“What is it?” my mother asked.
“As I said before, getting amnesia twice like this really is unprecedented. I’m wondering, just very curious, if this could be . . . a reaction. Something you might call psychological but really I just mean a response to something traumatic, rather than purely caused by the head injury, which it seems was not terribly severe in this case.” So while I was visiting the psych ward, my mother and the good doctor were discussing my sanity.
“What do you mean?” I asked, fearing that I was headed for my own room on the seventh floor.
“Well, head injuries are notoriously unpredictable. The effects don’t show up consistently based on the amount of observable damage. They’re hard to pin down. So I’ve just been wanting to ask, were there any problems when you were growing up, Jordan? Did anything ever happen that you didn’t tell anyone about?”
“I—I honestly have no idea,” I said.
“What are you implying?” my mother asked in a not-so-friendly tone.
“I’m not implying anything. I’m suggesting that she could be trying to suppress something traumatic that may have happened to her at some point in her childhood.”
“Like witnessing something terrible?” I asked.
“More likely, experiencing something terrible or shocking or frightening.”
“I know what you’re getting at and I can assure you that nothing ever happened to her,” said my mother. “No uncles touching in the wrong place . . .”
The doctor looked directly at me. “I’m not implying something specific, some particular abuse, Mrs. Landau. Forgive me if it seems that way. This is a safe place, Jordan. You can tell us anything and nothing bad will happen.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I still really don’t have any memories of anything at all, so I have to go by whatever my mother says.”
“I will say this,” my mother added, “she was always a bit of the black sheep. You know, nothing like me. Or her sister, Samantha.”
“I’m not saying she hasn’t suffered some injuries here,” the doctor said. “She has. But her brain’s most immediate reaction seems to be to just shut down and forget. That type of response could correlate to a trauma—buried in Jordan’s subconscious, perhaps. It’s something to think about. I’m going to give you the number of a very good psychiatrist that you can call at your convenience.”
“Thank you,” we both said.
Then I saw Dirk in the hallway. He was talking to one of the nurses. She was writing something down for him—probably after-care instructions for me. He caught my eye and walked into the room.
“Your carriage has arrived,” he said.
“And where is it taking me?” I asked.
“I’m going to take you home and get you situated. Make sure you’re comfortable.”
My mom smiled at Dirk and gave him a hug.
“You’re such a good boy,” she said. “Jordan is so lucky to have you.”
As we were leaving I thought about Travis and the fact that he’d also said he was going to come and get me, but I didn’t know yet how he fit into the picture. It could be that he was trying to make headway, and seeing my weakened state, he took it as an opening. Then again, Travis seemed so sweet and loving . . . it could have been the real deal with him. I just told myself that Dirk showed up first, and my mother seemed pleased, so that was who I was meant to leave with.
* * * * *
When we were getting into a cab I saw Travis walking into the hospital with what looked like a couple of tall coffees. He didn’t see us and Dirk didn’t notice him, but I watched him navigate the revolving door—a drink in each hand—and felt a lump in my throat. A lump of confusion, fear, uncertainty, and regret, put there by someone I couldn’t remember any more than the cabdriver who indifferently whisked us away.
26.
but then again . . . no
I don’t know what I was expecting to happen when Dirk and I walked into my apartment, but nothing did. I guess I thought that being in my apartment might spark something. It didn’t. We simply appeared there. In the apartment, I looked at pictures of Dirk and me, and Cat and me, and Todd and me, and my family. Framed memories that meant nothing, that might as well have been someone else’s.
I’m not sure what I’d done to earn my release, considering I still wasn’t back to myself—whoever that was—but my family had spoken to my doctor, and doctor to psychologist, and all of them in turns to social worker, and it was decided for me (my vote wouldn’t have made any sense) that I should go home. Each time they’d asked, I’d correctly told them where I lived and where I bought groceries, where I took dry cleaning (although I didn’t remember the lady’s name or her daughter’s, or that there was a lady or a daughter) and where the post office was. I knew the ATM I used but not my PIN; I knew the nail salon but not what colors looked good on me; I knew how to get to work but had to be reminded what I did. In my mental landscape were gaps and dark patches like a thumb had been on the lens when the pictures were taken. I can’t express the strangeness of it all, but everyone has pictures like that—so maybe I don’t have to.
“So, this is your place,” Dirk instructed, just to fill up the quiet. “I cleaned it—well, I had it cleaned.”
“You did?” I asked, suddenly ashamed, wondering what kind of state I’d left it in. “Was it messy? Am I messy?”
“No,” he said, “just . . . you know. You hadn’t been here and I wanted you to come home to a clean apartment.”
“Thank you,” I said as I looked around. The place was clean. Spotless, in fact. And small. Incredibly small. I knew it was mine, and I didn’t recall thinking it was especially oppressive before. But through those clear, fresh, unschooled eyes . . . it was a damned cracker box. I looked at the bookshelf to see if anything I’d read would trigger a memory. It was then that I noticed there was a bird off in the corner.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “Who is that?”
“That?” Dirk said, and I could almost have sworn it was the first time he noticed him too. “That’s . . . your bird.”
“I have a bird. Huh. What’s his name?”
“His name is Tweet . . . Tweetie. Tweetie . . . Bird.”
I walked to his cage. “Hi, Tweetie Bird,” I said. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you. I promise it’s not a reflection on you.” And in one of those instances that makes you wonder if animals really do understand more than they let on, right as I said that he pecked at his reflection in the little mirror in his cage. “Yes, that is a reflection of you.”
Dirk came up from behind me and put his arms around my waist. I felt my face get hot and wondered if I was blushing. He guided me over to my refrigerator and opened it.
“Stocked it full of all our favorites,” he said. Before I could open my mouth to thank him, he handed me a cell phone. “And . . . this is your new phone.”
“New phone . . . ?”
“We couldn’t find your cell phone anywhere on you after the accident, so I took the liberty of getting you a new one. It’s your same cell phone number. I programmed my phone number in there already so whenever you need anything . . . just press number two. The manufacturers put voice mail on number one. So I’m number two on your phone, but number one in your heart.”
“That is the sweetest thing . . .” I said.
And as if on cue, the new phone in my hand rang. I looked at Dirk, unsure of what was going on. Had he rigged it to ring at that second?
“I guess I should get that. I mean, it’s my phone right?” I flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Hi!” said the voice on the other end. “Are you home? It’s Travis. I thought I was going to come pick you up today. I guess they let you out a little early?”
“Yeah,” I said, and I started feeling clammy.
“Who is it?” Dirk asked. I started feeling very clammy.
“It’s Travis?” I said to Dirk as I covered the phone.
“That guy’s a dick! Hang up.”
“
Um . . . can I call you back?” I said to Travis.
“Yeah, let me give you my work number.”
“Okay, let me get a pen,” I said, but then Dirk grabbed the phone out of my hand.
“She doesn’t need your number, bro. Don’t call here anymore.” And he flipped the phone shut. I was completely shocked and felt really bad for Travis.
“That wasn’t very nice, you know,” I said to Dirk.
“Nice? Baby, don’t you know who he is? That’s the guy that hit you with his car, and then he tries to, to bed you so you don’t go after him in court! We’re gonna sue him for everything he’s got. He’s bad news.”
Right then my mom knocked and then came in with a bag of groceries.
“Really? I had no idea,” I told Dirk.
“You had no idea about what?” she asked.
“That Travis hit me with a car,” I repeated.
“Oh, yes! Awful boy, that Travis!” she said. “We’re suing him, you know. Stay away from him.”
“Oh,” I said. He seemed nice, Travis, unlike most reckless drivers you meet. Not that I’d met many, or maybe I had—there was no way of knowing. And he said that we were . . . at least he insinuated that we were dating. No, he definitely said we were dating. Was he lying? Was he that conniving?
“No matter,” my mom went on, “I went grocery shopping! Dirk, honey, will you help me with these.”
“Of course, Mrs. Landau,” he said, “but I have to warn you, I had the same idea and the fridge is already pretty packed.” He grabbed the bags from her and placed them on the counter. “You look very nice in that sweater, by the way.” He seemed to know his way around my apartment and my family.
“Is he the best?” my mom asked me. “You hold on to this one, dear. He’s a keeper.” She’d also said something along those lines when I was in the hospital and I wondered, What was with the Dirk agenda? “Don’t mean to do a drive-by, but I have to run. I know you’re in good hands,” she said and then blew us a kiss as she walked out the door.
Dirk plopped himself down on my bed and patted the empty spot next to him for me to come sit. I did.
“How about a massage?” he asked.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I said, feeling uncomfortable enough as it was without any touching.
“I meant me,” he said, and then he pulled his sweatshirt over his head and lay facedown, shirtless on my bed.
“Oh!” I said, surprised, but then he rolled over and started laughing.
“I’m kidding! C’mon . . . lie back and let go. I’d tell you to forget all your cares, but you’re way ahead of me.”
Rather than argue, I just did as he said. I kept my shirt on, but I did lie facedown and let him rub my back. As nervous as I was, having this complete stranger/perfect boyfriend massage me, I somehow managed to let go and relax—and the next thing I knew my phone was ringing and Dirk was nowhere in sight.
“Hello?” I said.
“It’s Cat. I’m downstairs . . . Can you buzz me up?”
“Is Dirk still here?” I asked, looking around my apartment. It was too small for him to hide, so I realized he must have gone.
“Huh? I don’t know. Is he?” Cat said.
“No, sorry. I was just asleep . . . I got confused. I must have fallen asleep when he was giving me a massage. I hope I didn’t snore. Do you know if I snore?”
“Um, Jordy? I’m downstairs. Can you buzz me up?”
“Sorry. I’m sorry. Yeah . . .” I said as I looked around for a buzzer. “Do you know how I do that?” I should have had a giant question mark tattooed on my forehead because that’s how I felt most of the time.
“It’s on the wall right outside your kitchen,” she said. “You know, that little hallway with the stove in it.”
When Cat walked in, she had that same look that everybody had since I woke up in the hospital. Like they were wearing five-pound earrings on only one side and they were weighing their heads down. They’d all say, “How are you?” with their tilted, feeling-sorry-for-me heads. I felt like a pity case.
“How are you?” she asked, as if on cue.
“I’m okay, I guess. I don’t know. How am I? Do I seem okay?”
“You know . . . you seem different than you were the first time you had amnesia.”
“Really?” I asked. “How so?”
“I don’t know. I guess somehow the last time you were still like . . . you. Not that you’re not you now, I mean, you’re you of course. But you seem more . . . I don’t know . . . lost this time. Do you feel more lost?”
“I don’t remember last time, so I can’t really answer that, but I certainly don’t feel found.”
“Your place is clean,” she said, looking around. Then she noticed something. “Oh my God, you still have Sneevil? Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said, concerned, feeling like I’d kept a library book out too long or I was wearing something that was totally out of fashion now. “What’s a Sneevil?”
“The bird. Sam’s bird.”
“Tweetie?” I asked.
“What-ie?” she said, scrunching up her entire forehead and cocking her head backward.
“Dirk said his name was Tweetie.”
“Figures. Dirk doesn’t know anything. That’s Samantha’s bird. Your sister?”
“Oh,” I said, wondering who was telling the truth. Every time Cat was around and Dirk was around, I seemed to get a different story. I didn’t know if I could trust her, and I still had a weird feeling about her and Dirk. She had such animosity toward him. It just didn’t make sense.
“You wanna go for a jog?” she asked.
“Did I used to jog?”
“Yeah,” she said. “With me.”
“Did I like it?”
“Not really,” she admitted.
“Well, that’s something then,” I said, relieved both that she wasn’t a total liar and that I wouldn’t have to jog. “Because going jogging right now sounds about as fun as a root canal. Maybe I remember that I hated jogging?”
“You did hate it,” she said with a shrug, “but you did it anyway. I was hoping for more of a speed-walk anyway . . .” She shot me a hopeful look but I still wasn’t interested in joining.
“No thanks,” I said apologetically.
“What can I do, honey? I feel helpless,” Cat said as she looked around for something to cheer me up.
“No, you’re great—just for hanging out with me. I’m this blob with no recollection of anything. How boring is that? And here you are.”
“You’re not a blob, and you’re not boring,” she said.
“I am. I’m like a vegetable. No, worse—something even more vapid. What’s lower than a vegetable? I’m tofu.”
“You’re not tofu. Stop it.”
“I am pure soy protein, not fit for a bagel.”
Cat got up and picked up a picture of her and Todd and me. “Listen, I was talking to Todd, who’s been really worried about you, and he and I came up with a great idea. We told Travis too, and he’s on board.”
“Travis?” I asked, confused once again.
“I know—can you believe it? Todd and Travis banded together. They bumped into each other at the hospital after you left today.”
“Okay, but Travis . . .”
“Listen—it’s genius,” she continued. “We want to have a party. For you. Like a This Is Your Life party. I think it’s a great idea. We’ll have everybody who was anybody to you there. Something is bound to trigger a memory.”
“And what if it doesn’t?” I asked.
“Then it’s a good excuse to have a party!” she answered.
“And Travis, he’s the guy who hit me with his car. Why is Todd talking to him? We’re in a lawsuit with him. He probably shouldn’t be— ”
“Jordan,” Cat interrupted. “I don’t know what you’re doing with Dirk again, but you really, really liked Travis.”
“Dirk is my boyfriend,” I said. “That’s what I’m doing with him. I do
n’t know what you have against him, and I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I have to tell you this makes me a little uncomfortable.”
“I’m sorry,” Cat said, and chewed on her bottom lip. “It’s just . . . ugh. He is such a scumbag!”
“Was there something going on between you and Dirk?” I blurted.
“Jordan—I’m pregnant!” Cat exclaimed. “Remember?” Was that it?
“Is it Dirk’s?” I questioned. And judging from Cat’s hysterical laughter, I could surmise the answer was a definite no.
“That . . . is a good one,” she said, when she finally stopped laughing. “I promise you will meet Billy—my husband, who I love desperately—at your party. And then you will believe that I’m only looking out for my best friend. So, fine. I’ll leave this alone for now. Even though I know that you’d want to know that you basically hated Dirk and were completely smitten with Travis.”
I was starting to get a headache. “That’s not what Dirk says. Or my mom.”
“Okay. Fine. Well, can we do this party? I think it’s a great idea.”
“I —I don’t know. Can I think about it?”
“I guess . . .”
“Thanks, Cat,” I said, trying to swallow the exasperation so I didn’t get it all over her. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. This is just a lot to deal with and the idea of having a memory party is just a little . . . odd. But I know you’re just trying to help me and I totally appreciate it. I’m sure you were probably an amazing friend.”
“Well . . . naturally,” she said. “And not were . . . are. I am an amazing friend. And so are you.”
* * * * *
I was lying on my bed, frustrated that I had no tie to it. My bed in my apartment was supposed to be some sort of comfort, I thought, but it was just a piece of furniture in a room that was supposedly mine yet felt unfamiliar. No comfort. I felt like a visitor in my own apartment—in my own life, for that matter.
I wondered if there was any truth to what the doctor said—if maybe this was a result of some trauma, if I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. And what if I didn’t get my memory back? What was I supposed to do?
Forget About It Page 28