Retrograde

  Beneath the warmth of the food, the wine, the candlelight, and Joachim’s admiration, there’s a cold, hard core to her when she sees the dishes being cleared away. The evening is ending now and she hasn’t said a word. She flags down the waiter and orders an espresso before Joachim can ask for the check.

  “I’ll have the same,” Joachim says. But it hasn’t bought them much time, really. Just a few more swallows of this night, a few more spaces to slip words into. And still she doesn’t know what to say.

  The waiter sets down the two little cups on their two little saucers. Joachim taps his against hers and winks at her. She feels something shift within her, her guts a steep slope down which a hard, condensed ball of dread is about to tumble.

  “Joachim,” she says, but he says her name in the same moment, and then neither of them wants to be the first to speak. They sip their espresso and then she says, “There’s something I need to ask you about.”

  “Anything.” All the color goes out of his face. Somewhere inside of him, something’s been switched off. She sees that he’s afraid and wants to make an accusation out of that, but she’s just as afraid as he is. Maybe more. She only remembers bits and pieces of their last separation, but that’s enough to let her know how blinding the pain was, how heavy the lasting ache of disappointment. At the same time, she remembers being alone for those years that went by so quickly and yet lasted forever, much longer than she was ever married. She doesn’t want to be alone forever, but she doesn’t want to keep pretending just to put it off for a few more days or years. Fleetingly, she thinks of Tobias, whose face she can’t remember, but whose name she can’t forget. To think she started to believe she was the unfaithful one… But Joachim is still waiting for her question.

  It doesn’t come out the way she expects. “Joachim,” she says again. “Have you ever regretted marrying me?”

  He finishes his espresso and clears his throat. “I never thought of it that way before,” he says. “At a certain time, I must’ve. But I don’t now. I’d do it all over again, even if I already knew all the problems we’d have.”

  “Problems?” She can feel the tears gathering in her eyes. How absurd to still be taken in by these little speeches, the lies she’s so hungry for she swallows them whole. She doesn’t want to cry because it will only get them off topic.

  Sure enough, he reaches across the table to brush away the drops gathering on her eyelashes like rain on naked branches. He wipes them off her cheek with the side of one finger, and she only wants him to hold her, to protect her from having to face all the lies he’s told, or rather all the awkward truths she can’t get to line up with his words. It’s not fair that she has to be the one to speak.

  “I’m just tired.” She tries to keep the tears out of her voice but he’s already signaling for the check, paying it and helping her to her feet.

  “Let’s just go home, make some tea and get to bed,” he says, all the while stroking her hair from the roots to the spot between her shoulder blades where it stops, trying to soothe this frightened animal enough to get it back into its cage. And she lets herself be soothed and guided back into the apartment, because there’s a chill in the air outside, because it’s exhausting to be on her feet, because everything outside of this apartment is cold, weary, and hopeless; and because, whatever the reason, right now, this is her home.

  She still has all the time in the world to tell him, or let him tell her. Maybe after the appointment next week, so he can believe it’s a medical miracle, and beat himself up for having taken her to a doctor in the first place. Maybe before, maybe in the middle of the night, when she wakes from another of those strangely familiar dreams, or maybe after, long after, when the words have gotten easier to say.

  JOACHIM

  All week, Joachim dreams so many different scenarios that could’ve taken place that, when he wakes before his alarm on Friday, he isn’t sure which the real one is. Did he tell her or didn’t he? He looks over at Helena sleeping peacefully beside him and recalls the last few days piece by piece. What did she ask him last week? Whether he was sorry he married her. Where did that come from? Something must be the matter. She hasn’t asked him anything like that since, didn’t do anything to disrupt another weekend of him wheeling her along aimlessly between thunderstorms, another week of him going out and her staying home. But that doesn’t mean it’s not on her mind.

  Maybe she senses something even if she can’t remember it. It’s not like they took a time machine back to before their separation. Those years still happened, and they’re still there, somewhere inside of her. Will the doctor manage to draw them out today?

  From all that he’s read, there aren’t many concrete treatments for what she has—or rather what she’s missing. So maybe the doctor will just ask her some questions. What if he asks Joachim questions, too? That would make sense. To check whether her answers are right. If only he’d told her last week, or even last night. But then they’d be in no shape to see the doctor today.

  The alarm goes off and he grabs for his phone to turn it off.

  “Morning, darling,” Helena says. He notices that she only takes one crutch with her to the bathroom. The jerky motion of her limp bothers him. Or is it just the fact of her movement? He stretches and goes to the kitchen to make coffee. Just another morning, he reminds his racing heart.

  In the cab, Helena chats with the driver, making trivial conversation about the weather and traffic the whole way to the doctor’s office. He can’t tell whether she’s in good spirits or covering for his grim silence. Then again, why shouldn’t she be in good spirits? She’s been having a serious problem for weeks, and now it might get solved.

  He waits two meters behind her as she hands her insurance card to the receptionist and says she has an appointment with Dr. Meier. He’s surprised that she remembered the name, which he only mentioned once after making the appointment. But why shouldn’t she? Dr. Hofstaedter explained that to him while Helena was still in the hospital, that there was a kind of amnesia where you had problems storing new memories, but that was different from what Helena had. That would be far worse. What if she couldn’t remember a fight they’d had they day before? They’d have to have the same fight all over again, every day forever. Or maybe every hour, the same album playing on loop. But there’s nothing unfamiliar about this nightmare scenario. Weren’t they that way before, day after day, without any medical conditions? Always caught in the same moment of resentment and distrust.

  Helena touches his arm and he starts. He didn’t realize she was done checking in. He helps her into the waiting room, onto one of the white plastic chairs. He feels like she doesn’t really need his help and is just humoring him. But it must be easier for her to walk with him next to her. He shouldn’t always second-guess her.

  The only other person in the waiting room is a stout, hearty-looking woman in her late forties or early fifties, whom they greet after sitting down.

  Joachim looks at his phone. “We’re a bit early.”

  “Better too early than too late,” Helena says.

  “Yes, of course. It’s no good having to rush, especially in your condition.”

  A nurse comes to call the other woman, and the conversation fizzles out. Were they keeping it up for her benefit? Helena leans over the white plastic table next to her chair to sort through the selection of well-worn magazines. Ancient issues of Spiegel from before the last Bundestag election. Tabloids from last weekend. A special interest magazine for pharmacists and a greasy copy of Gala with outdated gossip about Europe’s royals. She looks at the cover of each one and puts it down. Then starts through the stack again. She’s halfway through when the nurse calls her.

  Joachim stands up and then sits down again. Is he supposed to go with her? The nurse gestures for him to stay in his seat.

  “We’re just going to give her the MRI now to see how the brain trauma has developed. We’ll call you in after.”

  Helena doesn’t look at him, but leans on o
ne of the nurse’s arms. He can hear the beginning of their hushed conversation about her injuries. They’ll probably ask her again in private, to make sure he didn’t do it. Will they find out about the subtler injuries he’s inflicted on her? No scan is going to detect the lies she’s heard lately. And when they call him in after? Well, maybe he won’t go. He could just walk out of here right now. He could say there was an emergency and he’ll send a cab for Helena, pay the driver to help her up the stairs. He already has a foretaste of the wild exhilaration he’d feel if he walked out of this building, raced down the street through the warm, still air, and ran all the way home. Or in the opposite direction, as fast as he could.

  But the fantasy is only so appealing because he knows it’s impossible, because he could never bring himself to do it. The thing with Ester was probably the only really irresponsible thing he’s done in his entire adult life. Unless you count what he’s doing with Helena. But irresponsible isn’t quite the word for that.

  An elderly couple comes creaking into the waiting room, the man with a walker, the woman shuffling behind him. Both greet Joachim with heavy Berlin accents, then take no further notice of him. The woman holds the man’s arm with a thin, veiny hand while she sits down, and then offers him her brittle arms to help him into the seat. When they’re both sitting, he rests his hand on the knobby knee protruding through her loose pants, and she puts her hand on his. Joachim sees them smile at each other and then looks away again, because it was a private smile, just for the two of them. Their silence isn’t like his and Helena’s silence. He and Helena aren’t able to talk, whereas this couple doesn’t need to. They must be past all the uncertainties now, past all the fights where there are no winners, where nothing is ever decided.

  And yet why should they have had it any easier than he and Helena? They must’ve overcome even greater problems—growing up in the war, trying to make a living in the hungry years after, spending a few decades getting used to a country that no longer exists. Maybe he and Helena don’t have what it takes to grow old together. There’s a dangerous lump in his throat, so he picks up one of the magazines at random, forces himself through an article about why the FDP is likely to lose its seats in the Bundestag. He’s overthinking things. Helena isn’t agonizing this way. Of course, she has the advantage of not being able to remember half the things he’s worrying about.

  HELENA

  Helena leans a little more heavily on Sister Anne’s arm than she needs to. After all, she’s the injured party here. Even if she’s the only one in danger of forgetting it.

  All the way down the corridor, Sister Anne makes pointedly pointless conversation. How are Helena’s injuries healing? What does Helena do? Is that her husband in the waiting room? So nice of him to come. Unpleasant to wait at the doctor’s office by yourself.

  In the examination room, she closes the door and starts setting up the scanner. Helena sits down uninvited on the cot in front of it; after all, her leg is in a cast.

  “Did your husband do this to you?” Sister Anne asks from her crouched position next to the crowded power strip into which she’s trying to wedge one last plug.

  “No,” Helena answers quickly. “I was hit by a truck crossing the street.” For an instant, she has the feeling that she’s lying. Didn’t he do something to her? Didn’t he do all he could to keep her from getting her memory back? It’s strange that she isn’t angrier at him. Just thinking about what’s happened to her brain turns her stomach. And if it were up to him, the damage would be permanent. Maybe it will be anyway. She still can’t remember why she crossed against the light at a busy intersection, or anything about the man she spent the afternoon with just before. Still, those are trivial details compared to what Joachim was trying to hide from her. Just incidents, not fundamental circumstances of her life.

  But what should he have done? Not come to get her in the first place. That would’ve been the normal thing to do. He could’ve called her parents and let them handle it. Or Magdalena or Susi. And then? And then nothing. He would’ve stayed out of her life like he had all along. Or rather, like she made him.

  And if he’d come and told her the truth right away? She still might not have remembered for a while, but she would’ve been able to learn the facts like new information. She probably still would’ve let him take her home. It wasn’t Joachim who lied to her first; it was her feelings when she saw him.

  What does that mean? Were her emotions, like her memories, set back to some earlier point in time? Or maybe something within her never stopped waiting for him to reappear, was relieved instead of surprised when it finally happened.

  “I hope I haven’t offended you, Ms. Bachlein. You know we have to ask that kind of thing.”

  Helena looks up, startled. “Oh, no, not at all. I was just thinking of something.”

  “Well, don’t think too much when you’re in there.” Sister Anne indicates the scanner. “No, that’s a joke—you can just relax.” She gives Helena a set of earplugs to block out the noise and shows her a button she can press if she has a problem. “So there’s really nothing to worry about at all,” she says.

  Helena lies back and tries to believe her, tries to separate the dull pings of the machine from the sound of her heart, close her eyes and keep from dreaming. But in the darkness of the machine, her heart beats back and forth between guilt and dread, sure that everything she’s been doing her best to hide is exposed now. And she’ll protest that she wasn’t always faking it, but no one will believe her. She knows this scenario is absurd, but she can’t stop picturing it to herself in a thousand different variations. Sometimes Joachim is watching, and sometimes she’s all alone. It’s as if Sister Anne had wheeled her into a private movie theater where she can watch all her worst anxieties in action.

  With a great effort, she forces other faces into her mind. Doro, Magdalena, Susi, Thomas, her parents… All of them positive, supporting her, on her side. They know what she’s been through. But then another face starts to appear in the crowded darkness: a young, but sickly woman’s face, with matted hair and clumps of mascara around her eyes. The horror-movie moment where that woman reached out a clammy hand to grab Helena’s arm strikes her with such visceral vividness that a tremor runs through her body. That woman, that woman, who was she? Where were they? Helena strains to build up the scene around them, not sure how much she’s remembering and how much she’s inventing. A doorway. They were standing in a doorway, Helena on the outside, that woman on the inside. Helena had come to see her and the woman didn’t expect her. But why? It must’ve been that woman’s—what was her name?—it must’ve been her apartment. Helena can’t remember what she said or what the woman said when she opened the door, only the sickly horror of that cold, damp touch on her arm, and the terrible effort of trying to hold herself together, not disintegrate or run for her life.

  Then the dull noises stop and she feels a warm touch on one of her arms. It must be over now. She still has her eyes closed when Sister Anne rolls her cot away from the scanner, but she can feel the light around her, protecting her, cleansing her of what she just saw. She opens them and tries, just for now, just until she’s alone again, not to remember. She watches Sister Anne saying something for a few moments before taking out her earplugs.

  “Are you feeling all right, Ms. Bachlein? You’re quite pale and I noticed you shivering a bit during your scan.”

  “Yes,” Helena answers without thinking. “I just remembered something.”

  “Something you’d forgotten? How wonderful! You’ll be able to tell Dr. Meier all about it in a few minutes. I’ll just get your scan printed out and then take you into the consultation room.” She steps out, leaving Helena sitting on the cot. She knew there’d been something about another woman but it was too much to remember all at once. You have to take it in small doses. She knew it was something like that, but she thought: one step at a time. Until this moment, she didn’t realize she’d seen the woman, been touched by her cold hand. She can hear s
ome kind of machinery groaning through the wall, and then Sister Anne comes back in with a manila folder under one arm. As the nurse helps her to her feet, she remembers in sickening detail the moment just after, that woman’s damp, cold hand drawing the warmth out of her pulsing wrist, when they both burst into tears: Helena’s silently streaming down the burning skin of her face, and the other woman’s sickly weeping, the strands of snot coming out of her nostrils that she didn’t wipe away, her heaving gasps for air. She shudders and feels the tremor pass through her body into the solid, healthy warmth of Sister Anne at her side.

  “Shall I get you a blanket, Ms. Bachlein? You seem to be a little chilled.”

  “That would be nice, thank you,” Helena manages to say. She doesn’t understand anything. She can’t believe she’d go to the home of some woman Joachim was seeing, confront her like that. It isn’t like her. And why was the woman already such a mess, even before Helena arrived? She lets Sister Anne deposit her in one of three vinyl-covered chairs opposite a sparse pressed-wood desk, where the nurse deposits the manila folder next to a metal penholder. She opens a drawer in the desk and takes out a form on a clipboard, which she hands to Helena.

  “Please start filling this out,” she says.

  Helena nods and begins answering the questions: when and where she was born, her parents’ names, whether she has siblings. The form is several pages long, and that reassures her, having so much paper to put between herself and whatever’s about to happen.

  “Would you like me to get your husband right away, or would you prefer to speak to the doctor alone first? Many of our patients find it helpful to have someone there to help them put together the memories they’re missing and—”

  Helena surprises both of them by cutting her off. “Why don’t I see the doctor first so we can discuss the medical aspects? I don’t want to worry my husband unnecessarily, and we can call him in after.”