Could alcohol have triggered this latest spell? Charlie asks. He calls my seizures spells and this makes me want to laugh, but I know well enough that a chuckle in the present moment would be inappropriate. Perhaps, Dr. Stuart says. But this goes well beyond a sip or two of wine. Until we figure out a better combination of meds, it’s best that she remain as quiet and unstressed as possible. And I know what this means. I will be stuck in that house, even less free to move around than I have been. Perhaps while Charlie is at work, Rachel can help me dig an underground tunnel and help me plan my escape. But the look on her face tells me that she’ll be following the doctor’s orders too. Oh, Rachel, you might as well leave us now. There’ll be no fun to be had in our house. I am not going to be pleasant company; I can tell you that right now.
Once I’m home, I’m a despondent little brat. I am giving the universe the silent treatment because I hate this feeling of looking out at the world that is moving around me while I am stuck here on a couch. I suppose I am lucky that this is such a quiet place; it’s easy to forget that much is going on outside, beyond an occasional car honking or a neighbor’s dog barking a hello. But as soon as I turn on the TV, I can’t help being reminded of all the minute changes, all the shifts and flux that I can barely keep hold of. The news moves terribly fast. Of course I imagine I’ve always known this; the news has been my job. But wars are beginning and ending in places I have only the barest sense of. I can list all the US presidents in order. I can tell you the capital of every country in the world. I can narrate the history of Indian independence and partition. Go ahead and ask me. But don’t ask me the name of the woman who recently became the leader of Germany. The TV reminded me just a few moments ago, but it is already lost. It is the smallest, momentary things I cannot hold. I am driving everyone crazy with my questions.
Where did I leave my book?
It’s right in front of you. Under the newspaper. Look.
Do I have an appointment with Dr. what’s-his-name later today?
Dr. Abramson. Not today. Wednesday. It’s on the calendar. Here, on the wall.
Didn’t we have fish for dinner last night?
No. We had spaghetti squash. Look at your journal. You’ve been writing all this down.
I have been home for two days. My journal indicates this. I get bored reading over my own notes, especially when the information doesn’t stick, so I watch sports. It must be driving Rachel nuts. Over the weekend, I watched football both afternoons. It is easy to follow. The plays get called and the bodies move and crunch, and for the next several moments I watch the replays, and the commentators’ voices tell me how to understand what we’ve just seen. I root for whatever team doesn’t score first, and that is just fine with me. Occasionally, Charlie or Rachel will bring me some pills or refill my cup of tea or offer me some bland food that disappears before I even remember tasting it. There are no memories in my mouth of breakfast or lunch; everything tastes the same. I think I miss spices. Food should hold memories.
Rachel has promised that we can go for a short walk later this afternoon, after I take at least a quick nap. I am a toddler. All I do is eat and sleep and shit and breathe. I am howling on the inside. I feel a temper tantrum coming on. Give me back my life, I want to yell at Charlie. I can take a shower by my goddamned self; I want to slap away Rachel’s solicitous hands. It is an impossible feeling, craving a return to something you don’t even know the shape of. I look through my photos and I read my articles and I believe in the person who wrote these things. But I will never find her stuck in this house, on this couch, with a remote control fastened to my hand. It would be nice to get outside.
When Rachel eventually took me for a walk, it was beautiful outside, at least. A mild early-winter day, bright sun shining through spindly branches. Damp fallen leaves underfoot. The air smelled earthy and musty. Charlie was unsure about a walk. The sun is too bright, he said. Oh, please, Charlie. Don’t make me beg. Rachel suggested a hat and lots of sunblock and Charlie gave his okay. When I am feeling angry with Charlie, I am convinced that he gets a fair amount of pleasure from this, regulating my movements, being the permissions granter. He would have been a ruthless parent, I think. Calm and caring and even tempered for all the world to see. But underneath, controlling and despotic and ruthless. A child would be afraid of him, without ever really knowing why. I said this to Rachel—that Charlie would make an oppressive parent—and she looked at me as if I’d struck her in the face. “Why would you say that?” she asked me.
“I think he’s enjoying himself. Telling me what I can and can’t do.”
She relaxed a little and covered her eyes with sunglasses. It is hard to know what she is thinking half the time, but she wasn’t going to argue with me. “You’re probably right about that,” she said. “Which way should we go?”
“How about toward the village center? Is the ice cream shop still open?”
Rachel looked at me with a bemused smile. “Leave it to you to remember the ice cream shop if nothing else.”
I felt sheepish. “Mrs. Gunderson’s grandkid walked by the house earlier. Strawberry ice cream cone. I’ve had a craving ever since.” Please don’t make me do it, Rach. Please don’t make me plead like a child for a treat.
“All right, ice cream it is. Let’s just not tell Charlie we walked so far.”
And I thought, There you go, Rach. You’re looking after me in your own way. You’ll have to remember to keep the secret from Charlie because I’ll probably forget all about it. It’s no fun keeping secrets when you have no idea you’re doing it. My brain is a maze of secrets, I’m sure of it, but I don’t get to pick and choose what to reveal anymore. I don’t even get the pleasure of knowing them.
Rachel urged me to stop and rest often and she didn’t mind that I took the time to scribble mundane details in my book or take a quick photo. She was happy to crouch alongside the creek, tossing pebbles or scratching drawings into the dirt with a stick. We must have looked like two slightly bored children, but happy in each other’s company, doing our own thing. I wondered if we would have been friends as eight-year-olds.
There were very few people at the ice cream stand, which, it turned out, was open only for this unexpectedly warm weekend. I don’t really feel like talking to anyone lately. I tried not to let it bother me at first, not knowing if I should recognize a neighbor, if I had met this grandfatherly-looking man before. I was happy to stand back and smile and wait for Charlie or Rachel’s cues or the stranger’s first words. My goodness, Claire. It’s so good to see you out and about.
It’s great to be out and about!
How have you been feeling, Claire? You are looking quite well.
A little tired, but good. Thanks for saying so.
Everyone is very polite here, kind and patient. It would be hard to offend anyone, I’m sure, but lately I just don’t feel like putting in the effort. At the ice cream stand, I wanted to be invisible or leave it to Rachel to do the talking. I liked listening to her explain our relationship. It made me feel tied to a past that I at least somewhat remember. We all met in grad school, she told the stranger at the picnic table. We renovated my parents’ house, an old brownstone in Boston, and lived there for several years. We have been best friends for as long as I can remember, she said. We are a mismatched family.
Rachel ordered mint chocolate chip and I got my strawberry cone. They had run out of sugar cones and I was disappointed by the Styrofoam sogginess of whatever kind of cone I was eating. We sat at a picnic table and kissed our ice creams against one another so a splash of green colored my pink. It was easy to be quiet with Rachel. I hope she realized how grateful I was for this.
After a while, Rachel said that it was probably time to be heading back. It had cooled off a little bit and the ice cream had made us both chilly. On the way home, Rachel told me that sometime soon she’d have to be getting back to Boston. “I have been away a long time. I miss my plants,” she said. “Isn’t that stupid? And I miss the smelly
trolleys on the way to work.” It took everything in me not to pull on her arms and demand that she take me with her. But I didn’t have to, because she had read my mind as she always seems to.
“You’ll come and visit soon, don’t you think?” she said.
“I do. And I will. Charlie will be happy to get rid of me for a while.” I meant it as a joke, but we both knew I was right. He needs to get back to his life too.
“And I think it would be good for you to get back into some kind of work project. Maybe when you come, we can think about some possible stories, some features you could pitch to Susan. Susan—your editor.”
For a moment I was irritated. She thought I didn’t remember Susan, but I do. She thought I hadn’t been thinking about new story ideas on my own. I am way ahead of her. When Rachel and Charlie go to bed, I am often restless, still bored from the day, so I tiptoe to the office and open my files and do my own version of research. It feels stealthy and secretive, to be awake when I’m meant to be sleeping. I stare at the computer screen and I try my hardest to memorize my own words. There is a half-finished story about a utopian community in Pondicherry called Auroville. My last notes are from five months ago. I am fascinated by the people who have moved to this place from so many different countries. They barter and learn trades and are self-sufficient and secluded from the rest of the town—from the rest of the world, for that matter. I read my notes.
Their edicts:
Auroville belongs to nobody in particular. Auroville belongs to humanity as a whole. But, to live in Auroville, one must be the willing servitor of the divine consciousness.
Auroville will be the place of an unending education, of constant progress, and a youth that never ages.
Auroville wants to be the bridge between the past and the future. Taking advantage of all discoveries from without and from within, Auroville will boldly spring toward future realizations.
Auroville will be a site of material and spiritual researches for a living embodiment of an actual human unity.
I sometimes think I would be very much at home there. There are so many questions I would want to ask this group of people. There are secrets here, I am sure of it. I have started a new notebook. It is filled with questions and story ideas and memorization quizzes I have set up for myself. I have been in contact with Susan. Charlie and Rachel don’t know about this. I have convinced her that I am on the mend and there has been no one to contradict me. She worries that this story doesn’t merge with the research I’ve been doing on environmental conflicts. I tell her that this community’s self-sustaining and environmentally conscious mission could be a model for the rest of the city, and I will be close enough to Salem to finish the story I had begun there. She tells me I have always been good at persuading her to let me follow my story instincts. She has told me that whenever I am ready to start on a new project, she can try to help me put a plan into motion.
In these stolen moments, the house is quiet and there is finally space to breathe. The howling in my brain stops for a moment as I read in front of the computer’s blue, illuminated worlds.
Charlie
Rachel and I brought Claire back from the hospital five days ago. Claire has been sleeping downstairs on the couch. Her balance is wobbly and the doctors have told us that she shouldn’t exert herself for several days, only small bits of exercise, a short walk every now and then. Claire listened to this news with a blank expression. When I brought out the sheets and blankets tonight, she was staring into space. “I guess I’m trapped, then.” She attempted a laugh. After a few moments, she said, “Maybe you and I should go on a trip once things have settled down again. It would be nice to get out of this house.” I smiled in response and told her that we would see how the next weeks went. I have already taken so much time off from work; secretly I know that a trip would be impossible. Perhaps she could head down to Boston with Rachel, though Rachel, too, has put her life on hold for so many weeks now. We are all trapped, I want to say to Claire. Please don’t think you’re the only one who feels this way.
Instead of directly answering her questions about travel, I ask her, “Are you feeling weak? Would you like me to make you some tea?” She answers, barely, with a shrug of her shoulders. “Perhaps just some sleep, then,” I say helplessly. I am not used to this kind of quiet from Claire; she has retreated somewhere inside herself. I am no good at trying to bring her out. In fact, I look at her face, bruised crescents under her eyes, her skin splotchy and gray, and I am frankly terrified. So instead of doing nothing, I fluff up her pillows and tuck the sheets into the sofa and squat down beside her, holding her limp hand. There are scars on the insides of her forearms; she has difficult veins, the nurses have repeatedly said by way of apology. They stick her and stick her again, drawing blood or inserting IVs, and I want to kiss each and every one of these marks of intrusion. The scar on her neck has started to heal, but there is a pink line at that most vulnerable place where the skin softens and dips just above the clavicles. Claire doesn’t want to be touched and I can’t really blame her, so I move aimlessly around the room.
Claire doesn’t feel much like reading, but I’ve left some magazines on the table for her. She explains that she can’t hold the information in her head long enough; she’ll read five pages and then doesn’t remember a thing. “I’ve lost my way again,” she complained earlier this afternoon. “Just give me the remote. I’m giving myself up to the television.” Rachel had been sitting with her for much of the evening, coiled up in her usual ball in the oversize chair. She read her manuscripts as Claire flipped through the channels. I watched the two of them, here in my living room, and I almost broke down there and then. I’ve become far too emotional, but I can’t help seeing our past in their quiet company. I want to take that remote and hit Rewind and bring us back to that place where we were all tangled up comfortably in each other’s lives, healthy, so very young, pushing our way into our futures.
Claire has quite suddenly taken an interest in sports. Tonight some NBA games were on, and she sat up in her chair, transfixed by the play. “I have no loyalties,” she explained. “So I just get to root for whoever I feel like.” On Sunday she watched three NFL games in a row. I busied myself in the kitchen. I’m not used to the buzz of the TV throughout the house. I really only use it to watch rented movies. Rachel, always thinking ahead, signed us up for cable sometime last week—I have no idea when she did it—but the TV now holds over one hundred channels, and I listen to the pulse of channels changing, having no idea how to turn the damn box on.
Claire’s attention span is comparable to a toddler’s these days. I’m not sure how Rachel can stand the incessant transitions. Before the detectives can solve a child’s murder, the channel shifts to a comedy with an aggressive laugh track. Someone has found a monkey in a laundry chute. The anonymous audience seems to find this hilarious. A news reporter’s monotone voice tells of an earthquake in South America. The old version of Claire would pause here to listen to the story. She might project herself into the landscape, think about how she would cover the story, who she might interview, what combination of devastation and hope she might weave together to get people to pause from their daily lives and listen to news from another part of the world. But there is the flip again, and a crowd cheers for the home team. It seems the Patriots are beating the Jets. Claire has become a sports fan.
Since we’ve returned from the latest round at the hospital, we cook bland food, healthy and mundane. No exaggerated spices. Nothing fatty or difficult to digest. Whole grains and steamed vegetables and broiled fish with a quick spray of lemon. This is partly Rachel’s doing—she’s been researching—and partly the doctors’ suggestions. Nothing to disrupt her systems, they say. The least stress possible, and this goes for her food too. Our house smells bitter—steamed broccoli and bubbled-over brown rice, charring the bottom of our old pots. Rachel went out to do the grocery shopping just after we first returned, perhaps thinking she should give us some space, some time alon
e to let Claire and me get our bearings. I have to admit, I get anxious when Rachel isn’t here. I look at Claire, and more and more she appears to me as a familiar stranger. I recognize that I should know this person: perhaps we get our coffee at the same café every morning; perhaps we take the same subway car to work each day; perhaps we went to the same school, I a few grades ahead of her or she ahead of me. I have to tell myself: Look at her. It is Claire. Your wife. We are home from the hospital. Touch her hand. Reach out and caress her shoulder. Remind her that she isn’t alone. There is too much darkness taking up space in her brain. I force myself to move toward her. I force myself to say her name again and again. “Claire, is there anything you need?” “Claire, would you like to take a bath?” “Claire, you look confused. What is bothering you?” And in my head too. This is Claire. This is still Claire. My Claire. I try to match her to my memories.
There are moments when I am overcome with impatience. I miss my buttery biscuits from Café Diva. I miss the bacon of my Sunday morning breakfasts. I miss my tubs of gelato in the freezer. Rachel says we can’t take any chances. Claire might not remember what’s off limits, plus she could do without the temptations herself. I’m growing plump, she says, puffing out her cheeks. This is not true. Rach goes running every morning, up into the hills, and her cheeks keep their rosy flush for most of the day. Her body is soft and folds into easy angles, but she is not growing plump. Unlike Claire, whose skin holds the creases of an Indian sun and desert landscape, Rachel looks much as she did when we first met—neither dark nor fair, thin nor fat. Thick eyebrows over changeable eyes. Just the faintest wrinkles in the middle of her forehead that crinkle when we talk about Claire, when we talk about Rachel going home. At some point she’s going to have to return to her own life. But I want her to stay. I need her here with us. I am being selfish, but I can’t bear the thought of her leaving.
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