The Art of Forgetting

by Camille Noe Pagan

  “Thanks, Estrella,” I say. “How are you doing today? Tough run?”

  “Nah,” she tells me. “I’m just pacing myself.” She tugs her hikedup white polo shirt back down over her belly and glances sideways at me. “What about you? Running’s hard, huh?”

  “You know, I’m getting used to it,” I tell her. “More than I thought I would. I wasn’t a very fast runner when I was younger.”

  “But, Coach Marissa,” Estrella protests. “Remember today’s lesson? Being a fast runner doesn’t matter. It’s how you feel about yourself that counts,” she recites proudly. “And how you feel when you run. Like me!” She stops and puts her hands on her hips while she catches her breath. After a few seconds, she continues. “I feel good about myself. Especially when I finish, even though it isn’t easy.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Estrella,” I tell her, nearly dumbfounded by this little beacon of light, who I’ve once again misjudged. “I just wish that I would have known what you know when I was your age.”

  For all their complaining earlier, the girls trudge along with looks of sheer determination on their faces. Some of them take a break to walk, or go to the sideline to grab water, but not a single one mentions quitting. As for Estrella, despite the fact that she barely seems to be breathing, she somehow manages to serve as the unofficial Take the Lead cheerleader. “Five more laps!” she calls. “Four more laps!” And so on.

  As for me, I’m genuinely shocked to discover that sometime after the first mile, I’ve fallen into a comfortable rhythm and am no longer tempted to impale myself on the flagpole. Sure, my flimsy Old Navy T-shirt is drenched and my thighs are chafed from rubbing against each other, but the shorter runs I’ve been doing with the girls for the past two months appear to have paid off. In fact, by the time I make my way around the track for the last time, I am feeling like a rock star. A sweaty, huffing, red-faced rock star, but a rock star all the same. Who knew this could be enjoyable?

  When Naomi and I catch up to each other during the cool-down lap, she gives me a knowing smile. “Lookin’ pretty good, Rogers,” she says, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “You’ve got runner’s high, don’t you?”

  “Not quite,” I scoff, even though I can practically feel a surge of serotonin flowing through my brain, making me feel simultaneously relaxed and ready to take on the world.

  “Whatever,” says Naomi. “You talk a good game, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see you crossing the finish line at the New York City Marathon next year.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I tell her. Two miles is one thing. Twenty-six is entirely another.

  After practice, Naomi asks me to grab a drink with her and Alanna. “Life is short,” she informs me when I tell her I should get back to the office. “And as your boss, I am ordering you to relax. Just this one time.”

  “All right. Work can wait,” I tell her. After all, I can’t exactly complain about being lonely if I’m choosing face time with my computer over human contact.

  We take the train down to the Upper East Side, where Alanna lives. She directs us to a nondescript pub that’s appropriately empty for a Tuesday afternoon. Still, we forgo a booth and grab three empty stools at the corner of the bar.

  “Okay, now that it’s just us, I have to know: What’s the deal with Estrella?” I ask them. “I can’t make up my mind whether she’s totally annoying or the most inspiring tween I’ve ever met.”

  Alanna giggles. “That just about sums her up. She’s best described as a force of nature.”

  “I’ve just never seen someone so bumbling be so . . .”

  “Overconfident?” Naomi volunteers. “If only we all had that problem. I’m telling you, it may make her unpopular in school, but one day that little chica is going to be running the country. She isn’t just sassy—she’s smart, too. Did you hear her explain to everyone what self-efficacy is?”

  “How could I not?” I say, rolling my eyes, although I was undeniably impressed at the time; even I had to look up the exact definition when I was prepping for today’s lesson.

  “Anyway,” Alanna says to me, “it will make sense when you meet her mother.”

  I picture an awkward woman identical to Estrella. “Is she just like her daughter?”

  Naomi lets out a laugh and shakes her head. “You’ll see.”

  We talk for more than two hours, during which time the bar crowds with former frat boys in ties and girls in sleek power suits. I know Alanna fits right in with their lot, and yet over the past few weeks, I’ve grown to truly like her; she’s revealed herself to be far wittier and more intelligent than her coaching skills initially implied. At one point, as I listen to Alanna laugh at a story Naomi’s telling, it occurs to me that six months ago, I wouldn’t have bothered to try to get to know her. After all, I didn’t need anyone—I had Julia. Today, it’s a different story. Besides Alanna, Naomi, and I having grown closer, Sarah’s become a confidant, and even Dave and I have reached a new level in our relationship. If there’s one silver lining to Julia’s accident, I realize, it’s that I actually have room in my life for other people now.

  Twenty-seven

  A new day, a new near-catastrophe at Svelte. When I sit down to my desk Wednesday morning, I learn that today’s crisis involves one of my stories, which is about how snack packs make you fat (true: I’ve never been able to eat fewer than three mini-bags of Oreos in one sitting).

  Do these women ever sleep? I wonder as I click through a string of frantic e-mails between Lynne, Roxanne, and Naomi dated 6:40, 7:02, and 7:15 a.m. The problem, I discover, is that although there are several studies verifying that once you pop a 100-calorie bag open, you can’t stop—apparently the calories are so low they lead people to believe that they can just keep eating—said research stands to offend several of our snack-pack-shilling advertisers.

  Thankfully, as I scroll through the e-mails, I see that by 8:41, Roxanne has decided we can solve the problem by adding a line specifying that this is really only a problem for women with weak willpower (ouch). I delete the entire chain of messages and begin to make my way through the other 128 e-mails in my inbox, which primarily consist of publicists promoting their clients’ latest products and near-identical pictures of Snowball that Julia sends daily.

  My Outlook is down to a respectable twenty-four unread messages when a new e-mail pops up at the top of the list.

  With my hand clutching the mouse tight enough to give me carpal tunnel, I hover my cursor over it for a few seconds before finally clicking.

  To: mrogers@sveltemag.com

  From: nbell79@gmail.com

  Subject: hey . . .

  M-

  It’s been a few months and I haven’t heard from you. I figure

  I have nothing to lose, so . . . seeing you in New York really got me thinking. I guess I didn’t realize just how much I missed you until you were back in my life again. Call me sometime? And let me know when you’ll be in town next. I promise to show you our version of French food.

  -N

  I groan. Just when I was sure that the past several months of Nathan-free existence had been exactly what I needed to fully commit to Dave. And yet like a bad penny that keeps turning up, I can’t seem to get him out of my head—or my life. I quickly type up what I hope is a discouraging response:To: nbell79@gmail.com

  From: mrogers@sveltemag.com

  Subject: Re: hey . . .

  Hi, Nathan. It was nice to catch up. I’m not planning on being in Michigan again soon, but I’ll let you know if that changes.

  Marissa

  Without so much as giving it a second read, I grimace and quickly hit “return.”

  Two minutes later, I get a reply.

  To: mrogers@sveltemag.com

  From: nbell79@gmail.com

  Subject: Re: Re: hey . . .

  And here I thought you were going to ignore me forever.

  I’m happy to come back to New York. You just say the word and I’m there. Until then—th
inking of you.

  -N

  Damn it. Damn, damn, damnity damn damn it. The minute I read Nathan’s e-mail I realize I took a wrong turn when I e-mailed him back. Although his forwardness makes me uneasy, it also results in that most intoxicating of feelings: the feeling of being wanted. Wanted by a man who is wily and charming and whose beguiling smile and twinkling eyes make me feel like I’m twenty again and floating on a cloud of lust. The sensation running through my body right now is the kind that derails a relationship, that sends it crashing and then disappears as you deal with the bloody, disastrous aftermath.

  I think of Dave and how well things have been going since the night I saw Nathan, and yet again, reality sinks in. Try as I might to convince myself otherwise, I can’t have it both ways: There is no room in my life for two men. I can’t entertain thoughts of returning to Nathan or continue to fantasize about life with him if I’m going to make my relationship with Dave work. Which means savoring his tempting, come-hither messages is not an option. With new resolve, I swiftly delete both e-mails.

  “Marissa? Is this a bad time?” Ashley’s voice snaps me back to the present. She is standing at my door, her forehead wrinkled with worry.

  “No, no, come on in,” I say, motioning for her to come into my office. I quickly check my reflection in a mirrored compact, half expecting to find drool on my chin. “What’s up?”

  “Um . . .” Ashley sits gingerly on the edge of my spare chair. For once, the Ice Queen appears to be melting. I’d love to revel in the moment, but unfortunately, her bad news is about to be delivered to me. Just what I need after a month of frustration, not to mention this morning’s e-mail surprise.

  She hands me a single piece of paper. “This is the sidebar. I’m nervous to show it to you, but I’m really hoping you’ll like it.”

  “You already wrote it?” I ask. “I thought we hadn’t agreed on a topic yet?”

  “I got inspired, so . . .”

  “Okay, I’ll give it a quick read,” I tell her.

  The minute I glance at the headline, my stomach sinks.

  “Brain Injury Gave Me a Chance to Fix the Past: A Q&A with Julia Ferrar”

  So this is why Julia knew who Ashley was. Just as I’d suspected, something wasn’t right.

  The story is actually worse than I’m expecting. Although it begins benignly, I spot my name in the middle of the page. And it only goes downhill from there.

  Julia: My injury may have made me have trouble speaking and remembering things, but it’s also given me amazing clarity. I feel like I have a second chance to make amends.

  Ashley: Can you give me an example?

  Julia: Well, I asked my best friend Marissa [a senior editor at Svelte] to break up with her boyfriend a long time ago. I realized that this was so wrong of me, and now I’m trying to reunite them. Marissa is seeing someone else, but I actually think she and her ex will end up together!

  Take three deep breaths before speaking, I command myself. In . . . out . . .

  I get to two before I run out of patience. “You cannot honestly think I can run this.”

  “Why, because you’re mentioned in it? Doesn’t that make for a better, more interesting article? It’s like the story behind the story,” says Ashley with a hint of pride. She adds, “Julia thought it was a great idea, and that you would be thrilled when I surprised you.”

  I give her a sharp look. “Do you realize that you’re talking about someone with major head trauma? Julia now thinks it’s a good idea to tell people they’re ugly and to sleep with married men, too. Just because she gave it the green light does not mean that you should have.” I know I’ve just broken my own rule by revealing Julia’s personal life, but the sting of her doing that exact thing to me is too fresh for me to stop myself. It has the intended effect: Ashley’s face is contorted in a most un-pretty way and she appears to be having what I can only categorize as a freak-out.

  I continue, barely resisting the temptation to wag my finger at her. “The bigger issue is that this is completely inappropriate from a journalistic standpoint. Inserting my personal life into the story gives it an instant bias.”

  “And you’re saying you don’t have a personal interest in this piece?” she says, her voice just above a whisper.

  “Even if I do, I don’t want my story to overtake the focus, which is to warn our readers about the dangers of brain injury.”

  “If you think about it, it’s not really your story. It’s Julia’s,” Ashley responds. “Besides, you said that a first-person story would be great.”

  “Actually, I nixed that idea and asked you to do a service-oriented sidebar. Remember?”

  She ignores the question and plows on. “Lynne is always saying that she wants more real-life dramas. I thought this would be perfect. In fact, I’m pretty sure that she’ll love it when I show it to her.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure you’re not going to have the opportunity to ask her,” I retort, and tear the paper in half for emphasis. It’s childish—not to mention pointless, as there’s an electronic version on our server somewhere—but I’m so steamed that I can’t see straight, let alone act like an adult.

  “Fine.” She stands up. “I wish I wouldn’t have bothered to go through all that trouble.”

  “You are off this story,” I say. “In fact, you are off all of my stories for the time being.”

  Ashley stares at me with eyes so empty I’m sure that if I put my ear up to hers, I’d hear the sea. But I’m the dumb one, I realize miserably. I was charmed by her “I’m a great worker” act, when the truth is, I never should have asked her to help me with this story if I wasn’t planning to double-check every single step she took.

  Honestly, though, what I’m really upset about is Julia’s betrayal. We’ve never been perfect—what friendship is without flaws?—but before her injury, she never would have blithely revealed my personal life to others. Now our relationship hasn’t just deteriorated; it’s actually become a liability for my career, not to mention my relationship with Dave.

  Ashley leaves in a huff. I pace back and forth, but given the eight feet I can cover, there’s really no calming down in this tiny office. After checking my calendar to make sure that I’m not expected at any meetings, I grab my coat and purse and head for the elevator.

  As I push through the revolving glass doors and step onto Sixth Avenue, I’m immediately swallowed up by the crowd, which somehow relaxes me. I deftly weave through the hordes of people strolling and window-shopping and having cigarettes on the sidewalk. I walk so fast that I’m practically jogging, and before I know it, I’m standing at the south end of Central Park. After a quick glance at my cell phone confirms that I haven’t been gone from my office long enough to be conspicuous, I decide to do a quick loop around the small pond.

  By the time I reach the arched bridge overlooking the water, my blood has almost stopped boiling.

  “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  I spin around to discover that the voice is coming from an older woman who is leaning on her elbows against the bridge wall. Jaded New Yorker that I am, I usually avoid eye contact and exchanging more than two words with anyone I don’t know, but this woman looks harmless. Intriguing, even.

  “It is,” I agree. “Especially after what feels like the longest winter I’ve ever lived through.”

  “Well, my dear, be glad you lived through it,” she tells me, and for a second, I get a weird sensation that I’m seeing a ghost. I look at her again, and realize with relief that there is nothing undead about her flushed cheeks and the map of wrinkles plotted across her face.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear.” The old woman laughs. “I don’t mean to upset you. It’s just that today is my wedding anniversary and I’m missing my George something terrible.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I tell her, and dig my hands deep into the lint-filled pockets of my trench coat. “About your husband, I mean.”

  “Me, too,” she says with a wistful smile. “Y
ou want to know something crazy? The entire forty years we were married, he drove me nuts. George had a very important job, you see, and so my entire existence revolved around meeting this dignitary or that senator. I always felt like I was living my life for him, rather than for myself.”

  “Huh,” I say, surprised at how forthcoming she’s being, given that I’m a complete stranger. Or maybe, I realize, that’s exactly why she’s so frank. “But you miss him now?” I say, as much a statement as a question, because the look on her face tells me she does.

  “So much,” she says, and looks out at the pond, where a few large white swans are floating in place. “They mate for life,” the woman tells me, and it takes me a minute to realize that she is talking about the swans. “That’s why they take a very long time to find a partner. Unlike me—I’ll never find a replacement for George—they usually look for another love if their first dies or is unkind to them.”

  “Unkind?” I ask.

  “Oh, yes,” she says. “Swans are very intelligent, and their memories are as long as an elephant’s. They never forget who has crossed them.” Her eyes twinkle. “That’s why they tend to be so damn mean.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Indeed. Swans will actually try to drown each other if they’re angry enough. People admire their beauty and their devotion, but they’re certainly not the animal whose social patterns we’d be wise to emulate. Unlike humans, they’re unable to learn the art of forgetting.”

  This comment renders me speechless. Julia may be hell-bent on making a mess of my life, but at least she has a legitimate excuse for holding on to the one memory I’m desperate for her to forget. Meanwhile, I’ve been accumulating layers upon layers of anger toward her—not just since the accident, I realize, but for the past decade. Maybe, I decide, I’m the one who needs to figure out how to let go.