The Art of Forgetting

by Camille Noe Pagan

  “Boring? Greaaaat,” Dave retorts, but squeezes my hand to let me know he’s taking me seriously.

  “Every time I’ve had to deal with Nathan, particularly regarding the situation with Julia, I’ve felt horrible. I mean, seriously ill,” I tell him. “If that’s not a clear sign that roller-coaster relationships don’t agree with me anymore, I don’t know what is. But you, Dave Bergman—you make me feel amazing. I am never, ever, going to give that up.”

  Dave kisses me, then whispers, “That, Marissa Rogers, is all I need to know.”

  Thirty-one

  The first thing I think when Lynne calls me to her office is, I’m toast. The magazine industry is a bloodbath right now; at a press event I attended earlier in the week, two nutrition editors from competing publications were missing, and I was informed by another colleague that they’d been canned because of budget cuts. It’s true that Svelte’s entire content centers around my subject, diet—and I know Lynne likes me well enough, if only because Naomi does. But shrewd supervisor that she is, I wouldn’t put it past her to replace me with someone younger and even less expensive to employ. Someone like . . . Ashley.

  The second thing I think is, Maybe I’m not getting fired. Maybe Ashley gave Lynne her sidebar to read, and Lynne wants to run it. The prospect is so unappealing that I almost hope that I’m getting pink-slipped.

  Whatever my fate, I know the only thing I can do is face it like a professional. I pat my hair down and take a deep breath before knocking lightly on the frosted glass door to Lynne’s office. “Hello?”

  “Come in,” Lynne barks. As I push the door open, I see that she’s leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for me.

  Gulp. I sit gingerly on the edge of the stiff metal chair opposite my boss.

  She looks at me for what feels like an eternity. Finally, she says with a sigh, “I wanted to tell you myself, because I think you’re doing a great job for us, and I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. It’s just that in this economy, sometimes I have to make choices for all of us that aren’t easy to swallow.”

  Whew, I think. It’s not Ashley’s Q&A with Julia. Then it dawns on me that what Lynne just said is longhand for: Sayonara, Marissa.

  “Could you clarify?” I ask, because I can’t manage to choke out “Am I fired?”

  “I’m killing the brain trauma story for June,” she says bluntly.

  “Oh.” I sit for a second, processing this information. Okay, so I have a job. That’s good. But . . . “I thought you loved that story,” I whimper, trying a little too hard not to sound pissed. “You wrote on the last draft that it was my best work yet and that you couldn’t wait to see how many awards it won.”

  “Doesn’t test well,” Lynne says sharply, the veins in her neck bulging. “That twenty-person panel we did in Minnesota last week showed that our readers want more weight-loss articles. They like tips, recipes, skinny celebrities. They’re simply not interested in health unless it relates to shedding pounds. But lucky for you, that’s ninety percent of what you do, which means your job is safe.”

  Twenty people? I want to scream. You’re getting rid of an article you deemed brilliant and told the rest of the staff to emulate because twenty random women from one area of the United States didn’t like it and would prefer to read secrets of successful anorexics?

  But I just say, “I understand.”

  “I knew you would, Marissa,” she tells me. “I’m fully aware that this piece meant a lot to you, given what your friend went through. But if you want to get ahead in magazines, which I know you do, then it all comes down to the bottom line. Now, I can count on you to fill that hole in the lineup with a big celeb weight-loss story, right? Because we have only a month to get new copy in.” She slaps her bony hand on the top of her desk for emphasis, and her platinum-and-diamond-studded wedding band clinks loudly against the glass.

  “Of course,” I tell her. Right after I’m done jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Having recently watched a friend go through a near-death experience, suicide isn’t actually all that appealing. Quitting my job, on the other hand—suddenly that sounds like just the thing.

  When I get back to my desk, I find myself thinking about last week’s Take the Lead lesson, which was about coping.

  “Why is it a good idea to talk to someone about your feelings or go for a jog around the block instead of yelling at the person you’re upset with?” I asked the girls, glancing down at my TTL binder to make sure I was relaying the information correctly.

  Of course, Estrella’s hand shot straight up. But so did Josie’s and Anna’s and Margarita’s. I pointed at Margarita. “What do you think?”

  “Because it won’t actually make you feel better?” she said timidly.

  “That’s right!” I told her. “You might actually feel worse afterward, because not only will your original bad feelings not go away, but if you cope by starting a fight or smoking cigarettes or eating lots of junk food, those unhealthy behaviors will eventually cause even more problems for you.”

  Okay, so it may have been worded like an ABC after-school special, but I can’t deny that the lesson was right. I’d love to tell Lynne my thoughts on her twenty-person panel. But not only am I too timid to do so, I also know it won’t solve anything. So I opt to take a walk instead.

  I trudge around the block, but once I’m back in front of the Svelte building, I head north instead of going inside. Ten blocks later, my feet don’t want to stop. I check my cell phone and see that our weekly edit meeting is in less than ten minutes, which means that unless I make like a Kenyan marathoner, I’m not going to make it back in time. But for once, I decide that my mental health takes precedence over my career.

  Without slowing down, I hit the first number on my speed dial. Julia picks up immediately. “Hi, Marissa! What’s wrong?”

  I draw in my breath sharply. Julia and I always used to say that we were like twins: When one of us was hurt or upset, the other person often sensed it immediately, even if we were miles apart. Since the accident, though, it’s like we’ve been on separate planets, and the distance was too far for us to connect signals.

  “How did you know something was wrong?” I ask her.

  “Jesus, my skull wasn’t completely crushed,” she says flippantly. “I just had a feeling something was up. Besides, you never call me in the middle of the day anymore.”

  “True,” I admit. “I just got some bad news and I wanted to chat.”

  “What happened?”

  “Lynne isn’t going to run my brain injury story,” I barely choke out, unable to conceal how upset I am. “The readers want weight loss, not health. And the story won’t attract advertisers, because neurologists don’t need to advertise in Svelte.”

  “That sucks, Mar,” she says. “But you’ve had stories killed before, right?”

  “Not like this. This one meant more to me. It was my chance to prove that I can do something other than weight loss. I feel . . . stuck.”

  “Mar, can I ask you something?” I half expect her to inquire about the fate of her Q&A, but instead, she says, “Why don’t you unstick yourself? Just because you’ve been working at Svelte since forever doesn’t mean you have to keep at it. Go get a new job. God knows you have enough going for you to be considered an attractive candidate at a million other places.”

  This catches me off guard. Julia may have wanted to be a dancer, but her professional instincts were always so sharp that she would have made a killer career counselor. And indeed, when I couldn’t figure out how to get a position in magazines, it was her advice to take an entry-level journalism job at a newspaper and “network the hell out of your nights at events where magazine people will be” that ultimately landed me my gig at Svelte. The fact that Julia’s career savvy has remained intact, even as her social skills remain questionable, gives me a small ray of hope.

  “It’s not exactly a good time to be searching for a job, given the economic colla
pse and whatnot,” I say.

  “Have you actually looked for anything in the past six months?” she asks.

  “No,” I confess. “It’s been so long since I’ve job-hunted that I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you used to talk about becoming a big-shot editor all the time, right? Maybe this is another case of my brain drain, but I haven’t heard you mention becoming an editor-in-chief in, like, neons,” Julia says, and I don’t have it in me to tell her that I think she meant “eons.” Besides, she’s otherwise spot-on. I used to dream of running my own magazine—maybe even Svelte—one day. Now the thought of doing so makes me want to jab a hot poker into my thigh. It’s not that I think my job is completely without value. Couched between the “Lose five inches in four weeks!” and “Get fit without trying!” claims, the magazine contains legitimate information that helps women live healthier, better lives. But I want to leave work at the end of the day feeling inspired and absolutely certain that I’ve done more good than harm.

  “Oh, Jules.” I sigh. “As always, excellent advice. I’m going to start looking to see what’s out there.”

  “That’s all I ask,” she says, and I swear I can feel her smiling on the other line.

  Thirty-two

  I’ve decided to devote Saturday to winning the war on dirt. Wielding our Dyson against the dust bunnies hidden in what appears to be every corner and crevice in our apartment, I zoom from room to room, sucking up anything that’s not glued to the ground. By the time I make my way to the living room, I’ve decided there’s no way that I can deal with the filth that would come with a dog. Too bad, as I’ve been contemplating getting one as a way to ward off my loneliness.

  “Whoa there, tiger,” Dave says, coming through the front door. “Don’t use that thing on me.” His T-shirt, spotted with sweat, clings to his flat stomach. I want to hate him for being motivated enough to exercise every day, but I’m the one who gets to enjoy the fruit of his labor. Fruit that I’d like to take a bite of right now, come to think of it. Although I was concerned that my confession about Nathan would drive a wedge between us, blatant honesty seems to have had the opposite effect: Dave and I have spent the past couple of weeks in honeymoon mode.

  “Rarr,” I growl. “Why don’t you bring that sweaty body of yours over here?”

  “You are an animal.” He winks. He tosses the pile of mail he’s been holding on the coffee table and saunters toward me.

  Just as he’s about to move in for the kill, I spot a letter splayed among the other envelopes and magazines Dave just threw down. I don’t need to look at the return address; the bubbly, sloppy script tells me exactly who it’s from.

  “Did you see that my mom sent me something?” I ask Dave, my lust already evaporated.

  “No . . . but it can wait, right?” he says playfully, tugging on my sweater to pull me toward him.

  “You know I’m not going to be able to focus until I know what it says,” I apologize. “But I promise to make it up to you later.” I tear impatiently at the envelope, ripping it and a corner of the rosecolored stationery tucked inside. Without sitting down, my eyes race over the words my mother has filled the page with.

  Dearest Marissa,

  I love you very much.

  I’m sorry I hurt you when we were at the Bergmans’. At the time, I thought I was doing you a favor, but after talking with Phil about what happened, I realize now that I shouldn’t have said anything about what you choose to eat, especially not in front of Dave’s family, but not alone, either. I hope that the Bergmans don’t think I’m a terrible person, but more important, I hope you don’t hate me.

  Worrying about food is so normal for me that I seldom stop to consider that you wouldn’t want to hear it or that it could sound like criticism. I’m beginning to see that my “suggestions” aren’t always welcome or helpful. I know it’s hard for you and Sarah to understand this, but I sometimes forget that you’re both grown women who are capable of making your own decisions—decisions that are yours to make, whether I agree with them or not. Although I can’t promise to do the right thing every time, I’ve vowed that from now on I’ll try to bite my tongue, especially when it comes to weight and food issues.

  I’m really proud of you, and I am amazed that you’ve grown up to be such a smart, beautiful, successful woman. You have such an amazing life ahead of you, and I hope you’ll continue to make me a part of it.

  Love always,

  Mom

  Without a word, I pass the letter to Dave. When he’s done reading it, he glances up at me. “Um, wow.”

  “What do you think?” I ask wearily. My mother’s admission doesn’t make me feel nearly as triumphant as I would have thought. Instead, it makes me very, very tired.

  “I’m kind of shocked she apologized,” Dave tells me.

  “I know. It’s the first time I can ever remember her doing that,” I tell him, plopping down on the sofa. “I guess she really felt bad. As well she should. I suppose I should call her . . .” I lean back in the overstuffed cushions and cover my eyes with a throw pillow. My head feels like a boulder on my twig of a neck, and I realize that I’m not just tired; I’m beyond exhausted. Before I can spend another second thinking about my mother, I’m fast asleep. When I wake, I have no idea where I am or what time it is. I rub my eyes and look around at the dim living room and slowly, the earlier part of the day starts to come back to me. I glance at the illuminated red numbers on the microwave: 5:07. I’ve been asleep for more than three hours.

  “Hey, Van Winkle,” Dave calls from the dining room table, where his fingers are tapping away with lightning speed on his laptop.

  “You didn’t go into the office?” I ask, knowing that he’d planned on spending at least a few hours there.

  “Nope,” he says. “Didn’t want to completely abandon you. Besides, I was able to get some stuff done here. Sascha and John called to see if we wanted to go to dinner. I was thinking that if you’re up for it, we could meet them somewhere in the neighborhood.”

  Still groggy, I walk over to the kitchen sink and run my hands under cold water, then press them to my face. “Dinner sounds great,” I tell Dave. “Just promise me you won’t bring up the situation with my mother.”

  “I promise,” says Dave. He closes his laptop and comes over to where I’m standing at the sink. He gives me a big bear hug, then kisses me on the forehead. “Now you promise me that you’ll call her before the end of the weekend to accept her apology.”

  “Hmph.” I pout.

  “The lady doth protest too much,” Dave says. “You know you’ll feel better if you do.”

  “Whatever,” I retort, and motion for him to follow me into the bedroom. “Let’s talk about something more fun. Like how you think I’m an animal.”

  I don’t call my mom that night, or the next morning. Speaking with her would put a damper on an otherwise perfect weekend, I tell myself. The reality, of course, is that my procrastination casts a shadow over me, making it impossible for me to enjoy what I’m doing. Even a shopping excursion to Bloomingdale’s with Sophie on Sunday afternoon doesn’t snap me out of my funk. As I try on enough shoes to make Imelda Marcos envious—settling for a sexy-yet-sensible pair of red snakeskin flats—I find myself wishing that I could compartmentalize everything the way Dave does, so I didn’t have to schlep around my work, family, and friend drama all in one ridiculously heavy bag.

  Sunday evening, desperate to avoid the inevitable, I decide to go for a long walk. I toss on my workout gear and my sneakers and head out the door just as the sun is starting to set. I trek along for two blocks, trying to get my blood pumping. But after several months of jogging with the Take the Lead girls, speed no longer seems possible when I have one heel on the ground at all times. Without thinking, I break into a jog, and my stride instantly becomes more comfortable.

  I trek down my street, thanking God that it’s dark out because I’m grinning like an idiot. Me, jogging—alo
ne! On purpose, and not because I’m being chased by a robber or rapist! I can barely believe it. Even more astounding, I’m not in pain. On the contrary, I feel almost—gasp—good. Each time my feet pound the pavement, I leave a little more tension in my trail.

  After a while, my thoughts return to the situation with my mother and her inability to deal with conflict. Like a faulty DNA sequence, I have inherited her ability to avoid confrontation, which is why I’ve been putting off calling her all weekend. Yet as I jog along, I start to think about how ridiculous I’m being. What’s the worst thing that could happen if I called? We’d have an awkward conversation? We’d fight like we did at the restaurant in Chappaqua? Besides, if my mother—the original leopard—can change her spots and apologize, then I owe it to her, and to myself, to at least try something new.

  When I get back to the apartment, I kick off my sneakers but don’t shower. Instead, I head straight to the bedroom, where I grab the cordless phone from its dock on the desk. Without a second thought, I dial.

  “Hello?”

  I take a deep breath. Then I say what I don’t want to say. I say the hardest words I’ve had to utter in a very long time.

  “Mom? It’s Marissa. It’s okay. I forgive you.”

  Thirty-three

  Wednesday morning, I get a cryptic e-mail from Naomi.

  -Are you free around three-ish? Meet me at Starbucks—the one on 50th, not the one around the corner. Have something I want to talk to you about.

  Yep, I write back. What’s up???

  -If I was going to tell you over e-mail I wouldn’t have asked you to meet me. :)

  I decide that there’s nothing more cruel than telling someone you have something to tell them, then making them wait to find out what it is. Instead of focusing on the dozen different projects I need to finish by close of business on Friday, I find myself coming up with potential scenarios: Naomi is pregnant with sextuplets. Or she’s quitting work to be Michelle Obama’s new press secretary. Or she’s accidentally discovered that Lynne’s a serial killer who strangles her victims with a Thighmaster. The endless possibilities keep me from accomplishing anything all afternoon. Not that I can blame Naomi entirely for this; since my brain injury story was sent to the shredder, I have become astoundingly sluggish. It’s not a version of myself that I’m fond of, but short of snorting lines in the bathroom, I’m not sure how to get moving again.