“Hi!” she said to me. And then, noticing Dirk, she completely changed her tone. “Hello, Dirk.” I wondered if there was something between them ever. Was she his ex? If she was, then why was she being nice to me? Was I friends with her? Was I friends with all his exes?
“So it’s back to square one again?” she asked me, eyebrows raised.
I looked at her, not really comprehending but giving her—like everyone else who traipsed into the room—the benefit of the doubt. This must indeed be some kind of square one.
“Unreal,” she said. “Seriously. I can’t believe it! I’m surprised you’re not a local news story. Hell, screw local—this is, like, 60 Minutes.”
“Much longer than that,” I said. “They say this is five days, but I only remember today and some of yesterday.” She smiled and then stopped suddenly. Then she picked up talking again.
“I’d go with the fifteen minutes of fame, personally. I’m Cat. We’re best friends. Have been for, like, ever. We grew up living next door to each other.” She pulled out a picture and held it before me. Two little girls wearing wigs. “This is us. You’re the blonde. I’m the brunette. They’re wigs. Not a very good look for eight-year-olds, but we thought we were pretty foxy.” I looked at the picture of us and looked at her. Tried to see how her face had changed. I didn’t know my own face well enough yet to make any kind of comparison. I’d seen myself for only that brief moment when I was trying to compare myself to my miniature mother and sister.
Then Cat flipped to another one of us when we were little girls. “And this is us—sans wigs—also a long time ago. As you can see, we are every bit as cute now as we were back then.” She pulled out another picture. It was of Todd and her, making one of those chairs where you’d hold hands and cross your arms and a person would sit in it. I was sitting in the chair. “And here’s a funny one.” I looked at all the pictures and felt completely overwhelmed. I didn’t recognize any of the people in them or remember any of the moments. I felt my nostrils flare and my chin quiver as I tried not to cry, but I lost control anyway and tears started streaming down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping the tears away and sniffling back the drip in my nose—then regretting the disgusting sound it made. “I just . . . This is really strange.” I didn’t remember any of it—or them. It looked like I had all of these fun memories, but no matter how long I stared at the pictures or how hard I tried to concentrate, they meant nothing to me.
“It’s okay,” Cat said. “I know it’s frightening not knowing anybody or remembering anything. But this will pass. You’ll get better.” Dirk looked a little uncomfortable. I guessed it was the crying.
“Sorry to get all crybaby,” I said to him.
“Not at all, sweetie. This is very overwhelming. You’d have to be a robot not to feel scared and confused,” Dirk said.
Cat jerked her head backward and smirked at Dirk. “Speaking of artificial humans, mind telling me what you’ve done with the real Dirk there, Rusty?”
Dirk ignored her.
“I’ll let you two catch up. I have to go anyway,” he said, looking at his watch. “I have a commitment.”
“Ahh, my apologies,” Cat said. “That’s more like it—double booking a hospital visit and a date.”
“Actually,” Dirk told her, “it’s a volunteer thing I’m doing. No big deal, but they do count on me being there.”
“Really? That’s so nice!” I said.
“It’s about the only thing that could come between us now,” he said and winked at me.
“Well, that . . . or any panty-clad ass on a barstool,” Cat interjected.
“Cat, be happy Jordan here is still with us. Try not to be so bitter about two people who have found love,” Dirk said with a sympathetic smile. “It’s just uncharitable.” Then he blew me a kiss. “I’ll come see you later, baby.”
“Ugh. Gag me!” said Cat after he’d gone.
“You don’t like Dirk?” I asked.
“What’s to like?” Something was definitely not right with this picture. She must have slept with him, I thought. Or tried. That was probably it. She must have tried to steal him away from me and he turned her down. What kind of friend was she? There was no way that my supernice, volunteering boyfriend could have done anything intentionally harmful to her. Of course I was clearheaded enough to recall that love and lust are capricious masters. My guess was that Cat had a bit of a bruised ego.
Then the guy they’d kicked out the day before came walking in with a gigantic stuffed bear with a goofy face and droopy eyes. All I saw at first was the stuffed animal, then I saw the guy hidden behind it, struggling to carry it in.
“This is Bartholomew, patron saint of amnesia victims,” he said. “He’s come to look after you and help you get your memory back. And to remind you that there is somebody who is crazy about you waiting for you to hurry up and get better.” How cute was he? “How you feeling, Curveball?”
“Okay,” I said. Confused, I thought. Curveball? Was this some sort of password? Was I supposed to know the code word to say back to him?
“Hi, I’m Travis,” he said to Cat, and put his hand out to shake. She took it and nodded her approval at me.
“Well,” she said, as a smile spread across her face. “I’ve been waiting for this moment,” she said to him. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Travis. It’s very nice to meet you.” Then she smiled at me and jerked her eyes at him a few times, as though she thought I couldn’t see him and wanted to signal to me that he was there. “In fact . . . I think I’m going to go grab some coffee and leave you two. There’s nothing better than some good old hospital cafeteria coffee. I’ll be back.” Cat left and then poked her head in the door and gave me a double thumbs-up when he wasn’t looking.
“Sorry about the size of the bear,” Travis said, looking disapprovingly at the mountain of fake fur. “They didn’t have anything bigger. I figured I’d already gone the flowers and candy route last time . . . although, come to think of it, you probably don’t even remember that, so I guess I could have done it again. Well, he seemed pretty cute anyway, so . . .”
“Thank you,” I said. “He’s great.”
“And when I get you home, I’ve got an extra special welcome-home-get-better-soon dish that I want to make you.”
“You cook?” I asked.
“You better believe it. I can clean too. If you’re really nice, I might even do your taxes.”
“Lucky me. Wait—do I have taxes?”
“You never were too good with your bills,” Cat said with a smile, still hovering in the doorway. “Really leaving now. Be back soon.”
“Everyone does,” he said. “I’m actually pretty bad with numbers. But I would give it my very best and mess it up real good before you had to call in the pros.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I can’t believe this happened to you.” He brushed the hair out of my face, which made me a little anxious because of the unfamiliarity. But then he looked at me so sweetly. There was definitely something going on here. I had to ask.
“Were we . . . ?” I looked up at him, hoping he would catch my meaning.
“Were we what?” he asked, not seeming to know where I was headed.
“It seems like we, I mean from the way you’re acting . . . Did we ever see each other?”
“God, I’m sorry. I thought you knew that. Yes,” he said, and then smiled a shy sort of smile. “I’m crazy about you. I mean—there’s some stuff—a lot of stuff that we need to talk about but . . . we’ll work it out.” I started getting cold and clammy again. I flashed back to when Dirk was in there earlier and how he told me that he was my boyfriend. I couldn’t imagine what was going on. Was I some kind of two-timing tease? How many guys out there thought that they were my boyfriend? And which one did I really like?
“Wow.”
“Wow . . . good? Wow bad?” he asked.
“I just . . . I’m sorry. I just don’t remember.”
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sp; “It’s okay. Really. Don’t stress about that. You can’t remember anything. If you’d forgotten only me, then I might have cause for concern.”
“This is all really strange,” I said. “A lot to process.”
“I know it is. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. But we’ll get all caught up. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good,” I said, and tried to smile but I felt really nervous and guilty. He was so sweet. This amnesia business was not a good thing to have if you were indeed a man-eating two-timing slut.
Travis stayed with me until my visiting hour ended and then promised to come back. I drifted off with an image of him and Dirk standing side by side. Choking each other, then turning on the real source of their misery—me. Then I tried not to think anymore for a while.
* * * * *
Later, a man in a blue cotton shirt and pants walked into my room and smiled at me.
“Hi, Jordan. How are you feeling?” he said as he checked whatever they had dripping into me intravenously.
“Don’t tell me,” I answered. “We’re going out too?”
“No, but I’m game if you are.” Everybody was a comedian. I, however, was confused and having a bit of a crisis. For all I knew I was cheating on everyone—with everyone else.
Then he took out a tongue depressor. “Say aah,” he said. I surmised that he was another doctor. I opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue, and did as he’d requested. I wished I’d brushed my teeth in the last day and wondered what kind of dragon breath I was launching in his direction. He put the tongue depressor on my tongue and wrote something down on my chart. As he was doing this, he smiled.
“What?” I asked. At least I tried to ask, but it was hard to be understandable with a stick on my tongue. He took it out.
“Now that was impressive,” he said.
“What? I have good tonsils?”
“No, your gag reflex. Most girls gag after five seconds.”
“Oh,” I said, not sure if this was even appropriate conversation. I mean, what was he trying to say?
“I did my residency in Los Angeles. West Coast girls have great gag control. Actresses. Go figure. But you’re the best I’ve come across on the East Coast.” My eyes widened. Were we really discussing my gag reflex? Had he really just said “come across”? And did I really have the talent of a porn star? I did apparently have two boyfriends, so the prizewinning gag reflex would be par for the course.
“Well,” I said, “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that. Thank you for noticing?”
“How do you feel about dancing, Jordan?”
No way, I thought. Was he making a pass at me and my gag reflex?
“Um . . . I don’t know,” I said. “How do you feel about dancing?”
“I enjoy it.”
“Fair enough,” I said, not really sure where the conversation was going.
“I’m asking because I’m going to be sending you to Dr. Debra. She does something called dance therapy.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said. He shrugged and tucked his pen behind his ear.
* * * * *
When I got to the dance therapy room, I hovered at the door, not feeling too keen on entering. But the teacher, Dr. Debra, knew me.
“Hi, Jordan,” she sang as she ushered me farther into the room.
“Hi, Jordan,” said some guy in his late forties. “Good to see you. Welcome back.”
I felt this overwhelming rush of panic. Was I going crazy? Welcome back? The doctor had just sent me there for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Perhaps you have me confused with someone else.”
“No, Jordan,” the guy said. “We know you. You just may not remember us.”
“But I don’t remember ever being here,” I said, looking around the room. “And I only got to the hospital a couple days ago.”
“I know. We heard all about it. It’s so terrible. I’m Paul,” said the guy. “We—you and I—were partners in dance therapy before.”
“Oh, we were?” I had forgotten that I’d supposedly been there before and that I’d already been suffering from amnesia. Or had I? If I bought Todd’s story, then I’d been faking it. But why? Why would I want to hang around a hospital and dance with stroke victims? I had no idea what kind of person I was and/or how I got my kicks before, but I couldn’t imagine that that was my idea of a party.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said. “You look well.”
“You too, I guess.”
Dr. Debra put on some New Agey music and asked us to start moving. And we did. I guess I was doing better than the last time because Dr. Debra said so.
“Excellent, Jordan. You’re much looser. Good progress.”
“Thanks?” I muttered. This was just beyond bizarre.
“Feel yourself. Feel yourself from the inside out. Move how you feel.” Some woman started shaking like she was having an epileptic fit. I thought she was going to die right then and there—until I realized . . . that was how she felt. And as luck would have it, even if it was some kind of fit, she was in the right place. Someone would have just wheeled her to the right floor and taken care of it.
“Jordan, move your body!” Dr. Debra commanded. I’d been so busy staring at the shaker that I’d neglected to “dance how I felt.” I didn’t want to dance at first. I felt confused and scared and frustrated and annoyed . . . and then—for reasons known only to God and perhaps the inventor of Dance Dance Revolution—I did want to dance. There weren’t any words that could express what I was feeling, and suddenly I felt a desperate need to express them. And I did. I danced. Crazily. Wildly. Totally uninhibitedly. I shook and swerved and twirled and shimmied to such an extent that sweat was forming in little beads all over my face, dampening my hair, and I didn’t care. I didn’t even notice that people had stopped their own movements to watch me, and when I finally started to lose steam and did make contact with the roomful of eyes, it didn’t matter.
And even more surprising—everybody clapped for me.
“Very powerful, Jordan,” said Dr. Debra. “This is the breakthrough we were hoping for last time. Congratulations on being present.”
After dance therapy, I was sent back to my room. All the nurses knew me and said hi to me by name as I passed, but I didn’t recognize any of them.
I sat in my room and tried as hard as I could to remember something. I pictured all the people that had come to visit me and concentrated on their faces, trying to bring back memories, something . . . anything. No such luck. All I got was a massive headache.
I started to wonder if I was crazy. I didn’t feel crazy, but if I had done what Todd said I did—which I wasn’t leaning toward believing—then there must have been something seriously wrong with me. What kind of person would fake amnesia?
* * * * *
I stayed in the hospital for weeks. The psychologist assigned to pull me back—that’s literally what he called it, that or “pull me out” or “pull me up” or bring me back or up—anyway, I don’t remember what he called it, but he held forth Monday to Saturday excluding Wednesdays in a sliver of an office on the seventh floor, beyond the locked corridors of the proper psych ward in what he called the outskirts. Or outlands or outlying areas. I wasn’t much on details at this point. Anyway, something in his gentle enthusiasm always set me at ease, and on this particular day, I was in the mood for some easing.
My luck, he was out, but there was a general hubbub on the floor—it was the psych ward, and it was visiting hours. Some people didn’t have anyone there to see them, and those were the saddest and the ones I focused on. I wondered how long they’d been there and why nobody was coming for them. I wondered about what landed them there and about being labeled “psychotic.” What was the straw that broke that camel’s back, the last alarming thing they’d done to get thrown into a mental hospital—or was it an accumulation along the way? And could it have been possible that one or more of these people’s actions, while pe
rhaps seeming irrational, was in fact a sane reaction to an insane situation? Just thinking about it terrified me. How could you tell the visitors from the patients, the civilians from the conscripts, without the ill-fitting blue gowns?
One woman caught my eye. She looked more bedraggled even than her ward mates, with worn skin and hair venturing off in every direction. She wore a dirty gray bandana tied around her right wrist. She was mumbling to herself. I could only make out every few words, but every time she finished a sentence, it was almost like she was waiting for a response from me.
“‘Watch what you say . . . calling you a radical . . . liberal, fanatical . . .’” she said, and then cocked an eyebrow at me. Was she talking about politics? Someone called her those things? Had she been arrested at some kind of political protest and brought here? I couldn’t help but think that, at least while she was staying in the hospital, she had a roof over her head.
I looked away, not wanting to stare, but that seemed to agitate her even more. She got up briskly from her chair, looked around, then took three long sidesteps toward me and sat directly across from me.
“‘Won’t you sign up your name,’” she continued insistently in my face.
“My name?” I asked. “They say, ‘Jordan.’ And I don’t have a good argument against it.”
She waved my answer away and went on, “‘We’d like to feel you’re acceptable . . . respectable . . . presentable, a vegetable!’”
“Well, a little memory loss, yes, but I wouldn’t go that far,” I said, backing up slowly.
“Hmm . . . ,” she said. And then she walked away, whistling something to herself, leaving me as lost as ever.
* * * * *
When I got back to my room, my mother was there with my doctor.
“Before I send you home there’s something I wanted to talk about,” the doctor said to both of us.
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