Late one night our freshman year, she called me crying. “Mar, come over now. I can’t deal.” Worried out of my mind, I snuck out, hopped on the bus, and then walked half a mile from the stop to the Ferrars’ house, where I quietly let myself in.
Julia’s room was empty, so I checked the library that her parents had transformed into a dance studio. There, I found her dressed in a T-shirt, tights, and pointe shoes, tears running down her face.
“God, what happened?” I asked. My heart was beating a mile a minute; I had never seen her like this before.
“It’s my parents,” she said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hands. “They don’t understand me at all. Sometimes I feel like they hate me.”
I draped my arm on her thin back as a makeshift hug. “Your parents adore you. You have no idea how lucky you are.”
“No!” she wailed. “They’re blind. Daddy says Harvard, not Juilliard. I don’t want to go to Harvard. What dancer goes to Harvard? His lawyer brain is so obsessed with logic that he can’t see my destiny.” She began to cry again.
I wouldn’t dream of saying it out loud, but I didn’t understand why Julia was so upset with her parents. My mother—having assumed the role of sole parent when my sister, Sarah, and I were still in elementary school—worked long hours, and when she was around, her idea of parenting consisted of telling us what we were doing wrong. “Marissa, I don’t think that skirt is doing you any favors,” she’d say by way of a greeting when we ran into each other in the bathroom in the morning. Sometimes I’d try to get her attention by telling her something outrageous, like that I wouldn’t be home until two a.m. and that they might be serving beer at the party I was going to, and she’d look at me from behind her romance novel and mutter, “You’re a smart girl. Use your head and avoid any guy who reminds you of your father.” As for college, she made it clear that if I chose to go, I was on my own, which made an Ivy League education out of the question.
Julia’s parents, on the other hand, seemed to think that the sky was the limit—for both of us. “I bet you’re the next Katharine Graham,” Grace would tell me enthusiastically as I pored over my English notes in her living room after school. Unlike my mother—who seemed to know so little about me that she was genuinely shocked each time I told her that I didn’t like mayonnaise—Grace knew that I loved science, even though I was miserable at it, and that I had a weakness for peanut butter chocolate bars. She even knew I had a crush on Adam Johnson, a junior who I suspected was in love with Julia. That was the thing: Grace and Jim sincerely seemed to like their daughter, and me, too. Grace would gab with us for hours if we let her. Jim pretended to be strict: “No dancing until you’ve finished your homework,” he’d tell Julia. But he was always smiling as he scolded, giving you the impression he barely meant what he was saying. I loved the Ferrars so much that when I’d wake up after spending the night at Julia’s, I’d pad into their enormous kitchen to pour myself coffee and pretend I was home.
“Jules, you have another three years to change his mind,” I comforted her. “Besides, where you go to school isn’t important. You’re going to be a star, no matter what.”
“You think so?” she said after a minute.
“You know I do,” I said, gently pushing her hair out of her eyes. “And so does everyone else.”
“Oh, Marissa. What would I do without you? Just when I think I’m going to jump, you’re there to talk me off the ledge.”
“That’s what friends are for, right?” I soothed. “Besides, you’d do the same for me. Now, let’s stop worrying about your parents and start worrying about you being the world’s most amazing dancer. Why don’t you show me that Giselle scene you’ve been rehearsing?”
“Okay,” she said with a weak smile, tightening the ribbons on her toe shoes. “I’ll start from the top.”
It was that night that I realized I was far from a charity case. The truth was, Julia needed me as much as I needed her.
Three
The human brain contains billions upon billions of neurons.
Microscopic nerve cells that operate not unlike worker bees, they connect and communicate millions of times in the span of a single second. It is their conversations that allow us to move, see, think, breathe, live. But when the brain is shaken by a blunt force, its fragile neural fibers are stretched, rendering them brittle and inefficient. And if the force is strong enough—as it was, I learn, with Julia’s accident—the ravaged neurons die, and with them, memories and abilities and countless other possibilities that may not become apparent for weeks and even months to come. This is why although Julia is alive, it is not clear whether or not she is okay.
In the waiting room, Dave and I are greeted by a suspiciously cheery Doogie Howser look-alike, who introduces himself as Julia’s neurologist. Doogie tells us that Julia is awake, and that we can see her soon.
“Luckily, her skull wasn’t fractured and the CAT scan didn’t show any major clotting. That would have been much worse than what we’re dealing with here,” says Doogie emphatically. “Blood clots put pressure on the brain, cutting off oxygen and potentially causing severe damage. We’re talking persistent vegetative state–type damage.” I must look horrified, because he leans in and says, “What I’m trying to say is, your friend is extremely fortunate. Many people who are in an accident of this nature don’t survive.”
“Thanks, Doc. We got it,” Dave says curtly, letting him know that there’s no need to delve into worst-case scenarios. He is standing with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, so calm that we might as well be waiting to be seated at a restaurant. I always thought it was cheesy when people referred to their significant other as their “rock.” But over the three years we’ve been dating, I’ve come to see Dave that way (not that I’d ever say it out loud). He’s the steadiest, most in-control person I’ve ever met—and I say this as someone who is invariably described as “extremely dependable” on her performance review. I suspect he is the sole reason I’m not catatonic right now.
Doogie, who is actually named Dr. Bauer, tells us that Julia’s brain shows some signs of bruising and swelling. “When she hit the pavement, her brain lagged behind the speed at which her skull moved,” he explains. “That made it drag on the skull’s rough edges, causing what we refer to as a brain contusion.” I wince and Dave puts his hand firmly on my back, as if to brace me from the impact of the doctor’s words.
“It’s not great,” Dr. Bauer acknowledges. “The tricky part is, it’s difficult to tell on a CAT scan exactly how much neural tissue was affected.”
He rubs his forehead, suddenly looking less like a preppy collegiate and more like a weary physician. “I don’t know what your friend was like before her accident. But traumatic brain injury can play out in many ways. She may seem okay tomorrow, then show signs of serious memory loss a week from now. She might be a wreck next week, and then recover over the course of several months, or even years. We won’t know until we get there.”
I wonder how many times a year he must have to give some version of this speech. It occurs to me that neither his prestigious position nor his enormous salary spares him from the business of delivering bad news. It’s like my mom bluntly informing anyone who seems impressed that I’m an editor at a glossy magazine: “When it comes down to it, every job involves shoveling crap.”
“When is Julia’s family coming?” Dr. Bauer asks me.
“Her parents are on a plane on their way here.”
“That’s good.” He nods. “Husband? Boyfriend?”
I shake my head. As far as I can recall, Julia’s ex is somewhere in France, choreographing a modern dance production, and they haven’t spoken in more than a year anyway.
“Well, it’s good that you’re here. Julia is going to need a lot of support throughout her recovery,” Dr. Bauer says. “The one thing I must stress is that she may not be the same person you knew two days ago. She might forget things—things you’ve done together, but also people, and even simple w
ords. It’s too soon to tell, but her mobility could be impaired, and her mood may be off, too. What you should remember is that we’re just at the beginning of a very long road.”
I’m not sure if he means this is a good thing, or bad.
I’m too afraid to ask.
When Julia calls to me, I immediately think of Dr. Bauer’s warning: She may not be the same person you knew two days ago.
“Hi,” she says with a faint smile, seeming to recognize me. She looks around as though she’s just noticing her surroundings for the first time. “Is this the hospital?” she asks.
Her sentence is complete; her words more coherent than I’m expecting. But they’re also all wrong. Julia’s voice is not the rich, gravelly voice of the friend I have grown up with. Instead, it is high and light, like a middle school girl talking to the boy she has a crush on.
Dave glances at me sideways, just as shocked as I am.
“Yes, hon. You’ve been here since yesterday. Remember, a taxi hit you?” I ask, approaching the hospital bed. Instead of hugging her, I grab her hand and squeeze it, afraid to come too close to her head, even though it’s unbandaged.
Julia blinks at me blankly, and I decide now’s not the time to quiz her on what happened yesterday. “I’m so happy to see you,” I tell her. “You don’t know what a scare you gave me.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, almost playfully, like a child apologizing because she’s been instructed to. Then her eyes dart around suspiciously. “Who are you? Where is my mother?”
“Your mom will be here tomorrow,” I respond, trying not to let my voice betray the panic quickly wrapping its tentacles around my heart. “I’m Marissa. Don’t you recognize me?”
“Mom,” she says, sighing, her voice a little lower this time. It’s not obvious if she’s saying this to calm herself or is simply incorrectly addressing me. “I’m tired. I want to sleep, but these silly women keep waking me to make sure I’m okay.” It occurs to me that by “these silly women,” she must mean her nurses. It sounds juvenile and syrupy, and not like something my quick-witted friend would normally say.
She turns back to me and gives me a small smile. “Doctor says I’m lucky.”
“I think we’re the lucky ones,” I tell her, blinking back tears. Sitting in the waiting room last night, I had let my pessimism take over. As I paced the stark blue lobby, my mind spiraled further and further into worst-case scenarios. I imagined being told that Julia had died. I wondered what her funeral would be like, and who would be there, and even whether she would prefer lilies or orchids for the service. I dreaded calling friends of ours to tell them she was dead, and tried to wrap my mind around life without my best friend.
I squeeze Julia’s hand again, confirming that she really is sitting here in front of me. Alive.
But as my fingers close around her palm, she jerks away, nearly pulling the IV out of her arm. Her eyes dart from my face to the hospital door, and for a second I expect her to make a run for it.
“What is it, Jules?” I ask her.
“Nothing,” she snaps. “It’s nothing, Jenny. Don’t worry about me.”
“Jenny?” I ask. “Jules, it’s me. Marissa.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” she says haughtily, instantly reminding me of my grandfather after he developed Alzheimer’s. The comparison sends a chill straight down my spine. “Now leave me alone. Do you hear me, Jenny? LEAVE ME ALONE!” she yells, and on instinct, I back away from her bed.
Oblivious to my alarm, Julia yawns, suddenly calm again. She looks at me, her eyelids heavy. “I’m really tired . . . you and Nathan don’t mind if I lie down?”
“Of course not,” I say, stomach lurching at the mention of my college ex, who looks nothing like Dave. I look over at my boyfriend, who is staring at Julia quizzically but is not nearly as fazed as I by her inability to identify him.
Julia falls asleep right away, but Dave and I stay for another hour. Every few minutes I glance at her chest to make sure she’s still breathing, the way I did with my niece when she was an infant. Eventually, a nurse pops her head in the door to Julia’s room. “We’ll be doing more tests shortly,” she says, implying that it’s time for us to get going. Sensing my anxiety, she smiles kindly. “Don’t you worry. I’ve been working in neurology for years now, and most patients get better every day. You’ll see.”
The next morning, I oversleep—tuning out not one but three alarms—and arrive at the hospital long after visiting hours have started. Julia’s parents are already in her room, sitting in plastic chairs against the wall. They stand to greet me and try to muster smiles, which come out more like grimaces.
“Where’s Julia?” I ask, looking at the crumpled sheets in her empty bed.
“Getting some more tests,” says Grace, and dissolves into tears. “I’m sorry,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose to try to stop crying. “I’ve been holding it together all morning. It’s too much.”
“Grace, it’s just me. Don’t apologize,” I tell her, and pass her a tissue from the table next to Julia’s bed. “I was just as bad yesterday. If Dave hadn’t been here . . .”
“Well, if you hadn’t been here with Julia,” says Jim, “God only knows what we would have done. We were in agony on the plane ride over, but we knew you’d at least be taking care of our baby.”
“You know she would do the same for me.”
“I certainly hope so,” he says gravely.
Grace and Jim update me on what they discussed with Julia’s team of specialists that morning. I’m surprised to learn that unless anything changes dramatically, Julia won’t spend more than a week in the hospital. “There’s not much they can do here, other than observe her and give her medication to keep the brain swelling down,” Grace tells me. “Dr. Bauer said that although she’ll need to go through a lot of therapy, it’ll be on an outpatient basis.”
“But yesterday she seemed like such a . . .” I want to say “wreck,” but it seems inappropriate, if not a little Freudian. Before I have a chance to finish, a nurse rolls Julia back in the room in a wheelchair. To my delight, her face lights up when she sees me. “Hello!” she says in the same awful, high-pitched voice.
“Hi, Jules,” I say. “Do you remember who I am?” I ask, then instantly want to kick myself.
“Of course I remember. Why would I?”
“You mean ‘Why wouldn’t I,’” Grace says gently.
“That’s what I said, stupid,” says Julia, showing a flash of the same anger she had yesterday, and this time, Grace doesn’t correct her.
“Jules, how are you doing today?” I inquire gently, not pushing the name issue. “Are you sore? Does your head hurt?”
The question prompts her to touch the side of her scalp, and Grace quickly reaches out to stop her. “It’s f . . . fine,” Julia says slowly, and feebly bats her mother’s hand away. Then she turns to me. “I have a . . .” She struggles to find the word, and I say nothing, not wanting to irritate her by filling in the gap. The four of us sit in uncomfortable silence as Julia furrows her brow. After what seems to be an eternity, she lies back on the angled mattress and closes her eyes. “Headache,” she finally says. “I have a big headache, so they gave me some pills.” She opens one eye and starts to sing. “One pill makes you larger . . . and one pill makes you small . . .”
Jim and Grace stare, their mouths agape. I decide it’s a good sign. If Julia can remember the lyrics to a Jefferson Airplane song written more than a decade before she was born, then all hope isn’t lost.
The next day, I’m feeling less Pollyanna and a whole lot more Chicken Little. I’ll never have my best friend back; I just know it.
“I hate everything,” Julia growls when she sees me. “Including you. Especially you.” I look at her with my mouth open, not sure what to say. She has yet to correctly identify me, and yet somehow she knows she hates me. “They’re assholes, too,” she says, pointing at her parents. Julia’s never been big on swearing, and with her falsetto she so
unds slightly ridiculous. This doesn’t stop me from being completely terrified of her.
“Uh . . . why, Jules?” I ask her. I glance at Jim and Grace with pleading eyes, completely at a loss for how to respond, but they offer no direction.
“Because you all fucking suck!” she screams at the top of her lungs. Then her face crumples and she starts to wail. “I feel horrible. I wish I would have died,” she says, writhing in her sheets. “You should have left me there. Why didn’t you leave me there, Jenny?!”
Jenny. Three days in the hospital and I am still Jenny. I want to grab her by the shoulders and yell, “Can’t you see? It’s me. Marissa! Your best friend of sixteen years!” But instead, I smile weakly, not convincing myself or anyone else that I’m okay.
“Now now,” says the same nurse I saw the other day. She walks through the door briskly, no-nonsense, and sits on the edge of Julia’s bed. “You’re just feeling bad because of your brain injury. You don’t mean that at all,” she says, patting her arm, and for whatever reason, Julia stops hollering.
Why couldn’t I calm her down? I think, irritated at myself. That’s what I do. And yet now, when it really counts, I’m standing here like I’m the one who just took a blow to the head.
When it’s clear that Julia isn’t going to erupt again, the nurse checks her chart and darts off. She returns and adds a clear liquid to Julia’s IV. “This will make you feel better,” she soothes. As the medication sets in, Julia’s face starts to droop, and within moments, she’s passed out.
By the time Dave meets me at the hospital early that evening, Julia is awake, and to my relief, no longer seems hell-bent on ripping out my hair and using it as dental floss. In fact, she practically glows when Dave deposits a stack of tabloids on her lap. “Thank you, Don!” she squeals, and I breathe a sigh of relief: Don is a big step up from Nathan.
The Art of Forgetting Page 2