“Sorry, dear.”
And I stared back at her, shooting paring knives since no daggers were at hand. “So, now I’m back in the cramped, hideous, Judith Landau dungeon that I suffered eighteen years to escape!” An amnesiac probably wouldn’t have had that level of prepossession or pent-up anger, so I quickly added, “If this episode is any guide.”
She slammed her napkin to the table. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just—I just. You can’t do this. Please listen to me. This is my life you’re messing with. I’m not that hurt. Really and truly. I’m fine. And I’ll find a way to undo this or die trying. He’s important to me. And if you drag him to court, you’ll spoil all his dreams.”
“His dreams? What do I care about his dreams? I’m sorry, Jordan, but he’s not my concern. You are.”
“Then do this for me,” I begged.
“I am, dear. You just don’t have the clarity to see it right now.” The waiter came over with menus. As he put them down, I got up.
“I’m not staying.” My mom sipped her drink and shrugged at the waiter. “And I’ll go see the lawyer myself.”
* * * * *
I stormed out of the restaurant, picturing alternating images of my mom’s and Travis’s faces as I stomped on an imaginary game of hopscotch. I pulled out my cell and called Cat.
“I hate my mother,” I said.
“Well, you weren’t her biggest fan before either,” Cat answered.
“She’s killing me! She’s suing Travis. How can she do this?”
“She thinks that she’s doing the right thing, as twisted as that may sound.”
“Don’t take her side,” I spouted.
“I’m not. I’m just saying—”
“She trapped me. I thought I could go and tell her to stop it, and she would and then everything would be okay. Now what do I tell him? I’m sorry but I’m suing you and there’s nothing I can do about it?”
“It sucks, I know . . . but . . . yeah. That’s the truth, right?” It was hard for me to even know what the truth was anymore. “You guys were really hitting it off, huh?”
“He’s caring, considerate, interesting, ambitious, funny, smart—the anti-Dirk,” I said. “Well, he was.”
I gave her the quick and dirty rundown of the Ben situation.
“Isn’t that a little sketchy?” she asked, almost reading my mind.
“I don’t know. It looks bad. But if Ben is a lawyer, that’s what he knows how to do.”
“Make people hate each other?” she joked.
“No,” I said. “We do that well enough on our own. Something tells me Travis was the real deal.”
“Wow,” Cat said. “That’s quite an endorsement. We talking marriage material?”
“I don’t know.” I sighed. “He seemed to have all kinds of potential to be my awfully wedded husband someday . . . ”
“Did you hear what you just said?” Cat asked excitedly.
Shit, I thought. I’d slipped again. I’d said awfully wedded. When we were kids we’d misunderstood wedding vows as awfully wedded instead of lawfully wedded. When Todd and I married, lo those many years ago, we’d even said it in the ceremony, thinking we were saying it correctly. I decided to just play dumb.
“What?” I asked, all wide-eyed and clueless.
“You said ‘awfully wedded.’ That’s our inside joke! You remembered!”
“I did?”
“Yeah!” she said. “Oh my God, you’re getting your memory back! Have you had anything else like this happen?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe it is coming back.” Cat sounded so happy I didn’t want to ruin it by pretending it was a fluke. I let her think it was coming back to me. Which was like choosing which lie fit the moment better. Or which dress to wear to your own funeral. Not fun.
But the more I thought about it, the better it sounded. If I got my memory back, then my mom wouldn’t have guardianship over me and I could fix everything.
* * * * *
I stopped by the office and was immediately struck by the lack of chaos. Granted, it was pretty much empty, save for the idiots like me who came in of their own free will over the holiday break, but I couldn’t seem to shake that d
istinct calm-before-the-storm feeling. I didn’t know if it was my own turmoil over my memory experiment starting to bubble over and burn me or if it was something else that lay in wait behind a midheight cubicle wall. I walked dead center down the hallways, looking side to side cagily.
The old Jordan wouldn’t have been caught dead in the office over vacation, but after the Christmas break we’d be pitching the Rinaldi Coffee Company ideas for their new coffee press, and, although I had a good handle on my pitch, I wanted to make sure it was my best work yet. Just a few days before Christmas I’d come up with the tagline from heaven: “Get rich quick.” There was no way Rinaldi wouldn’t love it, I thought, and coming off my VibraLens heat this was just the thing to keep myself in the game as a major up-and-comer. All I had to do was work out a few different versions for my pitch.
But I couldn’t focus. Not on anything other than Travis. The committed effort to blank my mental slate and get down to work kept devolving like this: I saw a rubber band on the floor and bent down to pick it up, which gave me a slight head rush, which made me touch my forehead, which made my shirtsleeve brush my locket, which made me think of Travis. So I tipped my mouse pad up on its edge to shake off the accumulated crumbs and shavings and who knows what else, and as they fell to the floor, some particles caught the light and sparkled a little, which reminded me of the snow falling through the nimbus of the streetlight in front of the restaurant where just two nights before we were . . . Shit.
Every time I tried to sketch out an idea, I’d unconsciously draw Travis and Jordan stick figures. Happy Travis and Jordan. Angry Travis. Jordan apologizing. Travis accepting. Travis not accepting. Jordan crying. Travis and Jordan flying a kite. Not sure why. I wound up with seven pages of strip-cartoon blocks playing out all the different scenarios of how we might resolve the mess, had we both been born stick figures.
When it was finally clear to me that I wasn’t going to get anything done with work or anything else until I fixed things with Travis, I decided to pack it up and take the direct approach to fixing my life. And there was only one person who could help me now. I tucked my budding cartoon strip into my bag and took off.
Forget About It Page 24