Moments We Forget

by Beth K. Vogt

  “You should tell your family—your children and your parents—right away. As soon as you can. They need to know.” What was the best way to do this when her family wasn’t all in the same town? This wasn’t the time to struggle to think. “You can set up a group Skype session . . . something like that. Then you can tell them at the same time, and you don’t have to do it more than once.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  I hesitated to say anything more, but the offer couldn’t be stopped, no matter how much I tried to resist it. “I could help you figure out what to say, if you want—anticipate some of their questions. You won’t have all the answers, but we can try to figure out as many of the questions they might have as we can. Then you can always tell them you’ll get the answers to any others.”

  “Good.”

  I took a sip of my coffee to give myself time to gather my thoughts. Wait. I’d made a list of possible talking points, but hearing that Gail’s family didn’t know had thrown me so much that I’d forgotten.

  I opened my note in my phone. “You said you’re figuring out your course of action, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “When’s your next appointment?”

  “I see my doctor on Thursday.”

  “Don’t be afraid to ask for a second opinion. It’s important that you trust your doctors.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, although so far I’m happy.” Gail had been tapping notes into her phone. “Anything else I should think of?”

  “Right now, telling your family is the first step. And then figuring out what you’re going to do. That will determine a lot—like how your job is affected.”

  “Thank you for everything, Jillian. You’ve been such a great help.”

  “Feel free to text me if you ever want to ask anything else.” That was only the right thing to do. And a text was more impersonal than a phone call.

  Gail tucked her hair behind her ear. Surely she’d thought about losing her hair. About the possibility of losing a breast. Now, when we’d just said good-bye, wasn’t the time to say, “Oh, wait, I forgot to mention . . .”

  Her doctors would address all those realities, just as mine had.

  How odd that I was the one with the expertise. The one answering the questions, not asking them. It was as if, because of my past, I could so clearly see Gail’s future . . . I was some macabre version of a fortune-teller.

  All the way home, I warred with the desire to weep for Gail and the knowledge that tears did no good. There was enough sorrow wrapped around cancer . . . and not enough tears to quench it.

  Both physical and emotional exhaustion pressed against me as I sat on the edge of my bed, ready to forget my time with Gail. To close my eyes and sleep. But my thoughts whirled with all the questions Gail needed to ask her doctors—and all the possible answers she’d receive.

  I just got back from meeting Gail.

  My text to Harper was sent almost without my realizing it.

  I know you helped her.

  I didn’t do much. I listened. Offered some suggestions. Told her to tell her family.

  They don’t know?

  No. She didn’t want to mess up their holidays.

  I couldn’t have done that.

  Everyone handles things differently. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know.

  Thanks, Jill. Thanks.

  I stared at my phone.

  I could have done more.

  I should have done more.

  Meeting for coffee, that was one thing—one emotionally safe thing. If I did anything more, it would be like revisiting the scene of an accident. No, worse—it would be as if someone had filmed the accident in slow motion, and I’d be watching it again, knowing what was happening, unable to close my eyes, unable to mute the sounds.

  I’d told Gail she could call or text if she had any more questions.

  “God, help me . . . God, help me . . .”

  Where had those words—that rough prayer—come from?

  All during our time together, I hadn’t mentioned God . . . still didn’t know how to do that. If I should do that.

  As much as I didn’t want to get more involved with Gail, with all I knew her future held, I knew there was more I could do for her.

  Gail, this is Jillian. I’d be happy to go with you to any of your doctors’ appointments, if you think it would help. And I’m praying for you.

  I waited. No response after twenty minutes. That was okay. Gail might be busy. Or she might not want a just-talked-to-you-once stranger to go with her to an appointment.

  But I’d done what I thought I should do. And surely God listened to less than perfect prayers like mine.

  Back when I was in middle school and high school, occasionally I’d been asked to let someone who was considering coming to the school shadow me for the day—attend classes with me, go to lunch with me. It was one day of my life—my school life, surrounded by teachers and classmates.

  The offer I’d made to Gail? It was open-ended. And if she said yes, I’d be stepping into something personal to her. To me.

  But I wasn’t going to rescind my offer. I couldn’t.

  My text was still there, unanswered, but it was the right thing to do. I hadn’t stopped to think about all the reasons I wasn’t qualified to help Gail. My fatigue. My inability to focus. I could sit beside her and listen, even if I was tired. Take notes. Be a presence . . . a very new friend who’d gone before her.

  SNAGGING A BOOTH at Over Easy before the usual Saturday morning rush was worth leaving the house at seven o’clock. Winston had just raised his head from where he snoozed on the end of our bed and given us a one-eyed glance before going back to sleep, no longer afraid Geoff was going to insist he sleep in his kennel. He’d probably still be in the same place when we got home.

  Geoff handed his menu to the waitress wearing a T-shirt decorated with a smiley face made of egg eyes and a bacon smile, having ordered his breakfast tacos. “I’m glad you suggested this, Jill. I can’t remember the last time we had breakfast here.”

  “It was probably back when I had long hair.” I offered him a half smile and tried to raise my nonexistent eyebrow at him. “What? It was a joke, Geoff.”

  “O-kay.” His grin was hesitant. “I just wasn’t expecting that.”

  “I know. I’m trying some different things—like ordering huevos rancheros. Besides, whatever I don’t eat, I know you’ll finish off.”

  I sipped my Boulder Breakfast tea—another “let me try something new” decision that I wasn’t so sure I’d continue. I was too much of a coffee girl. “I was also thinking about the New Year and how everyone makes resolutions . . . even I do. I did.” I pulled a folded piece of paper from my purse sitting next to me in the booth. Unfolded it, smoothing it out on the top of the table. “I’ve written down a list of at least ten items I want to accomplish this year. And then I realized how silly it was.”

  “What do you mean? Making goals is a good thing.”

  “Not for me. I have a difficult time keeping track of things from one day to the next—from one hour to the next, sometimes. I’m thankful I remembered to put this list in my purse before we left the house this morning.”

  “Then make multiple copies of it. Tape it up on the bathroom mirror. Or put it in Evernote.”

  I held up my hand to stop all the suggestions. “I appreciate you helping me. Really, I do.”

  This was what Geoff did—he always tried to help me. But he didn’t understand, not really. He wasn’t home during the day when I was looking for the list, trying to remember what it looked like. Where I’d put it. Where I’d put the tape so I could tape it somewhere. When I tried to decide if I should tape it on the bathroom mirror or the bedroom mirror or somewhere in the kitchen. Decide if putting it in Evernote was better. And if I did, what virtual notebook I should use, what tags I should use so I could find it again.

  Geoff unwrapped his silverware from his cloth napkin, setting his fork, knife, and spoon
just so. How had I not noticed this habit during all our months together? Was this particularity something he’d picked up from his parents?

  It didn’t matter. He was Geoff. My Geoff. Not his parents.

  “So what are you thinking of doing?”

  “I know you’re probably wondering why I even brought this list. It’s so I can do this—” I folded the paper and tore it in half—“and tell you I’m choosing a word instead.”

  “A word? One word?”

  “Yes. Just one word. I know—that was a little dramatic, right? But I’m starting something new, so I wanted to emphasize it.”

  “Okay. What made you decide to do this?”

  “I read a few blog posts about people who choose one word to focus on for the year.”

  “It sounds simple enough.”

  “Sort of. But then again, some people said concentrating on a word like kindness or gratitude or forgiveness changed their lives. They filtered their decisions, their choices, through the word.”

  “You read a couple of blogs and you want to do this?”

  “I found a book and a website, too.” Maybe I should have brought my laptop to show Geoff. “I like the simplicity of it—and the idea that it could change who I am in a year.”

  “I thought that’s what God was for.”

  I stilled. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “That I’ve decided to believe in God.”

  “No, it doesn’t bother me, exactly. I just don’t understand it. First there’s God, then there’s this one-word thing.”

  “The two are related.”

  “They are? How?”

  As I prepared an answer, the waitress appeared with our breakfasts, interrupting our conversation to set our plates in front of us and ask if we needed anything else, then refilling Geoff’s coffee and bringing me a fresh silver carafe of hot water. I took a moment to savor all the fragrant aromas.

  “Have you chosen a word already?” Geoff posed the question, but his attention was on his food.

  “Yes. I’ve been thinking about it . . . praying about it . . . for the last week.”

  Geoff stiffened when I mentioned praying. “So what’s the word? Or do you want me to guess?”

  “No, it’s not a guessing game.” I set my fork and knife on my plate. “I chose the word hope.”

  “Hope.”

  “I want more hope this year. For me. For you. For us.”

  “And this goes back to the God thing?”

  “Why do you have to say ‘the God thing’? Yes, believing in God is giving me more hope . . . and I want to build on that every day this year.”

  “Hope is a good word.” Geoff raised his hand, offering me a grin. “Not that you need my approval.”

  “Geoff, stop it!”

  “It was a joke. Really. A joke.”

  I took a bite of egg, avocado, and black beans to buy myself some time. “I was wondering if . . . if you wanted to pick a word for the year, too.”

  “Me?” Geoff glanced at me over the rim of his glasses. “I don’t even do resolutions.”

  “I thought it’d be fun if we both picked a word.”

  “Fun.” Geoff grinned again and then took a bite of his breakfast tacos.

  “Yes—fun.”

  “No, that’s my word—fun.”

  “You’re picking your word that quickly?” I swallowed against the sting at the back of my throat. Why wasn’t he being serious? “You don’t want to think about it?”

  “I don’t have to think about it. You want more hope this year. I want more fun.”

  “More fun.”

  “Yes. With everything going on, with all the stress, we’re forgetting to laugh. To have fun. I want more of that. It can be something as simple as this—going out for breakfast—or watching a movie that makes us laugh. Or how about you go to the cybersecurity conference in the spring with me?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it and I don’t want to go by myself. Come with me. We’ll have fun.”

  “But it’s just in Denver—”

  “Fine, so we save on airfare and splurge on a hotel room. Your parents can watch Winston—although your dad may never give him back. And we’ll eat out at some nice restaurants. Maybe we can go see a show one night. Pretend like we’re tourists, not Colorado natives.”

  “Geoff, that sounds—”

  “Like fun? I know! So are you going to run away to Denver with me in the spring?”

  A grin spread across Geoff’s face, reminding me of the early days of our relationship. Before cancer. Before the children-or-no-children stress. I wanted to see this smile more often. I wanted to love Geoff for who he was.

  My husband wanted more fun? Fine. I would help that happen.

  “Absolutely.” I raised my red coffee mug in the air, waiting for him to toast the decision with me. “Decision made. Denver in the spring, it is.”

  There were certain advantages to having twenty-four-hour access to the hospital.

  Johanna welcomed how most of the hallways were still dimly lit at four o’clock in the morning. How, save for a few other early hour employees, the building was empty of personnel and visitors. She’d worn ballet flats, allowing herself to move almost without sound as if she were on some vital secret mission.

  That wasn’t exactly the case, but she’d rather accomplish what she came to do and leave unnoticed.

  Behind the closed doors of the staff café came sounds of people preparing for the day. Laughter. Conversation. Footsteps. The clink of silverware and ceramic plates and glasses.

  Nearby, the atrium was a play of light and shadow, the stately grand piano sitting in the muted glow of two overhead spotlights while the world outside the glass windows was still in predawn darkness.

  Johanna stood for a moment, unable to move into the light. Doing so would negate a choice made years ago.

  She unclenched her fists and took one slow step at a time until she stood by the padded piano bench. Pulled it out, easing the legs across the tile floor. Sat. Moved her purse from her shoulder to the floor. Inhaled a slow breath to steady her heartbeat. Rested her hands on the white keys.

  Closed her eyes.

  She needed to remember the music. The notes.

  Wait.

  She was forgetting one of the most important things.

  Johanna bent and retrieved the digital voice recorder from her purse, then paused. Where should she place it? A quick scan of the area revealed several chairs near the alcove. Johanna retrieved one, setting it close to the piano and then balancing the recorder on the seat.

  Now to settle her thoughts again. To try to remember what she’d forced herself to forget for so long.

  For some reason, she’d resisted purchasing any music, unwilling to do anything more than was absolutely needed to accomplish her task. If she was going to do this, she would do it without help of any kind. She stumbled through a few practice scales before her hands found the rhythm, moving from simple to more complicated.

  All she hoped was that she could do it once, instead of needing to try over and over. Having to push Stop. Erase. Record. Again and again.

  Enough. The longer she stayed, the more of a chance someone would come along and find her here. Johanna rose, stepped over to the chair, and found the Record button. Pressed it. Moved back to the bench, intent on sitting so that she made no sound.

  Now all she needed to do was remember a melody. A song. Something . . . something beautiful.

  It had been years since she’d searched her mind, trying to remember a piano composition.

  “She has an amazing ability to hear music and be able to play it. How old is she?”

  “She’s four.”

  “Four. Why, that’s unheard of!”

  The voices from her past entangled with her thoughts, confusing her, and her hands froze, hovering over the keyboard. Her fingers curled into fists again. She couldn’t think of the past now. Not if
she wanted to finish this.

  At last, she heard the music calling to her, leading her where she needed to go, and she found her way, back to the music, but not so far back that she tripped over memories. Not so close to things lost that she longed for them too much. Her hands relaxed against the keys, remembering the path into a melody that spoke of promises fulfilled, the notes warming her heart.

  When the last note faded away, she opened her eyes. The air seemed alive around her, seemed to be embracing her.

  How had she forgotten that feeling . . . that moment when she seemed to breathe with the music?

  She’d forgotten it because she had to. And she needed to forget it again.

  It was best not to linger here any longer. She’d needed to do this, even though she’d lain awake several nights, trying to talk herself out of it. But the idea, foolish as it was, wouldn’t let go of her.

  Johanna clasped her hands together, pressing them against her heart. She rose and turned off the recorder before depositing it in her purse. Moved the bench back into position in front of the piano.

  She’d not be revisiting this part of her past again.

  Time to go to work.

  EVEN THE SIMPLEST OF WEDDINGS required a lot of preparation—more than she’d ever imagined.

  “I can’t believe we pulled this off in four weeks.” Payton turned so Jillian could zip up the back of her dress. “You need to thank Geoff for suggesting you elope.”

  “He certainly did make things easy for me, including packing my suitcase. All I had to do was say yes again and then get dressed.”

  “I thought a family-only wedding would be the simplest thing,” Payton continued as Johanna began pinning her hair up. “But we still had to decide on dresses and boots and coats—”

  “And you finally agreed to carry a bouquet.” Johanna secured another strand of hair in place.

  “It seemed silly at first, but I admit I do feel a bit more like a bride now that I’m carrying flowers.”

  Jillian sat on the edge of the bed to put on her black leather boots. “For not having time to go shopping together, I think we did well coordinating our dresses.”