by Tenaya MKD
The little bit of information I’d just seen was far from conclusive. But I couldn't handle the thought that I might be dead. The idea that I might not have a body to go back to was just too much. That this might be the only way of living for me now? It was too hard to process.
I’m going to faint.
“Sarah, look at me!” Cayde spun the chair around to face him. He kneeled in front of me, bringing his face level with mine. “Look into my eyes, Sarah. Focus on my pupils. Breathe.”
Once my eyes locked onto his, the weight on my chest began to lift. My lungs expanded a little with each inhale, making room for more air in the next. I took in one slow breath after another until my arms and legs stopped feeling like Jell-O.
“Thank you. That was helpful,” I said, when I finally broke contact with his fall eyes.
“What the hell was that? What are you looking up?”
“It wouldn't make sense to you if I told you.” My voice was trembling.
“Try me,” he said, kindly.
I turned my attention back to the computer and clicked on the top result. It was an article from The Seattle Times published on October 12th, the day I woke up in Ashley’s pink apartment. The big accident had been between two vehicles that collided head-on. There were three deaths, but all three were men.
The last bit of tension that I’d been holding in my throat loosened. A long sigh escaped.
I might still be alive!
But my one lead was a dead-end.
“It doesn't matter,” I finally answered.
He wouldn't drop it though. “You just had a panic attack, but it doesn't matter? I call bullshit.”
For some reason, I wanted to trust him. I couldn't explain why I felt that way, but I’d been trusting him to some extent all day. I’d just met this man. But I had accepted his invitation to coffee, went back to his hotel room, and was now considering opening up to him. All because of this feeling I had that I was safe with him. After deciding only yesterday that trusting anyone was a mistake, here I was.
I had to dig deep to hear the small voice inside me that said making myself vulnerable wasn’t acceptable, but it was there. I'd not heard it when I reached out to Evie's mom.
I won’t make that mistake again.
It was tough, but I swallowed down the urge to tell him what was happening to me. “I’m okay now, really.” My voice was stronger than I felt. “Thank you for your help today. I should get home.”
“Okay.” He stood up from where he’d been kneeling, but only took a couple steps back to sit on the bed. “Sarah, I know we've just met, but this won't be the last time we see each other. I need you to know that I am someone you can trust. I want to help you.”
Something told me we weren't just talking about my panic attack anymore. But whatever he was talking about, he was wrong. Tomorrow, I wouldn't be Sarah. And this would definitely be the last time we saw each other.
“I appreciate that.”
When Cayde suggested taking a longer route back to my apartment, I happily agreed. I tried my best not to seem like a tourist, but I was loving seeing the sights. Within just a few blocks, we passed by such a variety of places. The famous, elegantly bricked Tiffany & Co., with its windows full of exquisite gems, silver, and gold. Humongous department stores with creative window displays. Large tourist shops selling nothing but souvenirs, from t-shirts to duffle bags, all practically screaming “I Love N.Y.” Not to mention a different restaurant for basically every food imaginable.
The smell of orange chicken that wafted out of the Chinese restaurant was mouth-watering. But, unfortunately, my pockets were as empty as my stomach. It was one thing to assume Cayde would buy coffee. I wasn’t about to ask him for lunch too. There was too much to see to stop and eat anyway.
Talking with Cayde was easy. Whenever a personal topic came up, I had to steer the conversation away. But he never made it difficult for me.
We talked quite a bit about the interesting people we passed as we walked. When we were near Central Park, a young woman wearing all yellow, with bright blonde hair that matched, was dragged past us by the Great Dane, Dalmatian, Chihuahua, and German shepherd she was trying to walk, all at once. The dogs were all running in different directions, tangling their leashes around her legs. She could barely keep from tripping over the big dogs and stepping on the little one.
She had us laughing pretty hard for a few minutes. I hadn't realized how much I missed laughing.
When we took a moment to admire Radio City Music Hall, a gigantic, orange cat ran up to me and put his arm around my shoulder. It was like he’d materialized out of nowhere.
He yelled, “Say Cheese!” through the huge, furry head he was wearing and someone snapped our picture with a Polaroid camera. It had all happened within about three seconds. I stood there, gaping at the life-sized Garfield, unsure of what to do.
“Five dollars for the photo!” the cat said, with an outstretched paw. His friend stood back, waving the photo back and forth, watching it develop. I looked to Cayde with wide eyes, but he was just trying really hard not to laugh.
I tried to walk past the cat, but he shifted to block my way. “Come on, girl. How cheap are you?! Only $5 for a Manhattan memory!”
Now he’d pissed me off. “You run up on me, violate my personal space, and then expect me to pay you for a keepsake to remember it by? No!”
I tried to get past him again. More forcefully this time. But as I sidestepped him, he reached out and put an enormous paw around my arm. Cayde moved to intervene, but I held up my hand to stop him.
I looked up at the cat’s large, fake face from under furrowed brows. “If you want to keep that paw, you had better get it off of me. Now.”
The cat and I stared each other down for a few seconds that felt much longer. I was aware that it wasn't about five dollars, or a photo, for either of us. We were two people with short fuses, ready to take out our personal angers on each other. But I was also aware that made no difference.
Before we had the chance to decide if we would be throwing down in the middle of the busy sidewalk, Cayde held out a five-dollar bill. “I'll take the photo. Now get lost.”
The cat's accomplice took the cash and gave Cayde the picture. Then they both scampered away.
“You didn't have to do that!” I huffed. “I had it under control.”
“Sarah, you were about to get in a catfight with Garfield in the middle of 6th Avenue!” He was laughing hard now. “I had to do something!”
My irritation quickly dissipated, and before I knew it, I was laughing with him.
“You're much tougher than you look,” he said.
I was as surprised as he was. This was the first time I'd been in a confrontational situation since losing my memory. I was happy with how I'd handled it.
Apparently, I don't take people's shit.
I liked that.
Cayde was looking at me with what I thought might be pride. I liked that too.
“There is a trash can over there,” I pointed out.
“So there is.” But as we walked past the trash, he made no move to throw away the Polaroid.
“You aren't going to keep that awful picture, are you?”
“Of course, I am! I paid good money for this!”
I rolled my eyes. “Please get rid of it!”
“I will do no such thing. It's the best five dollars I’ve spent in ages!”
I sighed dramatically. “Whatever.” Even though it wasn't technically a picture of me, I caught myself thinking it was sweet that he wanted to keep it.
I tried to stop myself from imagining how much fun we could have together if we had more than just one day, but failed miserably. I imagined it. And I liked it.
Damnit.
When we reached Sarah's door, it was early evening. And I was definitely regretting not asking for a giant pretzel from one of the many food carts we’d seen that day. My stomach was making sounds that reminded me of water sloshing through pipes. But if
Cayde heard it, he was kind enough not to mention it.
“Thank you for hanging out with me today,” he said. “I really enjoyed your company.”
“Thank you for keeping me from passing out on your floor. That was great.” We both laughed. “Oh, and for the coffee.”
I was unsure of what to do next. In an alternate reality, I invited him inside, and the night continued. Not in this reality though. Not in this life that wasn't mine.
Finally, he chuckled uncomfortably, while turning his gaze down to his shoes. “Bye, Sarah. I'll see you again.”
“Bye, Cayde.” As he turned to leave, he gave me one more of his smiles.
I’ll be missing those for a while.
The thing about being cheered up is that it gives you a higher state to fall back down from. I went into the small apartment with heavy shoulders. Since I hadn't found Sarah's keys, I’d left the door unlocked when I left, but nothing appeared to be missing.
Life is shit. Be thankful for the little things.
I closed the door behind me and stood in the entryway. The stillness of the room was palpable. My stomach growled again, but I wasn't in the mood to eat now. I sat down in front of the window to enjoy the view. Appreciating this moment felt more pressing than anything else. I might not ever be in Manhattan again. I needed to see my one New York City sunset.
5
The very first thing I noticed about myself the next morning was that I had a dick. It was pretty hard to miss. It was standing at full attention, pressing against the worn elastic of my paper-thin, white boxer briefs.
Just when I thought I was grasping the rules, something fucked-up like this happens?!
The light from the muted TV’s screen hurt my bleary eyes as it reflected off the cloud of cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air. That and the aroma of stale beer assaulted my nose. I was lying on a dilapidated couch upholstered with some god-awful, scratchy fabric. Even through my t-shirt, it made my skin itch. Rolling onto my side forced a puff of stale cigarette smoke and dust from the cushions. I sat upright as quickly as I could, trying to put distance between the stench and my nose. It was inescapable though. Cigarette odor clung to my hole-laden, green t-shirt, my stained fingertips, and my shaggy beard.
My head was throbbing. I used my callused hands to apply pressure to my temples, but there was no effect. I had a hangover straight from hell, and I didn't even get to do the drinking!
Of all the ways that my circumstances are unfair, this one is extra bullshit.
I had apparently been spoiled up until now. And hadn't even known to be grateful. I'd have given anything to be back in Manhattan—or in literally anyone female.
The weight of a very full bladder pushed me to find the bathroom. When I caught sight of the toilet’s silhouette in the dim little room off the kitchen, I practically heard angels sing. Then my reality hit.
How am I supposed to pee with this thing pointing the wrong way?
I sighed. As much as I was dreading the experience, I couldn’t avoid it. The thought of pissing myself was worse.
It was a struggle, but I rolled myself off the couch. There was a sea of fast-food garbage, empty beer cans, and shame littering the floor between me and the bathroom. Something crunched under every step I took.
When I finally flipped on the bathroom light, a fan kicked on too, but it barely spun. Each rotation made it click, and the yellow light flicker. The cramped room was as messed up as the rest of the place. The small plastic trashcan overflowed with wadded tissue. Used blue towels and dirty clothes sat in a pile on the floor. And the air smelled like a mixture of molding towels and old piss.
Avoiding the mirror hanging above the sink as best I could, I approached the toilet. Some complex maneuvers were going to be necessary to get “it” aimed in the right direction. It took me a minute to develop a plan of attack.
Bracing myself on the wall, I spread my legs wide, and stood on my tiptoes. Then I bent forward as far as I could, bringing my face nearly all the way down to the chipped toilet seat. If I could bend just a little more, it might have worked. But this body had a gut in the way. And I wasn't willing to actually touch my face to the bowl.
There are lines I will not cross.
I gave up, feeling surer than ever that I was meant to be a woman.
While stomping out of the room, I didn’t avoid the mirror well enough. It was like a train wreck. I didn't want to stop to stare, but I couldn't look away, either. The stark contrast between the reflection I saw yesterday, and the one I saw now, was shocking. In a day, I’d transformed from a chic, modelesque woman to a haggard, alcoholic man.
A man who was tired, in every sense of the word. His complexion was dry and splotchy. His mostly gray, wiry beard stuck out every which way. It made his chin itch horribly. His eyebrows stuck out similarly; so bushy that they actually shaded his eyes. Such tired eyes. The creases that had formed on the outside corners were deep. Usually, I would assume that meant he laughed a lot. I couldn't picture a laugh coming from this face though.
He had given up. You could see it written in each line on his face. He was spent. Something had happened in this man's life that sucked the will out of him. And this was what was left.
I couldn't stand to look at him anymore. The sadness in his eyes was too depressing. He had probably made plenty of bad decisions that led him to this state, but life had probably dealt him plenty of bad cards too.
No one deserves to live this way.
If anyone was more alone than me, it was this man.
I tore myself away from the mirror, finally able to pee and leave the bathroom. Before wading through the living room again, I found the light switch on the wall and flipped it on. I took one look around the room and turned it right back off.
That’s better.
Besides the trash strewn everywhere, the room was mostly empty. The small tv, a scratched, brown coffee table, and the disgusting, rusty-orange couch were the only pieces of furniture. At one time, they were probably considered nice things. But they were worn now, like everything else in this guy's life.
Every inch of the place had been touched by hopelessness. Today, I could relate to it well. After saying goodbye to Cayde, I’d lost a lot of hope myself. It would have been easy to let myself sink into a state similar to this man’s. I hated my life. And I had no idea how to fix it. Drinking until it stopped seemed like a fine way to handle that. Dramatic as that might seem, I think people have fallen apart over much less than what I was facing.
If I couldn't fix things, I would spend forever alone. Alone, but never on my own. Always sharing a body and a life, but having no one to share my life with. Never being certain if I cause harm to the people I infect with my consciousness. Perpetually starting over…
To live, never being able to progress in any area farther than a day, sounded like a cruel joke. But it was the reality I was facing. I'd never have a career, build friendships, or have an intimate relationship. There could definitely be no marriage. And no children. I didn't think I wanted those things anyway. But I wanted the ability to decide for myself that I wouldn’t have them. I'd never even be able to have a cat!
People have definitely fallen apart over less.
Forget trying to fix my life, I was struggling to imagine surviving it.
One day at a time.
It was the only option I had.
The thought of sitting on the foul couch made my stomach squirm. But I couldn't stand in the middle of the room all day, either. So, I put on the pair of wrinkled jeans and orange sweatshirt that were crumpled in a pile on the floor. Making my way to the front door, I grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam from the kitchen counter as I walked past. I needed something to take the edge off of this damn headache.
The door groaned as it opened. Sunlight touched my face as soon as I stepped outside. The rays’ warmth melted away some of the gloom I was carrying. I was lighter, if only marginally.
Slowly lowering my stiff body onto the walkway made my kn
ees crackle. My back ached furiously the moment my ass touched the cement.
Still better than the couch.
With a generous swig of whiskey burning its way down my throat, I rested my head against the brown door behind me. I admired the unkempt bushes scattered around the otherwise-ugly courtyard for only a moment before letting my eyes close. Slowly, the world around me faded away to nothing.
Until a mailman threw open the back of the nearby metal mailboxes with a bang, startling my eyes open. I took the opportunity to gulp another drink of whiskey.
My eyes had nearly closed again, when something told me to keep them open. Maybe it was instinct. Or possibly paranoia. I’m not sure. Whatever it was, it was right, and I owe it one.
Something was off about the mailman. He was putting letters in the boxes, but he wasn't looking at the envelopes before he did so. He was shoving them around at random while his eyes shifted, scanning the apartments. If you weren't closely watching him, you wouldn't notice anything odd about him. But I saw it.
There was also something about his stature that was familiar. Which was strange, considering so little was familiar to me. When he turned his face to scan my side of the apartments, I saw what it was.
That mailman is Cayde!
I hadn't checked where I was today... It obviously wasn't New York City though. It made no sense for him to be here. But I would have bet my life that it was Cayde, haphazardly delivering mail in front of me.
What the hell is he doing here?
I couldn't exactly run up and say “Hi! It's Sarah, from yesterday. Well, sorta. Not really. How ya doin’?” I needed to find out why he was here though.
Setting down the whiskey, I began the arduous task of getting up. I hobbled as quickly as my rickety body would allow, fearing that he would finish his fake-letter-delivering before I was able to get to him. I barely made it.
“Hi there. How are you today?” My voice was scratchy and deep. I tried not to look surprised by it.
“I'm good, thanks. How are you?”