“True that,” she said, and she walked out, leaving me to wonder if I’d overwhelmed her.
* * * * *
Because it disrupted any personal routines I might have had, amnesia left me in a perpetual waiting game. I waited for people to call, come over, make plans, break plans. I fed myself fine and did the laundry, but I didn’t initiate. This left me vulnerable to all sorts of dubious outings—like tagging along on the shopping trip to Barneys with my mom and sister after work one day.
“Hi, Jordan,” Samantha said. “Welcome to our world.” When she said that, I stopped for a second—thinking that it sounded familiar to me.
“I know that . . .” I said. “What is that?”
“It’s the song that played in FAO Schwarz,” Sam said. Barneys seemed like the equivalent of an orgiastic romp through aisles of toys for grown-ups, tantalizingly out of reach, so it was fitting.
“Did we used to come here a lot together?” I asked. They looked at each other and laughed.
“No,” Sam said. “You weren’t much of a shopper.”
“Well, what was I, then?”
“You were more of a . . .”
“An independent thinker,” my mom finished.
“Was I a nerd?” I asked.
“You weren’t a nerd, Jordan,” my mom said. “No. Not a nerd.”
“Yes, she was, Mom,” Samantha interjected. “You weren’t cool at all. That’s why it was such a score when you started going out with Dirk.”
“You guys really do like Dirk, huh?” I asked. It was weird. For every argument Todd and Cat had for Travis, my mom and Sam had one for Dirk.
My mom nodded. “He’s a wonderful man, dear.”
“And I was happy with him?”
“Very.”
“You spent a lot of time with us?” I asked.
“Well, no, but we knew you were happy.”
“Look, Jordan,” Sam said. “You’re not going to do better than Dirk. Like . . . ever. So I wouldn’t question it so much if I was you.”
For the next hour, I watched my sister and my mother go after the same outfits, the same colors, and then argue over who saw them first, finally deciding that they would each get different colors and share. I watched my mom—my own dear bridge-and-tunnel bully—practically rip the last size twenty-four pair of Joe’s Jeans out of some girl’s hands (making them, not Joe’s, not this poor girl’s, but hers and hers alone) and not miss a beat.
I watched in awe as my mother and sister moved deftly through the aisles and targeted their must-have pieces. They could be at opposite ends of the store, but they’d somehow manage to pick extremely similar things. And then when they caught up with each other they’d say in tandem, “Where did you get that?”
I watched the salespeople recognize them both and call them by name and, even more scary, pull out a reserve selection that they had handpicked and kept on hold for them in anticipation of their next visit. Nobody at Barneys seemed to know who I was, though.
I looked at a sweater that was sort of interesting and checked the tag: $2,800. Was $2,800 not a lot of money for a sweater? Had I missed something when I hit my head? Did everyone go crazy and think it was okay to spend a vacation’s worth of money on some knitwear?
When they were getting rung up at the register, the salesgirl gave them each a thong. Cosabella’s new color. They were giving them to their best customers.
“They’re complimentary,” the salesgirl said as she tucked them into the bags and smiled. I picked up another pair and held them up in front of my face.
“You look fantastic,” I said, in a funny voice as if the underwear were talking. “That’s an excellent purchase you’re making. The color really makes your eyes stand out.” My mother took them out of my hand and put them back on the counter.
“What are you doing, Jordan?” she asked in a most disgusted tone.
“I was making a joke. She said they were ‘complimentary.’ Get it? They were complimenting you.” They didn’t laugh. The salesgirl took pity on me and, even though I wasn’t buying anything, surrendered an extra one of the complimentary thongs.
* * * * *
As if my day hadn’t been long enough, when I got home, Todd was there, waiting for me.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” he said.
“I’m really tired,” I said.
“Please trust me. Everything I said was true.”
I did feel like I could trust him, but I also felt so embarrassed. “Faking amnesia? That’s a horrible thing to do to people! The people who care about me . . .”
“Hey . . . your idea,” he said.
“I know . . . so you say . . . It’s just so weird. Were things really that bad?”
“You were going through a rough patch.”
“And what are the odds that it really happened to me!” I said. “Talk about karma! I’m a terrible person. I’m being punished. God is punishing me.”
“God is not punishing you.”
“God hates me.”
“Stop.” He laughed at me. “Jordy, you’re the best person I know. We’ve just gotta get your memory back and help you see that.” There was a warmth about Todd that made me feel safe.
“Let me show you something,” I said, and I pulled out the thong that was still in my bag. Todd blushed a little.
“Okay, we weren’t that kind of close before. I thought I cleared that up.”
“No,” I said, waving the thong around. “I have to get your opinion because I think you’ll get it.” I told him how they’d given out the complimentary thongs, which as I was retelling the story seemed even more strange to me. I mean, what kind of complimentary gift is that? What are you saying to your customer? Thanks for shopping here. Now, if you’d be so kind as to shove this up your ass . . .
The minute I said, “You look fantastic,” Todd started cracking up.
“Complimentary underwear,” Todd said. “Very cute. That’s the nutty girl I know and tolerate.” I felt so much better. Instantly. “You couldn’t expect your pod-people family to get that though. They aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer. And when it comes to sense of humor, forget it.”
“Then why do I have one?”
“Because you’re awesome. Don’t question why you are how you are and they’re how they are. You’ll only be forced to come to the conclusion that I came to a long time ago: You’re adopted. But you have enough to deal with right now. We can revisit that later. Plus, you’re not adopted. You’re just amazing and unique and brilliant and funny and therefore anyone in your presence will appear to be a lesser form. Because they are.”
“How did I get so lucky to have a friend like you?”
“Because I too am amazing and unique, brilliant and funny. People seek their own kind.”
“I see.” I nodded. Todd was a good guy, even without memories. “Thanks for . . . trying to help me.”
“Least I can do. Just trust that I’m not the bad guy here?”
“I do,” I said, but I wondered if that was supposed to mean Dirk was the bad guy. And why did there have to be any bad guys?
* * * * *
Lydia’s cryptic reaction to my “in good hands” idea made it all the more important that I wow her with some different ones. So the next day, when I walked into the office, I was armed and ready with two more equally good angles—one had just hit me the night before in the shower, and the other came to me when I was brushing my teeth that morning.
I was in the mini-kitchen on our floor, pouring stale coffee into a Styrofoam cup when Lydia snuck up on me.
“Creative juices flowing today?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “They are.”
“Great,” she said and followed me back to my office.
“Okay,” I said. “We want to think about branding, right? What rings out more clearly in that background material than confidence and comfort?”
“Comfort?” she asked.
“Well, I, for whatever reason, rea
lly liked the ideas I shared already. Not because I came up with them—”
“Jordan, the joke has sort of been milked, and I get that you didn’t come up with it . . .”
“Right,” I said, not understanding but not wanting to lose momentum, “not because they’re my ideas but because they work. When you think about your insurance, you want to know there are people behind the promises. So, to that end, I think we should do something bold for a brand that’s always been about some vague notion of ‘consistency,’ and not known as dependable, personal, caring—you know?”
“Okay . . .” she said.
“So I had a couple thoughts,” I went on. “One was like a neighborhood watch. But not like a volunteer security guard . . . more like a friendly watch. Your neighbor watching out for you . . . having your back.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So this came to me, ‘Like a good neighbor . . . Harvest is there.’ And there could be different variations of the whole good neighbor thing, like maybe—”
“Jordan,” she interrupted, “can you hold that thought?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I just want to get the boss man in on this,” she said, and disappeared out of my office. It seemed that the old Jordan ideatronic may have started cranking out the hits once again.
A few moments later, Lydia returned with a man with white hair and the Kurt guy I’d met, who’d accused me of having a job interview.
“Hi, Jordan. Welcome back,” the white-haired man said. “I’m Ted Billingsly.”
“Hi,” I said. “Nice to . . . see you.”
“Jordan was just telling me some new and inspired ideas she has for Harvest, so I wanted you to hear them for yourself,” Lydia said and smiled reassuringly at me. “Tell them.”
I repeated my “good neighbor” thing, and Mr. Billingsly stood there looking blankly at me for a moment. Then he opened his mouth, but nothing came out. I looked from side to side and nervously just went on. Surmising this concept might have been too soft or subtle for present company, I decided to tell him my other idea—one I hadn’t even sprung on Lydia.
“Then there’s this other one I thought of. Kind of on the same line of thinking, you know, stability . . .” I rambled.
“Okay?” he said.
“Like a rock,” I said, and then waited. But they said nothing. “Meaning,” I went on, “that they are your rock. They’re there for you.” And I sang the words as I’d heard them in my head while brushing. “Li-ike a rock!”
Kurt snorted and then covered it up with a cough. I didn’t know what was going on, but I had a sinking feeling and it was making my throat itch.
Mr. Billingsly smiled at me and then turned to Kurt and Lydia and said, “Could you give Jordan and me a few minutes alone?”
“Told you,” I thought I heard Lydia say to Kurt.
“Do you know what State Farm is?” Mr. Billingsly asked gently.
“State Farm?” I asked.
“Insurance?” he said.
“I’m sorry, I don’t. Did we do a campaign for them?”
“No,” he said. “We didn’t. But they have a campaign that’s very similar to the one you just pitched.”
“Have had for, what, thirty, forty years?” Kurt said obligingly, still standing there with Lydia.
“They do?” I asked, feeling the tickle in my throat again, more pronounced now. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to steal ideas. It just came to me.”
“I understand,” he said. “I think it’s just your subconscious remembering existing campaigns.”
“Campaigns?” I asked. “Plural?”
“Lydia told me you pitched her the Allstate campaign yesterday, and, well, the other idea you had today—the ‘Like a rock’ campaign—that belongs to Chevy. It’s Bob Seger.”
“Oh God,” I said, my throat now closing. “I’m so embarrassed. I swear I didn’t mean to . . .”
“It’s all right,” he said softly, and he motioned for Kurt and Lydia to leave. “We understand. We just want you to get well.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“But for now, Jordan, I don’t think it’s doing you any good to be here. So I think the best thing for everyone would be you taking a leave of absence.”
I stood up immediately and started packing my backpack. I put the stapler in there without thinking—then quickly took it out and placed it back on my desk. “Yes. Absolutely,” I said as I was shuffling papers on my desk and shaking. “I totally understand. How long?”
“We’ll work through Human Resources and come up with a plan. I’m sorry, Jordan,” he said and got up to go.
“Is this a permanent leave?” I asked, my voice quivering.
“Call us when you feel better,” he answered—which wasn’t actually an answer at all. Certainly not the one I was hoping for.
28.
damnesia!
When 6 P.M. rolled around the next Friday night and Todd, Cat, and Travis showed up at my door, I was thrown for a loop—I’d seen the Todd and Cat combo and the Travis and Todd combo, but never had the three of them triangulated their way into my vicinity at once. Although I’d at some point agreed to my This Is Your Life party, I’d assumed that it wouldn’t amount to much. Thankfully, they hadn’t used me as a source.
“Get out,” Todd said with a smile.
“You want me to leave?” I asked. “I thought I was the guest of honor.”
“We want to set up some stuff,” Cat said, “to surprise you.”
“Surprise,” Todd said, looking at his fingers and shaking them. “I think I’ve lost all circulation in my hands. Damn plastic bags. Damnesia!”
“Damnesia! I’ll remember that,” I said, peering into the bags and grabbing the first thing I could reach. “Sunny Delight . . . and nacho cheese Doritos?”
“Hands off,” Cat said. “You’re screwing up an experiment.”
“In Proust,” Todd explained, “the main character begins to experience vivid memories of his childhood when he has tea and madeleines. So we thought we’d prime the pump a little with the cuisine.”
“Madeleines?”
“Shell cookies. But we grew up on SunnyD and Doritos.”
“I didn’t know you read Proust,” Cat said.
“Don’t,” Todd replied. “There was an article about it in The New Yorker.”
“I didn’t know you read The New Yorker,” Cat said.
“Don’t. This girl at work was talking about it in a meeting.”
“Impressive,” she said, giving him a nod. Then she tore open the bag of Doritos with a loud pop and shoved a handful of chips into her mouth. “Pregnancy,” she shrugged, mouth full. “I’m allowed.”
Just then, I caught Travis staring at me, and there was something uncomfortable about it, so I picked up a magazine and pretended to be reading something. The more discomfort I felt, the more familiar it felt, like the memory of an emotion. Awkwardness, vanity, self-negation, shyness—I wasn’t certain what to call it, but I’d been in that place before. It wasn’t the first time since the accident that people had watched me, yet as I looked at his hands (he was flexing and unflexing his thumbs nervously), then at Travis, then at Cat (setting bags everywhere), then at Travis (pretending not to look but still glancing up), then at the floor (still under our feet, yep), then at Travis (eyes still finding me), I felt agitated. Strange. Something wasn’t right with this man.
“You look very pretty, by the way,” Travis said, and I dropped the magazine in my hands, then bent down to pick it up, lost my footing and bumped my head against a table edge.
“All right?” he asked.
“Of course, yes, fine,” I said, laughing a laugh of pain.
“Then get out,” Todd said, smiling again.
“Okay . . .” I said. “When should I come back?”
They told me to stay away for an hour at least but be back by eight because that was when the guests would be arriving. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself for the hour, and it wasn
’t exactly warm out, so I wandered the streets for as long as I could stand (read: six minutes) and wound up in a drugstore, reading the greeting cards.
I picked up a birthday card with a freckled little boy in a baseball cap that said, “Happy 4th Birthday, Slugger.” The kid on the card reminded me of Dirk. I wondered why he wasn’t involved in the planning, but I just accepted that there were two different camps and not everyone liked everybody else. If my friends didn’t like Dirk, well, it was unfortunate, but as long as I loved him, that was what mattered most. And I did. I thought. As far as I’d been told.
Taking my cue from the woman wearing the red scarf, blue rubber boots, and purple tights, who watched me with a curious scowl on her face, I decided I’d spent enough time in the card section. It wasn’t entirely loitering—in fact I’d helped several people pick out just the right sentiment.
My front door was closed, but with the deadbolt extended, so people could enter without knocking. I could hear the sounds of a party—laughter, glasses, chatter, general party din—and, although it was my house and my party, I didn’t feel right just barging in.
I knocked, softly at first, almost like I didn’t want anyone to hear me so I wouldn’t have to attend the thing. It was only when my knuckles hit the off-white painted door (which needed a cleaning) that I started to panic. What if this was it? What if this was my last hurrah? If this didn’t work, would everyone give up on me? And who was everyone? What if it was revealed to me that I had no friends? And the only people who came were the people throwing it?
The door swung open, and Cat stood there with a goofy grin and a bottle of champagne in her hand. She ushered me inside, clearing her throat in the most obvious and obnoxious way possible, and everyone turned to look at me.
I scanned the faces, everyone smiling at me—eyebrows raised expectantly, looking for anyone who would remind me of something . . . anything. There were streamers everywhere and horrendous blown-up pictures of me at all different ages. I was shocked and appalled, but mostly embarrassed. There was a photo of me on some stage performing in a play, another of me and two boys—I can’t be certain but it looked like we may have been break-dancing—and then there was one of me wearing a hideous red and blue uniform that had domino’s pizza emblazoned across the chest.
Forget About It Page 31