I didn’t know what it meant to be Jordan Landau. Was it up to me to piece it all together from what everybody told me or was I supposed to follow my instincts and make new choices, become someone else? Wasn’t that what Todd claimed I’d done? Faked it to reinvent myself?
I could understand the appeal of a clean slate and the freedom to do whatever I wanted with it to an extent, but completely losing my identity seemed like too harsh a punishment.
I was nobody. I didn’t have memories of the house in which I grew up, my family, my friends, my job. No first day of school or favorite teachers or birthday parties or scraped knees. I could talk on the phone, cook a meal, work a key in a lock, and use my credit card—well, I knew to present it anyway, though in the account’s current state, it didn’t get much farther than the presentation phase and then Daddy Cash had to step in. “How” was more or less okay. “Who” and “what” were a washout.
The phone rang—startling me, thankfully taking me out of my head.
“Hello?” I said, hesitant—not knowing if I would recognize the voice on the other end.
“Hey, it’s Travis.”
Travis. Another question mark. I knew the name now, and from his visit to the hospital, I knew he was bound up in some inscrutable romantic triangle—maybe it was a square or pentagon—but it was the same as having a book on my shelf that I didn’t remember reading or a piece of furniture that I didn’t remember buying. Dirk had one version and Cat had another. He was obviously persistent and wasn’t deterred by Dirk having hung up on him, so I figured I’d hear him out.
“Hi, Travis,” I said.
“How are you?”
“Okay, I guess. Just trying to remember things. Like if I liked living in a cold-weather state and if so why?”
“Good question. Feeling the cold?”
“Hating it,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s brutal today. Are we really discussing weather?” he asked, but I thought I could hear a smile through the phone.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s one of those immediate . . . relatable things. I don’t know what else I’m qualified to talk about. They did some exercises at the hospital where they held up pictures and asked me about them. We could do that . . . but probably not on the phone.”
“Yeah,” he said, and laughed. “Probably not.”
“Yeah . . .” I said back, and then there was a pause. He called me, so I guessed he had a reason.
“So . . . have you remembered things?” he asked hopefully. “People?”
“No,” I answered. “I wish. People are a missing link.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it’s hard. Can I say some things and see if they spark anything?”
“Sure,” I said.
“The Beacon?”
“No.”
“Longfellow?”
“Nope. Someone I know?”
“Not unless you’re about a hundred and fifty years old,” he said, “and I’m not sure that would be a turn-on. For me, at least. Let’s try . . . Thanksgiving? Going with me to crash strangers’ Thanksgivings?”
“No . . . did we do that?”
“Oh, yeah, we did,” he said, and then laughed as he remembered. “You were great.”
“This past Thanksgiving?”
“Yup.”
“I wasn’t with my family?” I asked.
“You were. You took a little break.”
“Huh,” I said, trying to keep up and failing. It got quiet again.
“Bumper cars?” he asked.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. But at least this time it’s not my fault.”
“Yeah,” I said. “There seems to be some . . . stuff about that.”
“Jordan, it’s a mess. People are going to tell you all kinds of things . . . and we’d sort of had a fight. But—and I don’t want to confuse you—we were really happy before the stupid fight.”
“Okay,” I said, because I didn’t know how to respond to that.
“I know . . . it’s a lot to process and you’re probably getting different stories from everyone, but I care a lot about you. And there’s an explanation for everything that went down between us—at least my part.”
“You know,” I said, “I don’t remember what ‘went down,’ so I really don’t even know what we’re talking about.”
“I know,” he said. “I just had to say it. It had to be said.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.”
“Okay,” I said again.
“And if you think you want to see me, or you start to remember anything, I just want you to know that I’m not mad and I can explain—” He stopped himself. Then started again, “Never mind . . . I already said it. Okay, Jordan. Good night.”
“Good night, Travis.”
* * * * *
The next afternoon, Cat was back, and she was very pleased with herself because she had a plan. The plan? Try to get my memory back with negative association. Her reasoning was that during my first bout with amnesia—a phrase I don’t imagine gets used very often—she tried to help me by making my favorite foods, taking me to my favorite places, showing me pictures of good times past . . . and none of it worked.
She decided that we’d do the opposite this time. First stop: Elton John. She popped in the Greatest Hits CD and cued up “Your Song.”
“This is pretty,” I said. “What’s wrong with this song?”
“Wait for it . . .” was her response. We sat in silence, listening—and then at one point she stopped the CD. “There . . . did you hear it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “What was I listening for?”
“That line he said—‘If I were a sculptor . . . but then again . . . no.’”
“What about it?”
“It’s ridiculous. What is that? It’s always bugged us. You more than me, even. Did he change his mind mid-lyric? So why leave it in? It’s like a P.S. in an e-mail. Just move the damn cursor up and put it in the message.”
“I don’t know,” I said helplessly.
“Fine,” she said, and took out that CD and put another one in. And then another. And another. Nothing seemed familiar, but I will say that—even hearing them for what seemed like the first time—“Macarena” and “We Built This City” are two songs I don’t need to hear ever again.
When I finally got up the courage to ask that we stop the musical experiment, Cat willingly agreed and told me to grab my coat—we were leaving.
* * * * *
Cat had this knowing smile on her face when we walked into a bar called The Lounge.
“This is going to do it,” she said. “I can feel it.”
“Did I dislike bars?” I asked.
“This is a lounge.”
“Oh. Did I dislike lounges?”
“Not as a rule but sometimes. It’s not the lounge per se . . .” she said and then edged her way up to the bar and ordered us a couple drinks.
I took in the people at the lounge and noticed one girl in particular. She was sipping her drink while dancing—eyes locked on various guys at the bar, one by one. She’d sip and shimmy. If she didn’t get a smile or nod of encouragement, she’d move on to someone else. Her dancing had a clear message: If any of you gentlemen have an interest in taking me home tonight, I’m available and I’d love to show you my reverse cowgirl.
“Here,” Cat said as she thrust a drink with a leaf in it at me.
“Thanks,” I said, and took a sip.
Cat moved her face dangerously close to mine and cocked an eyebrow. If I didn’t think I knew better, I’d have thought maybe she wanted a kiss—but she was waiting for my reaction to the drink.
“Well?”
“It’s good. What is it?”
“It’s a mint julep. You hate it.”
“I do?” I asked, taking another sip, testing to see if maybe this sugary, minty confection wasn’t as tasty on the second s
ip. It was just as good as I’d remembered it from thirty seconds earlier. “I like it,” I said, feeling guilty.
“Well, so much for that,” Cat said disappointedly.
A few hours and three mint juleps later (mine being the only ones with alcohol due to her present condition), we found ourselves wandering (more like staggering in my case) through the Meatpacking District trying to hail a cab—not having much success.
“There’s one!” Cat shouted.
“That’s not a cab,” I corrected. “That’s a PT Cruiser. And it’s purple.”
“So it is,” Cat replied, squeezing my hand as we stumbled along.
Why did I know that a car wasn’t a taxi, but I had no memory of this sweet but oddly persistent woman who, when you took the almost-attempted kiss and furtive hand-holding into account, seemed to be another in my growing string of suitors? Several occupied and off-duty cabs passed us, so we decided to walk to the next avenue. On our minitour of the Meatpacking District, we passed what may have been a transvestite—what was definitely an impossibly tall woman with massive calves—two guys peeing—not on each other, thankfully, but still we didn’t need to see it—and a side of beef, literally.
“Yuck,” I said.
“That’s nasty,” Cat agreed, flipping her cell phone open. “Let’s call Todd. This is fun. We need Todd.”
“It’s late,” I said, too late.
“Todd, it’s us! Me and Jordy. We’re looking at a meat hook and thinking of yoooou!” Then she hung up. Machine, I guessed.
Finally, an empty cab was heading in our direction, but some girl in a parka was running for it.
“Hey!” Cat called out. ” Hey! That’s OUR cab! Get that cab—don’t let her steal it!” she yelled at me. But the woman in the parka got it.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but she was closer.”
“Great,” Cat answered. “Now, you can’t remember how to win a battle for a taxi.”
* * * * *
It had been a week since I was released from the hospital, and I didn’t remember much more than I had in those first dim moments of consciousness. I was warned about an uncertain recovery path, but without the library of memories to keep me occupied, impatience seemed to be my main occupation. I wandered aimlessly around my apartment, talking to the bird on occasion.
“This is my apartment,” I’d say, “but most of this doesn’t ring a bell.” And he’d look at me, then out the window, then across the room, just as clueless.
Another thing my feathered friend and I apparently did share was a landlord hostile to our presence there. The place wasn’t totally alien to me, but I did have a jarring sense that this wasn’t the kind of apartment I’d have chosen, had I been in my right mind. Apparently, I’d been a little short of punctual with the rent. Repeatedly. The credit card people could vouch for that. And there were other issues. In a series of error-ridden notes and letters, I was reminded that the bird was a “vialation,” rent was “well due,” “past overdue,” then “aggrievusly due,” then “payed in full—thank you Mrs. Landua.” Don’t be fooled: It turned out I wasn’t legally married, just legally under the care of Mrs. Judith Landau. I could figure that out later, I figured. For now, I’d take the happy inding.
I started going through all my things, hoping something would spark a memory. But nothing was jumping out at me. I stared at pictures of me and my friends, trying to re-create where we were when the pictures were taken, but everyone looked like a stranger to me. Including me.
Todd had come over several times, and it was clear to me why we were as close as we supposedly were. He was a really good guy who always made me laugh. Cat had stopped by two more times to apply new tactics in trying to help me get my memory back, but all her tricks and schemes were amounting to nothing—unless making my head spin counted.
It had been explained to me that I wasn’t terribly close to my family, so it surprised me when Samantha showed up at my apartment to see how I was feeling. She gave me a hug and really looked me in the eyes when she asked how I was doing. She seemed to care.
“I’m okay, I guess,” I said. “Not really. I just don’t know what to do with myself. I feel lost.”
“I owe you an apology,” she said.
“For what?”
“I was mean to you—before. When you had amnesia the first time. Do you remember anything from when you were staying with us at Mom’s?”
“No,” I said. And I wondered if I was trouble for them and why they didn’t want me to stay there this time.
“I didn’t believe you had amnesia. I thought you were faking it.”
This was interesting, considering Todd said I was faking it. “Was there a reason you thought that?”
“No, not really,” she said, picking things up and setting them down, “but I feel like I didn’t support you then and now you’re worse.”
“Samantha, I’m sure that isn’t the case.”
“You can call me Sam. It’s what you call me.”
“Sam,” I said, and smiled at her, trying to let her know that none of it was her fault. The bird started making noise, and Sam looked over at the cage. She looked guilty.
“Is that your bird?” I asked.
“Yeah, it is.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sneevil,” she said, and half shrugged in embarrassment. “Sneevil Knievel.”
“Huh,” I said, and got lost in thought, wondering why Dirk had said his name was Tweetie.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Oh, it’s okay. I like him. He keeps me company.”
“No, not about dumping the bird on you—which—I’m sorry for that too.” She got up and looked out my window. Then she went on not looking at me. “I’ve always been jealous of you. You’re smarter than me and you have a good job. And even though Mom and I have more in common, she respects you in a way that she doesn’t me. Even my father, who you’re not related to, likes you better.”
“I am sure that’s not true,” I said, walking over to her. “It’s not.”
“I know,” she said, as she cocked her head and sniffed back her humility. “But sometimes it felt that way.” I felt like I’d just gotten a glimpse into the dynamic that was our sisterly relationship, and it wasn’t pretty.
“Okay, then.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I guess I’ll go.”
“Okay,” I said, and then looked at the cage. “Do you want your bird back?”
“Um . . .” she said and exhaled, blowing her bangs off her forehead. “No, you can hang on to him for a little while.”
“Okay,” I said. “That’s fine.” I looked at Sneevil and wondered if she’d ever cared about him and how she even came to have him.
“Do you own anything besides Pumas?” Samantha said, so I turned to see what she meant and saw Todd at my door.
“Every time I think I missed out not having a little sister I’m reminded how blessed I truly was not to have any sisters. God forbid I ever end up with a satanic sibling like yourself,” he said to her.
“See ya, guys,” Sam said and made her way past him.
“Hi,” Todd said. “Is now an okay time?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “For . . . ?”
“Oh . . .” he stammered.
“Don’t tell me. I forgot something else . . . ? What now?”
“No, no,” he said. “I’m stopping by unsolicited. No worries.”
“Oh, phew,” I said. “Then, it’s as good a time as any.”
I wouldn’t recommend amnesia generally, but something about not remembering people made me see them with an intense clarity when they did poke their heads back into my life. Maybe it was because it felt like seeing them for the first time; maybe it was my mind playing catch-up in rebuilding impressions. Whatever the case, I drank in everything greedily—how they looked, spoke, and moved; what they did with their hands; how you could tell when they were listening and when they weren’t. And after seeing him exactly twice since t
he accident, I had a feeling Todd was different somehow as he leaned against the doorjamb.
“You coming in?” I asked.
He dropped his arms and looked at his feet, and for a second, I thought he was going to turn around and leave.
“That was an invitation,” I said. “Here, I’ll make it official. Please, come in.”
Still he stood, half smiling, awkwardly surveying the apartment’s interior, which didn’t take long. Sense of humor must be related to memory, because for the life of me, I couldn’t summon a single funny thing to lighten the mood.
“Todd, come in!”
Here he looked directly at me as if awaking and at last stepped into the room.
“That’s nice,” I said. “Is it new?”
“What?” he said quickly.
“Then again,” I mused, “I’ll be saying the same about everything I see people wearing.” And it occurred to me that amnesia might just have an advantage or two—for instance, a whole new wardrobe! (Or clarity with which to see the many blemishes in your current couture.)
But Todd regarded himself and his leather jacket, which was unscuffed and stiff and creaked a little as he walked.
“This? This I’ve had for . . . years. I don’t know. I fished it out.” He wandered around, looking at my candles and dried flower arrangements and plastic Buddhas, opening magazines and flipping through pages without reading anything. “You don’t think this is unusual, do you?”
I tried to guess at the reference. “No. Actually, most people seem to come in here and do the same thing—look around at my stuff, like they expect the loss of memory to have produced a total apartment makeover.” I picked up a John Deere keychain from a shelf. “Frankly, I’m not sure I’d have minded.”
“No, I mean me coming over here unannounced. I never come unannounced. But you don’t remember that.”
“You’re certainly welcome here. I’m not much company, not remembering anything about us, but they say that should get better over time.”
He leaned against the small kitchen table. “If it’s true that you don’t remember—and I’m not doubting that it’s true,” he said, though it sounded very much like he doubted it was true, “then is it true you don’t remember . . . you know . . .”
Forget About It Page 29