The Art of Forgetting

by Camille Noe Pagan

  “Seriously,” says Dave, mouth half full of eggs. “Let’s not pathologize poor Sophie when she isn’t even here to defend herself. Isn’t there something else we can talk about?”

  This catches me off guard. While Julia may never have been able to charm him the way she does most men, he’s always treated her sort of like a pesky younger sister. Something in him has shifted, though, and he’s been downright chilly to Julia since she arrived.

  “Sorry,” she says, making an exaggeratedly sad face at Dave, who ignores her. “It’s just that food makes me so much happier. In fact, it was Nathan who taught me that delicious meals can actually boost levels of good brain chemicals!” she says, eyes gleaming. “I can only imagine what it would do for Sophie.”

  Of course she had to mention his name. “Huh,” I mumble noncommittally, not looking at Dave or Julia.

  “Is that so?” says Dave, obviously less than thrilled to hear Nathan’s name.

  “Yep!” she enthuses.

  Later, when she’s in the bathroom, I whisper to Dave, “I’m sorry about that. Is she driving you up the wall?”

  “No,” he whispers back. “Yes. I just—I don’t know. I don’t feel like it does her any good not to call her out on her ridiculousness. I mean, how is she going to get any better if everyone acts like it’s okay when she says things that are totally inappropriate, like inventing eating disorders out of thin air and name-checking your ex to see if it ruffles my feathers?”

  “I know, honey. You’re absolutely right. Let’s just try to make it through this weekend, okay?” I ask.

  “Okay,” he concedes.

  “Been meaning to tell you, it’s quite the fancy place you have here,” Julia tells me later that afternoon. She does a little twirl on the living room’s hardwood floor, and I grimace thinking about all the sharp edges she could hit if she slipped; the worst thing that could happen to her right now, according to her neurologist, would be another bump to the head. “You and Don really did well for yourselves,” she adds.

  “Dave,” I correct her. She’d been getting his name right for a while now, and I can’t help but wonder if her sudden regression is a subconscious response to what he said about Sophie earlier.

  “Crap, you’re right,” she says, scrunching up her face in disgust. “I don’t know how that even happens. It’s so frustrating.”

  “Sorry, Jules. That stinks,” I tell her. “What does your doctor say?”

  “Which one?” she asks, throwing her hands up in the air. “I’m still seeing, like, a zillion of them. And they all tell me something different. The neurologist says I’m doing great. The neuropsychologist says he can’t tell how good my progress is at this point. The occupational therapist says that he thinks I’m not trying hard enough. It’s enough to make me want to blow my brains out.”

  “Please tell me you’re not contemplating killing yourself. I don’t think I can handle it at this point.”

  Julia gives me a big hug. “Of course not. I know how lucky I am.” She bites her lip and pauses. “Do you know how many people have told me stories about their brother/aunt/dog’s cousin’s babysitter who died or is lying in a hospital bed in a permanently vegetative state after having a brain injury like mine? I mean, really? Do I really need to hear that?” she says with exasperation. “I know I could have died. I may be a little nutty, but I do think about it.”

  Deciding to take advantage of Julia’s candor, I casually ask, “So . . . are you dating anyone?” I don’t mention the fact that I heard through a good-looking Michigan grapevine that she’s seeing a married man.

  “Oh. Yeah,” she says, and blows at her bangs. “His name is Rich. I really, really like him. Maybe even love.”

  This catches me off guard. For most of her life, she discarded men like they were dirty clothes, and it was moi who ended up cleaning up afterward. “It’s not you, it’s her,” I’d reassure her high school flavor of the month, regurgitating the stale speech that Julia begged me to use. “She’s just not ready for a commitment,” I’d add, leaving them dazed but less likely to stay obsessed with her.

  When she announced her interest in Nathan, I was afraid he would fall hard for her—but I knew deep down that if that happened, he’d last all of three months before Julia tossed him out like the rest. Then I would be left pining for her sloppy seconds.

  When we both landed in New York after graduation, she threw herself into work and dance, staying mostly single for several years before starting a relationship with Craig, a choreographer she met through the ballet. Craig was too pretentious for my taste—he was constantly name-dropping famous people he knew, and seemed to throw French phrases into every other sentence. Still, he loved Julia, and he knew how to handle her when she was acting clingy, which was more than I could say for any of her previous boyfriends.

  Equally important, Craig and Julia’s relationship made it possible for Dave and me to be together. Julia usually freaked out on me when I was dating someone. “I’m not important to you anymore, Marissa,” she’d complain, spending an epic brunch date telling me how I didn’t have time for her, never recognizing the irony of the situation. But she started seeing Craig several months before Dave and I would meet at Nina’s party, and for once seemed too preoccupied with him to complain about my new relationship. It wasn’t until Julia and Craig broke up a year later that I learned she wasn’t actually serious about him, either. “Eh, he was never the one,” she said over one of many margaritas the night of their breakup. “But I thought it was better for me not to be alone when I realized that you and Dave were falling in love.” Her generosity almost—almost—made me forget about what she’d done in college, and I couldn’t help but suspect that it was motivated, at least in part, by guilt.

  “So what’s wrong with Rich?” I say, trying to dig for information without being completely transparent. “Crazy ex-wife? Kids? Bad in bed?”

  She takes the bait. “Crazy not-quite-ex-wife.”

  “Get out. Jules, I can’t believe you’d do that.”

  “Not so fast,” she squeaks. “Rich and his ex are legally separated. I’ve seen the papers myself. And he lives in his own apartment in downtown Plymouth. So it’s the real deal. The divorce should be final in June. They don’t have kids, and his wife made more money than him, so it’s not as messy as it could be.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I tell her. “How come you haven’t mentioned Rich to me, though?”

  “You never asked,” she says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Which it kind of is. “Besides, I think he’s longterm material. So we have time.”

  “I’d like that. Maybe next time I’m in town?”

  Julia claps her hands. “I know! Maybe you, me, Rich, and Nathan can have dinner together!”

  “You mean Dave?”

  “No, Nathan,” she says, looking at me as though I’m the one with the head injury.

  “Jules, I have no intention of seeing Nathan again anytime this century. Not even if it involves having dinner with you and your new boy toy.”

  “Mar, why can’t you just trust me on this one?”

  “Julia,” I say with as much force as I can muster without yelling. “I am not a puppet whose strings you can pull and suddenly I’ll behave accordingly.” Yes, I have stolen this line from Dave, but it does seem appropriate given the circumstances. “This is my life. It’s not a game, and I’m not going to just pick up and leave my boyfriend because you think it’s a good idea.”

  “Okay, Marissa,” she says, sounding exhausted. For the first time this weekend, I notice how frail she looks, and that the deep circles under her eyes aren’t just shadows from her long lashes. I instantly regret coming on so strong.

  “I’m sorry, Jules. It’s just that I have a good thing going here with Dave, and I’m not going to do anything to ruin it.”

  “I get it,” she says, but the tone of her voice tells me that she doesn’t.

  Sunday evening, Julia rolls her packed
suitcase into the living room and asks me to call the car service to take her to the airport.

  “No problem,” I say, trying not to make it too obvious that I’m relieved she isn’t extending her stay. The tension between Dave and Julia hasn’t dissipated, and all morning, Julia’s filter has been malfunctioning, resulting in several flesh wounds to my thin skin (particularly her comment that I should replace my go-to black pants because they make my thighs “look like charred tree trunks”).

  At the same time, I feel like the fragile tenets of our friendship are finally on the mend, especially now that I understand what’s going on between her and Nathan, and I’m reluctant to see her go. Julia must pick up on this, because she looks at me and says, “Oh! You’re sad!” She rushes across the living room to embrace me. “I love that you’re going to miss me. But don’t you worry. I’m convinced that I can get you to move to Ann Arbor. Life would be so much better for you there.”

  “Ann Arbor, huh?” asks Dave from where he’s sitting in the kitchen. He closes his laptop abruptly. “Something tells me my firm isn’t going to like the sound of that.”

  Julia glances at him. Then she says, just barely under her breath, “Well, I didn’t say anything about you coming with her.”

  Dave, who has obviously heard Julia, chooses to ignore the comment. Instead he says, “Julia, please leave the spare keys you used on the table in the vestibule. We don’t have another set.” His voice is measured, but his brown eyes are flashing an anger that I’ve rarely seen.

  I hold my breath and pray that Julia doesn’t further antagonize him. But she’s either oblivious to his anger or putting on a damn good show. “Bien sûr!” she chirps in agreement.

  Minutes later, the car honks out front. “Jules, you ready?” I ask her.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” She grabs her coat and purse from our coatrack, then breaks into song. “Thanks for the memory!” she trills. “Of things I can’t forget! Of journeys on a jet!” She is still singing when she walks through the front door without saying good-bye.

  Twenty-six

  There are many perks to being a diet editor: free food, all the complimentary gym sessions you’d ever (and perhaps never) want, occasional face time with buff celebrities who are desperate to be on your cover, which at the very least makes for great water cooler gossip. Less enticing are the long hours, the endless quest to find something—anything!—new to write about and, of course, the conferences. Oh, the conferences. This spring, Lynne has sentenced me to a nutrition conference in New Jersey, which means I have no choice but miss Take the Lead practice.

  I emerge from four straight days of fluorescent-lit conference rooms and tasteless-but-healthy catering armed with an extensive knowledge of the benefits of soybeans and a grumbling hunger that only a cheeseburger can silence. Although I’m loath to return to work, I’m surprised to discover that I can’t wait to get back to coaching; it feels like I have not seen the girls in months.

  “Hey, guys,” I say to Layla, Margarita, and Josie, who have run across the gym to greet me. “I missed you!”

  “We missed you, too, Coach Marissa,” says Caitlin. “You’re not going to quit coaching, are you?”

  “Of course not,” I tell her. “I’ll be here all year.”

  “Yay!” says Margarita, and hugs me.

  “Thanks, Margarita,” I say, hugging her back. “That’s really sweet of you.”

  One after another, all twelve girls come up to embrace me. Renee and Charity squeeze me tight, while Josie and Nancy awkwardly circle their skinny arms around my waist and Caitlin pats me on the back. Before I know what’s happening, I feel the tears welling up; it’s overwhelming to be on the receiving end of such adoration. I blink them away and resolve to buy stock in Kleenex the minute I get home.

  Appropriately, today’s lesson is about kindness. Alanna, Naomi, and I act out several scenarios and ask the group to give examples of kindness for each one. In the first, Alanna pretends that she is really hungry but discovers she’s forgotten her lunch. It’s a nobrainer for the girls, who offer a little bit of their own imaginary lunches to help her out. For the second scenario, Naomi pretends to be the slowest runner in her grade, and that her classmates never pick her for their relay team. It takes the girls a little longer this time, but Anna finally volunteers that she would pick Naomi for her team anyway, and Renee says that she wouldn’t make fun of Naomi’s slowness. “Great job, girls!” Naomi beams. “You are very smart. But let’s see if you can figure this last situation out. It’s a tricky one.”

  For the “tricky” scenario, I pretend to lose my mother’s purse, which contains a lot of money. “I’m such a dummy,” I say in exasperation, slapping myself on the forehead. “My mom is going to be so angry with me. And now I definitely won’t get the Razor scooter that she had promised me. I’m the worst person in the world.”

  “Now, girls, if we were going to be kind to Coach Marissa, we’d help her look for the purse. But I’m curious: How can she be kind to herself?” Naomi asks them. The girls look positively stumped; even Estrella sits quietly with a puzzled look on her face.

  Suddenly, Josie’s eyes light up. She tentatively raises her hand.

  “Yes, Josie?” I ask her. “How do you think I can be kind to myself?”

  “By not calling yourself names like dummy?” she asks. “Or not thinking that you’re a bad person ’cause you made a mistake?”

  “Exactly!” I tell her.

  “That’s very good!” agrees Alanna, and Josie, who appears to be shedding more of her mean-girl skin each week, beams.

  During warm-up, Naomi reminds the girls that today is the first long run of the season—two miles. Although I have a beatific smile plastered on my face, inside I’m cringing as much as the girls are right now. Because all I can think of is the first time I was in their shoes.

  There are few things more humiliating to an eleven-year-old than her gym teacher pinching the fleshy fat of her upper arm between cold metal calipers and then announcing, loudly and with disdain, her body fat percentage to the entire gym class. (In fact, I’m fairly certain that whoever came up with this practice as a way to promote healthy habits also decided nuclear weapons were an effective way to keep the peace.) But at that point in my life, there was one thing that was actually worse than the fat-finding mission: the two-mile torture trot that was de rigueur for fifth-grade Ypsilanti public school students.

  It didn’t start out a disaster. I was at the back, with other lessthan-athletically inclined kids, but not alone. Somewhere around a half mile, though, I got a stitch in my side. Two hundred yards later, the stitch became a shooting pain, and I doubled over on the dirt path where we were running. “Keep going, Rogers!” my gym teacher hollered. “No quitting!” Panicked at the thought of having to continue, my throat constricted and I thought for sure I would pass out. “At least walk,” my gym teacher admonished me after seeing that I was turning purple. “Don’t just stand there like a lump.”

  And so I trekked along by myself, pretending that I was one of the Cherokees I had just learned about during our Trail of Tears history lesson, because somehow this made the laps more bearable. Occasionally I would break into a jog, determined not to be a quitter, only to fold over hyperventilating again. After eight torturous laps, it was finally—finally!—over. Coming in dead last, at a school record of fifty-three minutes and twelve seconds, tears streaming down my face as my impatient classmates jeered and heckled me, I stumbled across the finish line.

  But today it’s my job to pretend that I love running.

  “The two-mile run is the worst,” groans Anna, who did the program last year and considers herself the senior expert on all things Take the Lead. “It lasts forever and then you’re all sweaty afterward.”

  “It won’t be that bad,” I say in a chipper voice.

  “And you get dizzy from going around the gym a million times!” says Josie, another Take the Lead veteran.

  “Actually, I thought we
’d head out to the track, considering it’s such a nice day out,” says Alanna. “Just six laps around equals a mile.”

  “So we have to do twelve laps?!” asks Lisa in disbelief. “I didn’t sign up for that!” she hollers, and the other girls laugh nervously.

  “We can do it, girls!” I enthuse. Truth be told, I’m the one who needs the encouragement: I may know that I can do this, but that doesn’t mean I want to.

  “Now, you guys, remember that Take the Lead is a running program,” adds Naomi. “This run can be very fun, especially if you spend the time focusing on what a major accomplishment it is to run two miles. And don’t forget, you can walk if you need to. The goal is to finish, not to get there the fastest.”

  The goal is to finish, I tell myself as I start jogging around the well-worn asphalt track that surrounds the soccer field. The first lap is easy; the second is doable. By the third, my knees ache and I feel like I have been running for an eternity.

  Just as I’m rounding the bend, I realize that Estrella is a good quarter mile behind the rest of the girls. Trudging along at a snail’s pace and looking as though she’s seconds away from passing out, she might as well be a flashback to my fifth-grade self, and my heart aches for her.

  I slow down so that I’m almost walking, and let Josie, Margarita, and the rest pass me. Finally, Estrella comes up alongside me, her chicken-wing jog looking more like a dance aerobics move than a means of getting from point A to point B.

  “Coach Marissa,” she says, heaving and ho-ing, “don’t give up now! You can do it.”

  I let out a little laugh; and here I thought I would cheer her on. Obviously, I’ve learned nothing over the past few months of coaching.