Samantha rolled her eyes as if she didn’t know what anyone was talking about, but that one I wasn’t going to let go.
“Oh . . .” Esperanza slowly nodded. “Jes, I think you’re right.”
Ya think? “I know I’m right. Because I remember,” I said victoriously. “I don’t know why most of you are even here. I’m looking at all of you and having trouble finding more than a handful of people who have ever even been nice to me.”
I looked at my mom. “You’ve treated me like an unwanted stepchild for nearly my entire life. Yes, you’ve thrown me a lovely wedding. Thank you for that. But how could you sell me out like this? You knew I loved Travis!”
My mother stepped toward me and in a hushed tone said, “This is not the time or the place, Jordan.”
“The time or place?” I asked incredulously. “But it is the time and place for me to marry someone that you knew damned well I’d broken up with before I lost my memory?”
“I was only looking out for your best interests,” she said.
“My best interests? That’s priceless.”
Then I noticed Samantha, who seemed to be eating this up. “Sam, why so smug? You’ve taken advantage of me since you learned how to walk.” I paused for effect and then added, “No wonder your father likes me better.”
I turned to Walter. “You at least always meant well,” I said, and then turned out to everyone in the church. “But most of you people treated me like shit for my entire life! And by the way? I faked my amnesia the first time because I needed a do-over. I wanted to forget about all of this, all of you! Because I’d let practically everyone in this church walk all over me so much that it seemed like the only way out was to start fresh.” I raised my arms to the heavens. “So forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I lied! But not anymore.”
“That’s enough,” my mother said.
“You’re right. It’s more than even I can stomach. So while you’re looking out for my best interests, you can go ahead and apologize to these poor people for wasting their time today by inviting them to this sham of a wedding. And it would be in your best interest to forget about suing my real boyfriend if you want to continue to have anything to do with your daughter. I’ve got my faculties back and there will be no power of attorney and no lawsuit. Travis isn’t even at fault for anything. He did nothing. Except love me.”
And as soon as I said that, I thought about Travis. I had to get out of there and find him as fast as I could.
“I guess the wedding’s off?” Dirk said nervously. This was the idiot I was supposed to be marrying? Awfully wed took on new meaning.
“Yes, Dirk,” I said. “The wedding is off.” And then I turned to everyone else, “You hear that? No wedding today. Nothing to see here, people. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go find the guy I’m actually in love with.”
30.
to the lighthouse
On any given day, you can see pretty much anything on the streets of New York City, so my running out of the church, up Broadway a few blocks until I hit Union Square, and finally finding a cab to Travis’s apartment, while still wearing my wedding dress, didn’t create much of a stir. Sure, I got a few points and stares, but it didn’t matter. I was on a mission. I’d dialed Travis’s number the minute I got outside and got a disconnected recording, which made me even more frantic.
There was a guy walking into Travis’s building as soon as I got there, so rather than wait and call up, I conspicuously followed him inside, smiling (for future reference, a wedding dress might be a perfect cover for a major burglary), and took the elevator up to Travis’s floor. I ran to his door and started ringing his doorbell and pounding like a crazy person.
The door opened and there stood . . . Ben. Not who I was expecting. Nor was he expecting me. He looked me up and down in my wedding gown and guffawed.
“What, did you fall off your cake?” he said.
“Where’s Travis?” I gasped, totally out of breath.
“He’s not here,” he said. “He doesn’t live here anymore. I took over his lease.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“Who do you think?”
“Why don’t you leave him alone, Jordan?” he said. “How about you just forget about him. You’re good at that.”
I didn’t have time for this. The last thing I needed was Ben and his attitude. “Ben, where is he? Tell me,” I urged. “I need to find him. Where does he live now?”
“I don’t remember,” he said smugly. “I must have forgotten. You know how that is.”
“Hilarious,” I mocked.
“Yeah, I thought so too. Thanks for stopping by,” Ben said, and then started to close the door. I squeezed myself in between the door and the jamb and stopped him.
“Please, Ben,” I begged. “Please just tell me where he is. I need to talk to him. And I think he’d want to talk to me too.”
He sighed. Some combination of my newfound lucidity and apparent lunacy must have overwhelmed his resistance. “He moved onto his dad’s old boat. He wanted to preserve his savings to fix the lighthouse and open the restaurant, in case he’s got anything left after the lawsuit gets resolved.”
“Oh, it’s resolved!” I said grimly. “Do you know his phone number?”
“He doesn’t have a phone.”
“How is that possible? Just give it to me—please!”
“He doesn’t have a phone,” he said again.
“Well, do you know where the boat is?” I asked.
“They’re generally found on the water,” he said.
Tears began to form in my eyes. “Ben, please.”
“It’s in a marina somewhere, I don’t know. Really, I don’t know,” he said and I could tell that he really didn’t, so I thanked him and left.
I’d find him somehow, if I had to scour every marina from Maine to Miami.
* * * * *
I took a taxi to Penn Station, a train out to Long Beach, and then another taxi to the marina. I was banking on the fact that there probably wouldn’t be too many people living in the boats. I’d imagined they’d be lined up like ducks in a row and that I could walk up and down and peer in until I saw Travis.
Of course, I was stupid. For starters—all the boats were out in the water, moored in star shapes in the harbor, and there was no way I could get to them. Add to that the fact that they were spread out over about a two-mile area, and there you have it. Me standing on the dock in my wedding gown. Ridiculous.
Frustrated and overwhelmed by the day’s events, I wasn’t in a hurry to take two taxis and another train, so I took off my shoes and walked along the pier. I’d been so focused on getting to Travis, making up with Travis—Travis, Travis, Travis—I hadn’t even thought about what would be next for Jordan.
The euphoria of coming clean and casting aside Dirk had worn off. I found a quiet spot, slumped down on a bench, and stared at the sailboats’ bobbing masts, marveling at the train wreck I’d wrought.
* * * * *
I got off the train at Astor Place and saw Lyric Lady, lighting a match. As soon as it sparked, she blew it out. Then she lit another and did the same thing. I didn’t know if I should be happy for her getting out of the psych ward or not. I just wanted her to be safe. I cleared my throat as I neared her to make my presence known, and she looked up at me and frowned.
I walked exceptionally slowly as I passed her, giving her the maximum amount of time to toss a lyric at me. But . . . nothing. I don’t know why this mattered so much to me, but it did. I felt this oddly poignant sense of loss. Probably how she felt when I stopped playing along—first selfishly, to cover my tracks and then because I didn’t know better.
Then as I was just about to turn left on Broadway she cleared her throat. I stopped and turned.
She stuck her chin out defiantly. “‘I got . . . nine lives . . . cat’s eyes . . .’” she said.
“‘Usin’ every one of them and runnin’ wild,’” I
answered. And I was back. “Back in Black.” She raised her kerchiefed fist in the air, and on an impulse I ran back and hugged her.
Then she looked me over again and nodded. “‘Nice day for a white wedding.’”
I nodded back and confided, “‘It’s a nice day to—’”
But she beat me to the finish, tossing her head back and bending her whole body forty-five degrees. “‘Start agaaaain!’” she sang out. It was good to be home.
I got to the apartment at around midnight and Sneevil cocked his little head at me and let out a tiny chirp.
“Sneevil,” I said aloud, “remember me?”
I walked straight over to his cage, and for the first time, I raised the gate and reached in—and though canaries don’t like to be handled, he cautiously let me pet his tiny feathered head. He even leaned into my hand and nudged me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t remember you, little guy,” I said to him. “But I’m back. And you’re mine now.”
The red light on my answering machine was blinking and I didn’t want to know what kind of vitriol it had in store for me, so I opted to ignore it. Not just ignore it but delete it—unheard. That was the past. Cliché as it sounded, my new life started when I stood at the altar and came clean. Although it may have been selfish and disruptive, I needed to do it so I could start over . . . again. This time not faking, not lost, but assembling all the information I’d gathered under both circumstances and coming up with a responsible plan for my future.
I picked up the phone and called Todd. I wanted to hear what had happened after I left my wedding. Turned out that my mom hyperventilated and nearly passed out from all the excitement, Samantha insisted that they go on with the reception since it was already paid for, and Todd and Cat went to the closest bar, where she matched him shot for shot (even if hers were ginger ale).
“Well,” I had to ask, “was my mom okay? After she hyperventilated?”
“She’s fine,” he said. “Nothing five glasses of merlot won’t fix.”
“Okay . . .” I said, waiting for more info, but none was forthcoming. “So you don’t even have any gossip for me? You just left?”
“You’re the gossip, nimrod! Did you think something more exciting was going to happen after you left mid-wedding?”
“Guess not,” I admitted.
“So?” Todd said. “Are you going to tell me what happened after you left? I’m judging that everything didn’t go perfectly as planned or you wouldn’t be calling me right now. What’s up with Travis?”
“He moved,” I said, “onto a boat. In a marina. Somewhere. But I don’t know where.”
Man overboard. Relationship over.
* * * * *
Obviously, the first official sit-down of the Three Musketeers was going to be awkward, but I needed to apologize to Cat in person and wanted to say some things to Todd as well.
We met at Cozy’s, and although I’d prepared a bit of a speech, it all went out the window when I saw their faces. Cat was trying not to be angry, but I could see the hurt seeping through the warm smile she met me with.
“Cat,” I started. “I’m so sorry. I know deep down that I could have trusted you. But I knew that you’d be horrified and I’d never be able to keep it up. You’d be the voice of reason. The one who put her foot down. I know it sounds dumb, but I respected your sense of right and wrong too much to bring you into it. And I wasn’t willing to deal with what would have been your totally appropriate disapproval.”
I started playing with the napkin dispenser because tears started blurring my vision and I needed to distract myself. I pretended to be wiping a finger smudge off the aluminum, but I was only making it worse.
“Hey,” Cat said, and reached out to touch my hand. “It’s okay. I mean, yeah, I was pissed at first . . . but Todd and I threw a few back at Chumley’s in lieu of your reception . . . and as much as I hate to admit it—I probably would have ruined your scam.”
“You’re just saying that,” I said.
“No,” Todd chimed in. “She would have. She really sucks at stuff like that.” Cat play socked him in the arm and we were silent for a minute. “You’re just too solid, Cat. We all bow down to you, pathetic bumblers in the presence of true goodness.”
“The actual amnesia was never part of the plan,” I said. “Thanks for trying to talk me out of the Dirk thing. Sorry I didn’t listen.”
“How weird was that, though?” Cat asked. “Not the actual getting of the amnesia—which was superweird yet obviously karma—but the Dirk thing. Talk about a clinical approach to life.”
“By any means necessary, no less. So uncool,” I agreed. “When my memory came back and I realized I was walking down the aisle to marry Dirk . . . ?” I did an exaggerated shudder at the thought.
“He had you, he blew it,” Todd said. “Then he lost you, and he wanted you back. Now that you’ve woken up from the nightmare—”
“Damnesia!” I inserted.
“Right!” Todd smiled back. “And now that he’s lost you for good, I wonder what his next move is.”
“I don’t,” Cat said. “I saw him hitting on your cousin before they shuttled off to the reception.”
“The reception?” I repeated. “My God—what a total mess I made. I didn’t even think of all those things—the cake and the booze and the band and the tent rental. And return policies on gifts have gotten awful!”
“Coulda been worse,” Todd said, winking, and I couldn’t help laughing, and Cat couldn’t either.
We sat there, me slurping pea soup—which I have to say tasted even better than I remembered—and all of us apologizing to one another for various missteps over the previous months, and when all was said and done, we were back to normal. Todd was even seeing someone who’d lasted past a week’s time. All was right. Except for things with Travis. That was wrong. Very wrong. But I wasn’t giving up on us, and Todd and Cat agreed to help me.
* * * * *
My first stop: the DMV. Probably the last place you ever want to go, but Todd suggested that instead of wandering aimlessly on the docks in a wedding gown, I should look up Travis’s registration. I didn’t know if they’d actually give me any information, but it was worth a shot. Here’s what I found out:
1. The DMV really is as stereotypically awful as it’s made out to be.
2. If you operate a boat in New York State, you must register it with the DMV.
3. However, the DMV will not give you information about anything that isn’t yours (okay, reasonable).
4. They won’t even be nice about it.
5. Desperation isn’t always a ticket to sympathy.
I was complaining to Cat about the dead end I’d hit, and how I was never going to find his boat, when she just started tossing out ideas at random.
“Stand on the dock with a megaphone?” she suggested.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Message in a bottle?” she said.
“Not so much,” I replied.
“Smoke signals?” she said, again jokingly, but that was it. Not smoke signals but the beacon. The lighthouse. If I couldn’t go to him, I’d make him come to me.
* * * * *
Rather than continue to spin my wheels, I decided to do some Internet research. I sat at my desk at home (I missed you, desk, I thought), logged onto my computer (missed you too, computer!), ready to choose a search engine, and came face to computer screen with an e-mail in-box filled with 168 unopened e-mails.
I warily clicked the little mailbox icon to take a cursory glace and make sure I wasn’t missing anything important, and, lo and behold, there were a zillion messages from my mother and Walter to and from each other—none, gathering from the subject lines, having anything to do with me (I did not miss this).
I decided to open and respond to one of them and delete the rest. The one I opened went as follows:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: I forg
ot!
I remembered that I wanted to tell you something but couldn’t remember what it was. Maybe I’ll remember later. If not, it probably wasn’t important.
Yet, it was important enough to share in an e-mail about nothing and blind copy me on it. It wasn’t a huge deal, but it was taking up the majority of my in-box. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that all I had to do was ask them to stop. Simple. Yet, like so many other not-yet-dealt-with issues, I’d feared the confrontation and not taken any action. I hit Reply All.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected], [email protected]
Subject: re: I forgot!
Dear Parents,
Please do not cc me on your e-mail exchanges. I appreciate your wanting to include me in your correspondence. However, if it does not pertain to me or if it is not “to” me, I would rather not receive them. I realize that there is a lot we will have to discuss, but I’ve been meaning to ask you to stop ccing me for a long time, so I wanted to do that while it was fresh on my mind. Thank you very much.
Send.
* * * * *
I was browsing the New-York Historical Society, the conservation society, and the municipal authority, trying to figure out who could best help me get the lighthouse up and running—if it was even a possibility. I’d only been searching for about seven minutes when I heard a ding in my in-box.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: re: re: I forgot!
Dear Jordan,
I understand completely and will stop ccing you unless it is relevant to you. Glad to have you back and look forward to the next phase of this family.
Love,
Wally (Dad)
Seriously? I thought. That was all it took? I was dumbfounded. A simple, calm, concise communication. Problem solved. No assumed identities. No abandoned memory. Huh.
After a series of dead ends and “you don’t need us, the people you want to contact are . . .” I finally garnered some useful information after being on hold for about seventeen hours. A woman named Brenda at the Long Island Power Authority caught me singing along to the hold music in a state of utter delirium, and she took a liking to me instantly.
Forget About It Page 35