But I didn’t, so I gave him a look to say I didn’t.
“How it was between us?”
“Between you and me?” I asked.
“That would be us,” he said, standing up again and starting over his circuit of the place. He pointed a Buddha at me, and the Buddha’s upraised hands pointed at me too. “You and I were kind of together. You were kinda into me and I had a huge crush on you too. We were just at the point of moving beyond our friendship to something more.”
The crowd of suitors was getting thicker by the moment. It should have been a tremendous comfort, a jet-propelled ego boost, to have so many friendly, good-looking, put-together, and otherwise entirely suitable men interested in me, but although it sounds ungrateful, I wanted to close my eyes and wipe my mind clear of the whole mess. Despite the fact that I’d only started to make fresh etchings on that mind. So I sat down on the couch.
We were quiet for a while. I looked at Todd, and I figured out what seemed different about him. He was half smiling all the time, half leaning, half standing, half looking at me and half not. Half and half. In between. In the hospital, he’d moved quickly, forcefully, almost crazily. He always seemed to be on the verge of stumbling, then he’d catch himself. Laughing too loudly, frowning, sticking his tongue out. Now he seemed like a kid who knows he’s in trouble. I have to admit, though it was making me slightly uncomfortable, it was also somehow . . . cute. It was the type of thing that inspired adjectives like boyish and endearing. He sat down close to me and turned to face me.
“Jordan, if it’s true” (there with the “true” again), “if it’s true that you don’t remember, I thought maybe I could do something that would remind you.”
Without knowing exactly what this meant, I sensed something was up from the proximity. His knee was a thumb’s width from mine. And the silence. The gaps between us speaking were relatively quiet, but who picks out the silence and listens to it? I did then. I heard it chewing up the time.
He moved so that our knees were touching, and then his hand reached out and closed over mine. It trembled and felt slightly moist. Maybe a lifetime of confronting situations such as this is supposed to give you the instincts to deal with it. But nothing came to me. I was terrified, yes, but captivated too. I simply didn’t have any idea what to do in that slice of a second as he leaned slightly forward . . . inching his face closer to mine. Then he abruptly stopped himself.
“God,” he said. “My God.”
He bent forward, folding himself nearly in two and pulling me close, sweeping his arm around my shoulder and hugging me to him, his chin on my shoulder pressing down.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he said.
“I . . . don’t know?” I offered meekly.
“Wow,” he said, as he stood up and started to pace. “This will go down in history as the most loserish, creepy, scumbag thing I have ever done. You’ll be allowed to get mad at me for this. But don’t stay mad for too long.”
I didn’t know what he meant. “I’m sorry . . . What did you do?”
“Jesus,” he said and hesitated for a moment. “I just totally lied. That was all a lie. We’re not— We’re friends. Just friends. I’m so sorry this happened to you,” he said hoarsely. “I’m even more sorry that I tried to take advantage of the situation and I hope you forgive me. Oh my God, I hate myself.”
I was so surprised by it all, so uncomprehending, that for a moment I just held my arms out. Then I hugged him back.
He pushed away to face me, and his eyes were wet and the half smile was full. I began to cry.
“Oh, stop. It’s all right,” he said, shaking his head. “What’s between us will always be between us. You’ll see. It’ll come back. Or we’ll make it again.”
Todd. I wasn’t exactly sure who he was, but I was sure I’d like him forever.
27.
familiarity breeds
contempt
“Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory.” Or so said Albert Schweitzer. According to a card Cat had given me on one of her visits. But I was in pretty good health—excepting the recent bump on my head—and had a very bad memory, and let me tell you . . . I was not happy.
People who looked one way, acted another way. There was no road map or Cliff’s Notes for human decency. I guess that’s true anyway, but when you have no memory about anyone’s character, you tend to make bad choices, trust the wrong people. I wished that everyone wore signs like sandwich boards that would declare who or what they were. Character defects and assets. Just a one-word warning so I could get a heads-up and know who I was dealing with. This person is a: Liar. Cheater. Letch. Fraud. Manipulator. Backstabber. Felon. Narcissist. Scumbag. That person is: Dependable. Honest. Selfish. Conceited. Kind. Two-faced. Caring. Satan.
My door buzzer sounded off, nearly giving me a heart attack. When I pressed the Listen button, I was relieved to find it was only Dirk. He was at my door within seconds as if he’d heard my psychic stress signal, and he thrust a brown paper bag in my stomach.
I opened the bag. “What’s this?”
“It was a late-night-ice-cream surprise,” he said as he pulled out two pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream—Peanut Butter Cup and Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough—“but now that I see how cute you look, it’s maybe-we-should-step-things-up-and-move-past-second-base-since-we’ve-been-together-for-two-years-even-though-you-don’t-remember ice cream.”
“New flavor,” I said. “They can fit all that on the carton?”
“Yes.” He seemed amused.
“It’s a very sweet surprise,” I said as I shifted my feet and felt my jaw clenching. “And that sounds really . . . nice. But I just don’t feel ready for that yet.” I shrugged and winced a little. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool. I’ll get spoons,” Dirk said, handing me the Cookie Dough pint, then going into the kitchen to grab two spoons. I caught my reflection in the mirror—the light glistening off my necklace—and I moved a little closer to inspect it.
“Did you get me this?” I called out.
“What?” Dirk answered, handing me a spoon, flicking off his carton top.
“This pretty necklace?”
Dirk looked at it the same way he looked at Sneevil the first time he saw him, so I knew the answer was going to be no. As little as I knew him, I was able to recognize looks I’d already seen.
“No,” he said.
“Hmm,” I said, leaning into the mirror, opening the locket, and noticing the photograph in it for the first time.
“There’s a lighthouse in here,” I said.
“So there is,” Dirk replied, and then raised his spoon for a toast. “To us and to new beginnings,” he said.
We clinked spoons and dug in.
* * * * *
Between my time in the hospital and my recovery time at home, it had been an extra four weeks since the break my job gave us between the holidays. I’d started a routine of twice-weekly physical and mental therapy sessions, so I felt somewhat occupied. But I was ready to restart my real life, whatever that was. So I wasn’t too unhappy to receive a call one morning from Splash Media Human Resources, an extremely nice woman asking about when I might be able to return to work, and seeming a tad reluctant to point out—though she brought herself to do so—that I’d missed an awful lot of work in the past four months or so. I told her I was ready when they were. The next day, a follow-up call came from a woman named Lydia, who also seemed nice in the extreme and also seemed terribly interested in my plans for returning.
On the following Monday, feeling the love, I got dressed in gray wool slacks, a silk and rayon burgundy blouse, black loafers, and a black jacket—all very serious stuff—and set off to the office.
I walked into Splash Media and was immediately struck by the chaos. People were frantic and it was only 9 A.M. I passed a man who looked me up and down and laughed.
“Got an interview?” he said.
“I do?” I asked, not sure what he was saying.
&nb
sp; “Oh, right,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “Sorry, I forgot. I’m Kurt.”
“Hi, Kurt?”
“The outfit,” he said as he waved his arm up and down in front of me. “You don’t usually dress like that. We always tease people who show up in suits. It’s assumed that they have an interview at another company because we sure as hell don’t dress up here.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling suddenly self-conscious and wishing I had a change of clothes with me.
“You look like you’re gonna cry,” he said. “Don’t freak out. You look nice.”
I wasn’t going to cry. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m okay. But some things are a little . . . less than clear. Like my office. Could you just get me going in the right direction, please?”
“Sure,” he said. “You’re just down the hall this way,” he said, and I followed him through the halls until we reached my office.
I’d only been sitting at my desk for about three minutes when a woman stood in my doorway.
“Welcome back,” she said. “I’m Lydia.”
“Hi,” I said as I thumbed through a pack of Post-its nervously.
“Look”—she sighed heavily—“I know that what went on may have given you a certain impression, and I want to correct that. Is that all right?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s not working,” I said, and she froze. I’d opened my mouth halfway, to say it was all right, then realized I had no idea what she was talking about. In the containers of my mind—some empty, some overflowing—the one labeled Lydia held very little. I knew her when I saw her, but whether she’d run the place or brought me coffee and Danish in the morning, I had no clue. I remembered that I wrote, and it seemed to me she’d worked with me in the writing—because her face was familiar—but it wasn’t attached to a “Lydia” or any concrete experiences. Just etchings, like graffiti on subway windows, and I didn’t know what they meant.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I continued. “I just, I don’t have any impressions of you, one way or another. I’m so sorry. Right now, I can’t remember anything we did together.”
She brightened, and I mused happily that I’d touched something deep and tender inside her. “That’s, well, that’s— Anyway, are you settled? Ready to create some new magic together? Partner?”
“I just got here, but sure . . . what should I be doing? Or ‘we’?”
“Well, your Get Rich Quick campaign took off, and while you were out it’s really taken on a life of its own.”
“Good,” I said, not knowing what she was talking about but glad I’d done something right.
“So now you’re free to work with me again.”
“Sounds fun,” I said. “What are we working on?”
“We’re pitching a long shot but a dream—Harvest,” she said, but the name didn’t register. I guess my confusion showed because she then added, “It’s insurance.”
“Ah. Okay.”
“They’ve had these campaigns with wheat fields everywhere that they’re trying to get away from so, really, it can be anything. Just no wheat.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Perfect. I’ll check back with you later and we can brainstorm,” she said and then disappeared, only to reappear within four seconds. “Nice loafers, by the way,” she said, and then took off again.
* * * * *
Todd called and asked me to meet him outside my office on my lunch break. When I got to the little park across the street I was greeted by Todd and Travis.
“Ambush,” I said jokingly.
“Actually, it is,” Todd said, and I was struck by how ragged he seemed. His eyes were sunken and ringed by dark circles, his hair was slick and bent in all directions, and he wore dark corduroys and an ill-fitting black shirt. He looked like a down-on-his-luck vampire.
“Yikes,” I said. “What did I do?”
“That’s what we’re here to talk about,” Todd said.
“Hi,” I said to Travis, who hadn’t said anything yet.
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Todd asked me to meet him here, so your guess is as good as mine.”
“What’s going on?” I asked Todd.
“Both of you need to keep an open mind,” Todd said.
“Fine. What’s up?” Travis said.
“Jordan, I’m doing this for your own good. It’s about what we talked about—what I told you at the hospital,” Todd said and then looked at Travis. “Travis, Jordan never had amnesia.”
“What?” Travis said and scrunched up his face. “Of course she did.”
“No, not when you hit her, not when you met her, not when you took her out. She was faking it.”
“Why are you doing this, Todd?” I asked.
“Is it true?” Travis asked me.
I felt panicked and confused. I wanted to tell the truth, but I didn’t know what the truth was. So I answered truthfully. “I don’t know,” I said.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Travis asked, slightly agitated.
“She doesn’t know,” Todd said, “because she really has amnesia now. I’m the only one who knows about before.”
“Okay. A, why would Jordan do that and, B, why are you telling me this?”
“Because she loves you. And I love her. And Dirk is doing a number on her. And I just want to make things right.”
Travis turned to me. “So you were faking the whole time? I don’t believe it!”
“Well”—Todd jumped in—“let me just say that she felt horrible about you and having to keep pretending. Seriously. That’s why she’d always downplay it. But when she got hit by that ball that was a freak coincidence, because she had actually just asked me to try to fake another, different accident so she could make it up to you.”
“Right,” Travis said with a bit of an edge. “Because otherwise I’d have thought you were both crazy.”
“No chance of that now,” I muttered.
“She wanted to plan this fake accident. To supposedly knock her memory back into place—”
“I think this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard—” Travis said.
“No, there’s more,” Todd continued, growing more excited.
“You’re right. I should reserve my vote,” Travis interjected.
“And she wanted you to be the hero. Like . . . to take the blame off you. You were there when she lost her memory, and now you’d be there when she got it back and she’d regain control of her custodianship—whatever it is that her mother got—and call off the lawsuit.”
Travis now looked at Todd carefully. “She was doing that for me?”
“Well, she wasn’t doing it for me,” Todd said.
“Wow,” Travis whispered.
“Yeah,” Todd said, settling into a confident smile. “Stupid, but sweet.”
The two of them seemed to have come to some kind of understanding, but I sure as hell didn’t understand any of it. And they weren’t really including me in the conversation, so I didn’t get why they had asked me there except to humiliate me.
“Am I needed for anything here?” I asked. “Because I don’t necessarily believe any of this and I really don’t want to hear any more about it.”
* * * * *
My stomach was grumbling because I’d skipped lunch after the ridiculous surprise attack, so I went back to my desk, unwrapped half a granola bar I found in the top drawer, and spent the next two hours or so reading the background deck and jotting ideas for the brainstorm with Lydia. I don’t know if it was the shock of Todd’s wildly imaginative confessions, the now-months-old granola bar, the clean slate of my wiped mind, the thrill of being back to near normalcy at my desk . . . Maybe it was the intoxicating inspiration of the insurance industry, but the ideas came remarkably easily. Exploded, really, like flashes from Cat’s digital camera (she’d been on a mission to create new memories from the start, in case the old ones came back in bad shape). I knew from the woman in HR that I’d been doing well and my return had been eager
ly anticipated in certain quarters, but I didn’t expect to be able to pick where I’d left off with so little effort.
Late in the day, Lydia came into my office with a legal pad in her hand and sat on the edge of my desk.
“So . . . did you think of anything?”
I didn’t want to seem overconfident, so I played coy. After all, brainstorming was spitballing ideas, to see what stuck. I could undersell the ideas and seem not only brilliant but unfazed by it all.
“Well,” I said, “they’ve been on the consistency thing for a long time with the brand, but this marketing brief calls for a less conservative but still reassuring and embracing message to speak to the biggest consumers of insurance. Not Mapplethorpe but not Norman Rockwell. So here’s what hit me.”
I put my two hands together, side by side.
“Uh-huh,” Lydia said and wrote something down.
“And then the tag: ‘You’re in good hands . . . with Harvest.’”
Lydia stopped writing. “So . . . like a send-up? Or a straight comparison? I don’t know that they do comparison. But if there’s humor, I suppose . . .”
“Well,” I said, a little nonplussed that she hadn’t thrown the pad into the air and embraced me, “it’s not really a humorous approach. It’s the two hands, together, carrying you, holding you up, like this—” and I formed a little cup with my two hands, as I’d seen so clearly in my mind’s eye. “But, and this just occurs to me, it’s also like ‘We treat you right; you’re in good hands with us.’ Or ‘the helping hands of Harvest.’”
She sucked on her pen tip. “Question,” she said. “Does your next concept involve a wisecracking lizard?”
SLAM! I slapped my open palms on the desk. “That’s spooky! Must be out there like . . . electrons in the air. This thing is going to write itself!”
The pad hung limp in her hand, and she regarded me, unsmiling. “I’m not sure it wrote itself, but it did get written,” she said.
“You’re not taking anything down? We don’t want to lose this.”
“Oh, it’s not going anywhere,” she replied.
I looked back to my pad, where I’d been jotting thoughts. “You’re probably right. It would be hard to forget this stuff. It’s just flowing.”
Forget About It Page 30