“The dude’s a charleston,” Dirk chimed in.
“Charlatan,” Todd corrected with a derisive laugh. “Means ‘fraud,’ so I’m surprised you don’t know it.”
Dirk ignored Todd and went on. “He was only seeing you to get around paying a big settlement in the lawsuit.”
“Jordan,” Travis pleaded. “This is the thing I was talking about. It’s not . . .”
“Are you married?” I asked.
His head dropped. “Technically, yes, but— ”
“Why don’t you take off, bro,” Dirk said, and put his hand on Travis’s shoulder menacingly.
“Don’t do it,” Travis said, looking back at me. My mom grabbed my arm and pulled me to the Hispanic couple.
“Jordan, honey, do you remember Esperanza?” People were gathered to see if I remembered Esperanza. And I all of a sudden started feeling dizzy. I’d just accepted a marriage proposal from someone I may or may not have wanted to marry.
“No,” I said apologetically. “I don’t think I remember you. I’m sorry.”
“She was our housekeeper when you were a little girl,” my mom said. “And this is her husband, Luis.”
The woman spoke broken English and kept hugging me, nearly in tears, telling me she missed me, and she was sorry to hear I’d gotten “menesia” again. “Yordan!” she said. “You look so nice. So nice!”
“Oh, thank you,” I said, “but I feel a little . . . like I need some air.”
“Like a lady. I always remember when you are baby. Berry, berry messy.”
“Oh!” her husband exclaimed. “She’s the one used to throw her poop around?”
“Ay, sí!”
What? What? What were they saying in front of a room full of everybody that ever knew me? “Pardon?” I asked.
Sam took over. “Totally! Oh my God. She was so gross!”
“Was you? Dios, my memory. Anyway, we used to have to have a watch.” Esperanza said, and suddenly I regretted even asking. “We take turns sometimes but mostly was me. I sit by your crib and I wait and I wait, and then Missis Landau call me for something and I get up for five minutes. But I come back and Dios mío! There’s poop all over the place! Look like someone threw a chocolate cake at the wall!” Everybody was hysterically laughing. I was utterly horrified.
Cat, oblivious to what had just gone on, came walking up with a tray of chocolate cupcakes. Not exactly the visual I needed after that glorious tale of my smearing crap all over my bedroom walls.
“Cupcake?” she said as she offered them around. “Cupcake?” Nobody wanted one. Naturally. I looked at the cupcakes, my eyes wide in shock and horror, grabbed my coat, and just took off running.
29.
awfully wedded wife?
I didn’t know the depths of any previous humiliations prior to the Cupcake Incident, but I felt I’d be safe in saying that it was the most horrifying moment of my life up until that point. I heard someone call after me during my mad dash out of there, but I didn’t stop because it didn’t matter. Nothing anyone could say would make me feel better.
It wasn’t only the whole Travis blowup that had pushed me over the edge—that was just the cherry on top of the shit sundae. It had all become too much. I’m sure people go through life and wonder about their limits. What’s the mortification barometer? At what point do you cross over from throwing up a little in your mouth to wanting to move to a foreign country and assume a new identity?
A new identity. Interesting concept, I thought. Had I come full circle in the Groundhog Day version of my own life? Did I get to a point when enough was enough and decide to fake amnesia to reinvent myself? Over and over again? Was this where I was supposed to do it once more? And did I always end up getting legitimate amnesia at some point in the process?
Obviously not. The whole idea was ludicrous. But those are the things I thought as I ran down the stairs, out the door, and onto the street to breathe fresh air. I ran like someone was coming after me, even though I knew that the extent of the chase had ended with whoever had called my name when I darted out. I looked back once to see if Dirk was following, just to be sure, but he wasn’t. I didn’t allow myself to wonder why not.
I started getting winded about the same time I realized that my feet were killing me, so I slowed down to a walk and continued, having no destination and not wanting one.
I stayed out and wandered nearly all night. I know, it sounds dangerous and boring, too—it being New York and cold and all—but anyone who actually lives here knows that, as far as big cities or any cities go, New York is pretty damn safe. For one thing, there is always someone around, making it much safer than some desolate street in an indifferent suburb; most of it is well lit; and there are plenty of places open round-the-clock, where you can warm up when your feet get too tired or cold to carry you.
I smiled at passersby—people standing out in front of bars, smoking, couples on dates, the occasional homeless person—and it felt so good to be anonymous. To not know the people I passed and have them not know me either. It was exhausting having a bunch of people know me that I didn’t know, and I was coming to really resent it. I wanted to blame someone and demand they fix me, but who? And how?
I walked through neighborhood after neighborhood, taking in the different flavors and scenery. Every fifteen blocks was an area with its own distinct feeling, and walking aimlessly through them in the dead of night gave me an appreciation for how truly remarkable New York City was.
At one point when I got sick of walking, I stopped into a dingy bar that didn’t even have a sign out front. They had a jukebox with a lot of early country music mixed with hard rock albums and some punk. I stared at the titles and wondered why I could recognize almost every one of the songs but I couldn’t remember my own mother.
The bar was pretty empty. There was one older guy wearing a trucker cap, unironically, and two girls who’d gotten all dolled up, perhaps thinking this was the night they’d meet the man of their dreams—or someone with enough money for a couple of apple martinis and a Caesar salad. I watched them look at the door every time someone new came in—which wasn’t often. I saw the hopefulness turn to disappointment when it wasn’t him.
I made myself at home on the last stool. The bartender, sEra, had her belly button pierced and a tattoo of a naked lady lying on a hamburger bun on her arm. She told me that she changed the spelling of her name from Sara to sEra when she was in high school, after she’d seen the movie Leaving Las Vegas. She thought it was cooler. Everybody wants to be unique—even if they’re blatantly copying somebody else to do it.
By about 3 A.M. sEra and I were pretty tight. I told her that I’d gotten engaged that night and that I wasn’t sure if I’d made the right decision. I told her about the amnesia—including the fraudulent case I’d forgotten—and that I still hadn’t recovered my memory. I told her that there had been a party for me that night, which for all I knew was still going on, but that it was too overwhelming and I took off. I left out the part about Esperanza and the shit storm. And the cupcakes. No one needed to hear that. I wished I never had. sEra was a good listener. Then again, it was part of the job description, but it seemed like she was born for it—a bit of a sage. She had all kinds of advice for me and an interesting outlook on everything I threw at her.
On identity and my lack thereof, she said, “Nobody knows who they really are anyway. Most people are just trudging along—waiting for something to happen. True character doesn’t even come out until people are tested—put in extreme situations . . . and most people spend their lives trying to avoid those kinds of situations.”
“So I’m really no different from anyone else,” I mused. “That makes it a little more palatable. Any thoughts on my engagement?”
“The fact that you have no idea who you are and what your behaviors were—rendering you essentially not the person your fiancé fell in love with—and he still asked you to marry him says a lot. He’s willing to jump first and hope the net will appear. That
’s faith. And sounds like love to me.”
“Wow,” I said. I hadn’t thought of it like that. Suddenly Dirk’s proposal meant that much more to me. And even if I didn’t know if I’d wanted to marry him in the past, I felt more certain that I’d made the right choice.
“Just my two cents,” she said. “I think—once you find love, you should spare no expense . . . make any sacrifice.” She was the embodiment of the wise barmaid. A cliché, no doubt, but clichés are usually born from some truth, and here was a perfect example.
“You have a beautiful outlook,” I told her. “You must have a wonderful life.”
“Don’t believe everything I say,” she said and smirked. “I’m pregnant with the bouncer’s baby.” She motioned to the door.
I looked to where she was directing my attention and saw a three-hundred-pound guy with no neck. She shrugged.
At 4 A.M., she kicked me out. Told me the bar was closing but said to come back anytime.
There are two kinds of people in this life. Morning people . . . and everyone else. I didn’t know if I was or had been a morning person previously, but hanging out in a diner watching clubbers and night shifters wander in, then walking around until the sun came up, made me realize that by sleeping half the day away, you can miss out on a lot.
I sat on a bench and watched the early morning joggers, the construction crews building new skyscrapers, people setting off to work, bleary-eyed dog walkers. Everybody commencing a new day, rested and ready to conquer the world. I found myself wishing I remembered what it was like to have a day to start—what my rituals were, how I felt during each step, if there was anything I wanted to change or stop, if there was a favorite part of every day. What brought me joy? What bugged the hell out of me? When/if I did regain my memory, would I feel different from how I did right then?
By the time I got home, it was 7 A.M. and Todd was waiting there for me. He was half asleep, perched at my window. I could tell he’d been fighting sleep all night. Poor guy.
“Jordy! Thank God!” he said as he flew off the chair and ran over to hug me. He tripped on the carpet or his sneakers and stumbled on his way over. He was exhausted.
“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” I said.
“It’s what I do best,” he said, looking at me wearily.
“Seriously,” I said, “go get some sleep. You wanna sleep here?”
“No. I wanna know where you were all night.”
I told him about my night. About how much of the city I’d measured out by foot, about sEra at the bar, and about watching the sun come up and wondering as I’d done every day for over a month if that was going to be the day my memories came back. Todd wasn’t pleased. Understandably. He had been worried.
“I’m sorry I made you worry,” I said.
“You could have called.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight. I was embarrassed and I just wanted out. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Jordan, c’mon,” he said.
“I didn’t! I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?” I made puppy dog whimper noises and sniffled a few times.
“You know I always do.”
“Actually, I don’t. But I had a feeling. You want breakfast or do you wanna take a nap?”
“I think I need a nap,” he said.
“I think I do too.” And Todd and I both fell onto my bed without another word. I woke up first, at about 1 P.M. Todd was still sleeping and I watched him sleep. I’d just napped with this Todd person and it felt totally safe . . . comfortable. I trusted him. And I felt beyond lucky to have him in my life—really blessed to have a friend like Todd. He probably felt me staring at him because he woke up and frowned at me.
“What’s that look?” he asked.
“I’m just happy that you’re my friend.”
“Well, you’re not going to be happy when you hear what I have to say.”
“Uh-oh . . .” I said.
“Yeah,” he said and cocked an eyebrow. “Uh-oh.” He steeled himself. “Jordan, you can’t, can’t, cannot marry Dirk.”
“Ugh,” I pleaded, flopping off the bed to brush my teeth, “Let’s not get into this.”
“We have to get into this. This is a huge deal. This is a cataclysmic nightmare.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s worse.”
“Todd, I know you think you know what’s best for me —and I appreciate your concern—but I also understand that there are two different camps here. And I can’t make everybody happy all the time.”
“But you can make yourself happy. And I promise you that if you marry Dirk, you will not be happy.” He seemed to be sure of this. But by deductive reasoning I thought there may have also been other factors at play.
“Okay, let me ask you something,” I said.
“Anything.”
“Did you have feelings for me before?”
“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “But that has nothing to do with this. I swear. I’d much rather see you with Travis than with Dirk.”
“Okay, then let me ask you this: When I was with Travis—like you people say I was—were you happy for Travis and me?” He got quiet. He pursed his lips and sort of flared his nostrils a bit. So obviously the answer was no. And I really couldn’t trust Todd’s opinion on this matter, no matter how good a friend he was or how much I felt I could trust him in every other matter.
Todd got up, grabbed his coat, and walked to the door. He stopped and looked back at me.
“No, I wasn’t happy about you and Travis either, but—and this is a huge but—”
“Who’s got a huge butt?” I tried to make a joke. It wasn’t funny.
“I love you. As my friend and the girl I’ve cared about since I was seven freakin’ years old. Yes, I had feelings for you and, yes, I acted like an immature asshole a lot of the time, because I’d always hoped that eventually you’d come around and see things my way and realize that we belonged together . . . but the bottom line is you mean everything to me. And so does your happiness. I wouldn’t fuck with you right now. It’s too important and you’re too vulnerable. I’m not even putting myself into the equation here. The only thing I have to gain from telling you this is your happiness, which, as it turns out, is much more important than mine. But please hear me: You don’t love Dirk. You love Travis. If you do one thing in this life, one thing, just trust me on this.” And he walked out the door.
* * * * *
Cat showed up at about 3 P.M. and started opening drawers and searching cabinets. She was on a mission to find my journal, and no amount of my protesting would stop her.
Maybe ten minutes later, Dirk arrived, and Cat and he started going at it again.
“Look, Nancy Drew, there’s no journal,” he said. “Why don’t you quit making up problems and just be excited for the happy couple?”
“That’ll be a subzero day in hell,” Cat said. “I don’t know what this wedding stuff is all about. I mean—I get that he wanted what he couldn’t have and that he’s trying to make partner, etc. That I can grasp. But to actually push for marriage? When he’ll be over you, once again, as soon as it sets in that he’s got you . . . and the thrill of the chase is gone again? And it’ll happen. I promise.”
“Cat,” I scolded in a tone I didn’t recognize as my own, “I need you to be happy for us. Put whatever went down between you and Dirk behind you. If I’m willing to look past it, I think you can too.”
Cat stood up and brushed off the lint that had collected on her pants from crouching and searching. She arched her back and stood with one hand on her belly in that way pregnant women do, looking out the window, then at Dirk, then at me, back out the window, at her feet, and back at me.
“Fine,” she said. “Whatever. I’m here for you.” Then she narrowed her eyes at Dirk, kissed me on the cheek, and left.
* * * * *
For whatever reason, Dirk wanted to have a very short engagement. He said that I would have wan
ted it that way, so our wedding date was set for three months from the night of my party.
For the next three months I was busy with a whirlwind of wedding stuff.
Even though I’d promised myself I’d never set foot in Barneys again after the Day of the Thong, we got my dress there. It was an incredible Christian Lacroix gown with the most romantic, whimsical, yet simple design—strapless silk tulle, embroidered ribbon lace, ruched bodice falling asymmetrically across the waistline . . . a dream manifested in a dress.
We had what seemed like fifteen fittings but was actually three. The girls who worked in the bridal salon at Barneys were remarkably interested and genuine even though they did this several times a day, every day, for different brides.
I had several hair appointments to do test dos and see what worked the best. We decided on an updo with some wisps in the front to frame my face. My mom seemed much warmer than she had before. She loved planning the wedding and threw herself into it completely. Walter told me it was nice to see us getting along so well, and I was glad we could share the excitement together because I certainly wasn’t feeling much enthusiasm from Cat, Todd, and Travis.
My mom took mother-of-the-bride responsibilities very seriously, to the point of once explaining to a potential floral designer that she was the “Queen Bee, and must be served.” I couldn’t tell whether she was coming on to him or merely condescending, but in either case, it was inappropriate and unfortunately par for the course. Something about the prospect of riding shotgun rather than being in the driver’s seat was drawing out her insecurities like pigeons on a loaf of discarded bread.
Cat finally shut up about Travis and me and agreed to be my maid of honor. She, my cousin Danielle—who I didn’t remember, but who my mom insisted be in the party—my sister, and Mom were my bridal party. I wasn’t about to argue since without cousin Danielle I’d have had just Cat, Sam, and Mom—and even though that made me related to three of the four people in my wedding party, it still seemed somehow less pathetic.
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