“Julia, remember what you told me?” I blink back tears. “No man is ever going to come between us. Not Nathan, not Dave, and not anyone else. It doesn’t have to be a choice.”
“That’s exactly what Dr. Gopal said,” she confesses. “After the accident, I was able to really see how much I’d jeopardized our friendship, and I became obsessed with making things right. That’s why I started e-mailing Nathan and trying to bring the two of you together. I even told Dave that you and Nathan were meant to be, which I realize now was unbelievably stupid.”
“You told Dave that Nathan and I were supposed to be together?” So that’s why he had such an issue with her.
“Yeah, when I came to visit. I cornered him when you were in the shower. Sorry,” she says, looking sheepish. “I got a serious earful from Dr. Gopal about that one.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. I have some serious explaining to do to Dave about Julia’s behavior toward him. Tomorrow, though. One thing at a time.
“Mar, the thing is, I still have those thoughts. They might never go away. I mean, I even invited Nathan here tonight when I knew I shouldn’t have. But I’m getting better at ignoring my obsessions.” She squeezes my hand again and locks her eyes with mine. “I want you to have the life that you want, even if I don’t always know how to show it. Just promise you’ll be patient with me, that you won’t leave me. I don’t know what I would do if we weren’t friends.”
“Jules, I am never going to leave you. We will always be friends,” I tell her. As I say this, I know that it’s the truth. Staying friends will mean that I have to let go of the misunderstandings, arguments, and hurtful comments again and again and again—maybe even forever, if Julia never fully heals. But it’s a commitment that I’m willing to make.
I hold up my pinky, and Julia hooks it with her own.
“Always.”
Thirty-seven
From a distance, we look like one, big happy family enjoying a backyard barbecue on a Saturday afternoon. And I suppose we sort of are.
Which is not to say that things are going smoothly. Dave has managed to burn half his palm off trying to rescue a hamburger patty that escaped between the grill grates, Sarah and Marcus have already had two squabbles about God only knows what, and the ribs and burgers are cooked long before my mother and Phil decide to make an appearance. On top of this, Grace, Jim, and Julia, who are supposed to swing by, are MIA.
I pull my phone out of my purse, but before I can dial, Grace’s number lights up on the screen. “I’m so sorry for the last-minute notice, but we have to cancel. Julia got a horrible migraine earlier on the way over to our place and it hasn’t gone away,” she apologizes. Her voice drops to a whisper. “It was a bad morning, unfortunately. She also had screaming fit when Jim told her we were thinking of selling the house next year. It wasn’t the best timing on our part, I suppose.”
I’m surprised to hear about their house—they’ve lived there since before Julia was born—but more surprised about the news that Julia isn’t doing well. “She seemed great last night,” I tell her. “We had a really good talk.”
“Oh, it’s just the whole one step forward, two steps back thing. Anyway,” Grace says, “in the grand scheme, Julia is doing excellently. Her neurologist says that she’s progressing further and faster than he ever expected her to, given how bad her scans looked last September.”
“She always has been an overachiever.”
“That’s true,” she says, and I hear her mumble something in the background. “Marissa, darling, I have to run, but Julia did ask me to ask if you’d swing by her place tomorrow. She wanted to see you one last time before you head back to New York. Say around one?”
“I’ll be there.”
I toss the phone back in my bag and through Sarah’s picture window, spot my mother and Phil pulling up in his burgundy Cadillac.
“How nice of them to show up before midnight,” I say sarcastically as Sarah hands me a block of cheese and an industrial-size cheese grater.
“Some things never change,” she sighs, tossing chopped cucumbers into the salad bowl on the counter. I take a bite of cheese I’ve just shredded and sigh even louder, and we both giggle.
Never one to help her cause, my mother walks through the front door with her head held high, making her best Jacqueline Kennedy-at-the-funeral face. She embraces me awkwardly, but holds on longer than usual.
“Hey, Mom. Happy to see you,” I tell her when she finally lets me go.
“Good to see you, too, Marissa,” she says, and then looks at me almost suspiciously to see if I’m going to say anything snide. She should know me better than that, I think, but then it occurs to me that I’ve pulled quite a few wild cards on her recently and she probably has no idea what to expect anymore. I smile blandly, but it’s apparently not reassuring enough, because she says, “Sarah, you have pinot grigio, right? I could really use a drink.”
“Of course, Mom,” says Sarah. She turns to me, her back to my mother, and makes a silent screaming expression.
“Just checking, dear. Just checking,” my mother trills obliviously.
Experienced domestic dictator that she is, Sarah whistles to get everyone into the kitchen, and then parcels out various tasks. Dave and I have been directed to carry out an ice-filled copper tub filled with enough drinks to quench the entire U of M football team. Dave grabs the tub with his good hand and looks over his shoulder to make sure my mom and Phil are out of earshot. “I think we should tell them before we eat,” he whispers. “The suspense is killing me.”
“Really? Because I kind of think we should wait until a few days before the wedding to give my mom the news,” I say.
“Too bad you didn’t feel that way yesterday,” he teases me.
“That’s not fair.” I kick his ankle with the edge of my sandal and he pretends to be in horrific pain.
“What’s not fair?” asks my mother, coming up behind me with the salad bowl precariously in one hand, her glass of wine in the other. She puts both on the rustic wood table in the center of the backyard and flops down on a lawn chair.
“Nothing, Mom,” I tell her.
“Dave, what secrets is my daughter keeping from me now?” she asks, fanning herself in spite of the fact that it’s a perfect sixty-five degrees out.
“She’s pregnant with an alien love child,” says Sarah, Marcus and Ella trailing behind her with food in their arms.
“Now that’s our ticket to fame and fortune,” says Phil.
“Actually, now that we’re all here . . .” says Dave. He holds my hand. “Marissa and I got engaged on Wednesday. We’re getting married.”
Ella squeals and jumps up, toppling her chair over. Not bothering to pick it up, she runs over and wraps her arms around my waist. “Auntie Marissa! You’re going to be a bride! Can I go dress shopping with you? Pretty please?”
“Of course, cutie. We’ll need to find you a flower girl dress, too.”
“This is excellent news,” says Phil, clapping Dave so hard on the back that Dave looks like he’s about to choke. Then, for the first time ever, Phil hugs me. “Really happy for you guys. It seems like you’re made for each other.”
“Thanks, Phil,” I say, blinking away tears.
My mother provides just the comic foil I need to keep me from crying. “Oh my goodness!” she cries, putting the back of her hand on her forehead dramatically. “My little girl is all grown up!” She’s right, but it’s not my engagement that’s planted my feet firmly in adulthood. The past year has challenged me in ways that I never could have imagined, and yet I’ve surprised myself, increasingly able to take sharp turns like a pro. I look at Dave, who is beaming at me, and know that I’m more than ready to move on to the next chapter of my life.
“Susan, why don’t you give a toast?” Phil suggests, reaching for the water glass in front of him.
“Sure,” says my mother, although she doesn’t look thrilled to have been volunteered for the task. She clears her throa
t and pauses for a second, searching for the right words.
I expect her to say something about how she doesn’t understand how I was able to land a catch like Dave. Instead, she raises her wineglass and says, “Dave, as everyone in this family will attest, Marissa is a remarkable woman, and I have no doubt that she’ll make an incredible wife, and a far better mother than I could ever be. Congratulations from all of us.”
“Thank you, Mom,” I say. “That means more than you know. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” my family responds, and we clink our glasses together.
The following day, I leave Dave to shoot hoops with Marcus and drive the Death Star to Julia’s apartment by myself. When I get there, a purple Post-it note is tacked to the door.
M—went back to my parents’ house. Meet me there? xo, J
I know Julia has a cell phone; is it so hard for her to call? But I quickly shake off my irritation and remind myself that the extra seven minutes it will take to drive from here to there is not a major inconvenience. After all, I don’t how long it will be until my next trip to Michigan, and I want to at least say good-bye before I leave.
There’s no answer when I knock on the door at the Ferrars’, but the side entrance is open, so I let myself in. I wander into the kitchen, which smells like fresh bread, probably from one of Julia’s baking sprees. “Hello?” I call out, but my voice is met with silence. As I walk down the hall, I hear a faint but frantic violin concerto coming from the far end of the house. Julia’s not in her room when I peek my head in, so I follow the music to the old library-turneddance studio. Of the hundreds of times I’ve been back at the Ferrars’ since high school, I can’t remember being in this room.
“Jules?” I call as I walk down the stairs into the sunken studio, which looks just as it did when I last saw it.
As I step in the room, I catch Julia in midleap, her legs in a perfect split several feet above the ground; her arms outstretched, swanlike. She lands expertly on the polished wood floor and pivots around to face me.
“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” she says, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Then she smiles wickedly. “I’m kidding, Mar. But really, you don’t want me to break an ankle.”
“Jules, what are you doing?” I ask, shaken. “I thought you couldn’t dance? Shouldn’t your mom or someone be here—you know, just in case you bump your head or something?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” She laughs, and bends forward gracefully to tuck in the ribbon on her well-worn pointe shoe. “You know I know how to dance. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt myself.”
And with that, she returns to her position in front of the mirrored wall. She adjusts the knotted T-shirt covering her black leotard impatiently. Then, swiftly lifting her right knee, with her arms circled in front of her, she begins pirouetting in time to the music as though it were her only purpose in life.
Of all the body’s organs, the brain is particularly delicate. It is also strong and stubborn and, of course, extremely intelligent. Because of this, it will desperately try to repair itself after injury. A devastated neuron may spontaneously attempt to regrow any healthy fibers that remain to compensate for the deficit the rest of its ravaged frame leaves behind. It’s an imperfect, easily derailed process; it can cause surviving neurons to misfire and connect with healthy neurons in ways that researchers believe may contribute to pain, seizures, movement, and memory problems.
But often those surviving neurons hit their intended target. And that’s why, even years later, many people who have suffered a traumatic brain injury continue to improve their memories—and with every year that goes by, become more and more like their former selves.
As I watch my best friend dancing, as beautiful as she’s ever been, I whisper, Thank you. To God. To the universe. To Julia, for remembering the person she was.
Resources on Traumatic Brain Injury
Each year, an estimated 1.4 to 1.7 million people in the United States will suffer a brain injury. If you’re one of them, or know someone who has experienced head trauma, here are resources that can help.
The Brain Injury Association of America offers information about brain injury research and legislation, as well as support for individuals living with brain injury.
1-703-761-0750
www.biausa.org
The Family Caregiver Alliance has a section on its Web site with reading recommendations and other support resources for family members of individuals with brain injury.
http://www.caregiver.org/caregiver/jsp/content_node.jsp?nodeid=579
The National Institutes of Health’s Web site has a dedicated brain injury section that provides information and research, as well as links to ongoing clinical trials for individuals with brain injury.
http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/tbi/tbi.htm
Call the National Brain Injury Information Center to connect with a brain injury specialist.
1-800-444-6443
ReMIND/Bob Woodruff Foundation provides resources and support to injured service members, veterans, and their families.
http://remind.org
[email protected]
The Traumatic Brain Injury National Resource Center’s Web site has answers to frequently asked questions about brain injury.
http://www.neuro.pmr.vcu.edu/faq/faq.asp?FAQ=21
Think First National Injury Prevention Foundation provides educational resources and holds events on preventing head injuries.
1-800-THINK-56
www.thinkfirst.org
Acknowledgments
I often tell people that I won the literary lottery when my agent, Elisabeth Weed, offered to represent me—and it’s true. This novel wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for her insight, enthusiasm and guidance.
A heartfelt thanks to Denise Roy, my brilliant editor at Dutton, with whom I share both a birthday and a sensibility. Seeing this story evolve under her direction has been humbling and incredibly gratifying, and I’m forever grateful that she took it on.
I’m indebted to Nadia Kashper, Christine Ball, Liza Cassity, and the rest of the Penguin team, as well as Stephanie Sun at Weed Literary and the Jenny Meyer Literary Agency, for their assistance throughout this crazy publishing process.
Thanks to Darci Smith, for cheering me on throughout the first draft; to my early readers, Laurel Lambert and Shannon Callahan, who assured me that The Art of Forgetting really was a tale worth telling; and to Bunny Wong, whom I miss dearly and whose wise words kept me writing even on the worst of days.
Thank you to my brunch partners and support system, Britt Carlson, Katie McHugh, Sara Reistad-Long, and Rachael Stiles; and to the writers who have inspired and assisted me along the way: Sarah Jio, Emma Johnson, Jael McHenry, Beth Hoffman, Maris Kreizman, Siobhan O’Connor, Sarah Pekkanen, J. Courtney Sullivan, Laura Vanderkam, Julie Weingarden Dubin, and Allison Winn Scotch.
For sharing their knowledge of brain injury, thank you to doctors Ausim Azizi, Amarish Dave, and Alain de Lotbiniere. And thank you to Girls on the Run (www.girlsontherun.org), an incredible organization I was fortunate enough to be a part of, and which inspired parts of this novel.
I’m so grateful to have the support of my family. Special thanks to my grandmother, Patricia Pietrzak, for encouraging my love of the written word (even if it meant slipping me V. C. Andrews’ novels behind my mother’s back); to Bill Pietrzak and Joyce Nelson for their constant support over the years; to my parents, Tip and Vanessa Noe; and to my sisters, Laurel Lambert and Janette Noe, who just happen to be my closest friends. And, of course, thank you to my children, who give me meaning.
Lastly, thank you to my husband, JP Pagán, who forever changed my life for the better when he walked into it ten years ago.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Camille Noe Pagán’s work has appeared in numerous national publications, including Allure, Cooking Light, Glamour, SELF, and Women’s Health. A former magazine and online editor, she recently moved from Brooklyn, New York, to Ann Arbor, Michigan, where she live
s with her husband and children. Visit her at www.camillenoepagan.com.
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