by Daisy Allen
"To be honest? I don't.” And she walks past me and sits on one of the couches.
I give myself that moment, my back turned to her, to react. She doesn’t want to know you, Jez. What are you going to do about it?”
"I'm sorry, please don't be hurt."
I spin around and try not to shrug. "I'm... I'm not."
"Yes, you are, I can see it in your face."
Of course she can. Why would I doubt that?
"It's just, I’m kind of sick of people telling me things that I should remember. Do you have any idea how disconcerting that is? That people think they know you better than you know yourself? Well, I’m tired of it. What I feel now, in the present is valid, regardless of what I might’ve said or felt in the past. I hate that the people disregard what I’m saying now, just because the past me may have said or felt something different. Well, fuck her. She’s done. And I’m here.” She stops to take a deep breath. I’m thrilled that she’s talking. And it’s taking everything I have not to tell her, she hasn’t changed at all.
She continues, "So, if you tell me something that happened to me, to us that I don't remember, I don't know what I can trust about how I feel about you now. And right now. I just want to pretend we're meeting for the first time. And make my own judgment. Can we maybe do that just for now?" Her eyes round out, soft, almost trusting, almost begging.
I nod twice and walk over, standing by the couch in front of her. "Of course. We can do exactly that? Except..."
She looks up to me, her eyes narrowed, as if ready to be disappointed, "Except?"
"Well, if we've just met, you have an advantage."
"What is that?"
"You know my name, but I don't know yours."
The worried look in her eyes fades instantly and a smile spreads across her face like a Saharan sunset. Brilliant, burning, and pure.
"My name is Noémie. Noémie De Bruyn.”
"Hi, Noémie. I’m Jez. Jeremy. Jeremy Petrescu. It's very nice to meet you."
"You say that now, but we've only just met." she says and gives me a wink. And we’re back in that mens room, and I’m falling for her so fast, I’m shoving my hand down a urinal trough. I’m doomed. I’m so fucking doomed.
She’s looking at me, like she’s waiting for a response.
"You're right. So far, you seem alright. But I can't wait to find out what a giant sniveling cow you are," I say, my mouth shooting off without my brain.
I turn to her, and her jaw has fallen open. Shit, I can't believe I said that. It's just I feel so comfortable with her, like...like we've known each other for a hundred years.
And yet, I have to remember, she feels like she's only known me for 30 seconds.
"Shit, I'm sorry. I was just joking. I can’t always control my mouth."
"It's okay,” she waves her hand, dismissing my comment. “I barely heard it, I was just thinking how you probably have the nurses crush up your medication and put them in a Yoohoo because you’re too scared to swallow whole pills.”
She gives me a sweet smile, fluttering her eyelashes at me.
And it’s on.
"Well, I bet that you eat chocolate bars with a knife and fork."
"Fair. But not as bad as you probably wearing floral nighties to bed, complete with curlers in that over coiffed hair of yours.”
"Hey, that's going too far. Don’t be jealous of my sexy hair. But what did I expect from someone who probably has a boyfriend called Norman who’s only claim to coolness is being vice-captain of his school’s math team. And apologizes when he orgasms."
She gasps and I think I might’ve hit a nerve.
"At least he doesn't wear football cleats during sex for traction,” she almost yells.
"That... actually sounds like a great idea, thanks!"
She stares at me, her mouth agape, her eyes twinkling - like a Christmas at midnight. And the talk of sex has my mind flashing images it shouldn’t be at this time.
She bursts into laughter for almost a whole minute and I join her.
"We really sound like a couple of real catches,” she pants, trying to catch her breath.
"Yeah, anyone would be happy to have either us." In that moment, I can't help but think of her boyfriend. And where he is, and if she remembers him at all. Or if I'm the only man who's fallen through the cracks in her memory.
"Jez?"
"Yeah?"
"How did you know I don't like falafels?"
The question is loaded. And I want to answer too much, but I also don’t want to fuck this up and not respect her wishes from before.
"Do you really want to know?"
She doesn't say anything, but there's a longing in her eyes. So I make a decision.
"You told me."
"I did?"
"Yeah. You said if you never had a falafel again for the rest of your life, you’d could live with that. You said that your day had been spent having 30 second conversations with strangers about beans and garlic sauce. It's too bad, though, that you don't like falafels ‘cos I heard Frederico’s makes really good ones." I smile, remembering.
"I told you where I work?'
Damn. Busted. I could lie... but I don't think I ever could to this woman. Not like this. Not to take advantage of her. So I tell her the truth.
"Um, no. You didn't actually tell me that. I, er, I tracked you down. Based on some of the things you said."
"You tracked me down?"
I just nod. I don't know what else to say.
"Wow. Weird. Why?"
"I… don’t think you want to know.” I tracked you down because after knowing you for ten minutes, I couldn’t see a future of my life without you in it. And now you’re here. And I’ll do anything to make sure I never lose you again.
"Jez?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I've had enough of reminiscing again. Let's go back to our pact."
I let out a soft chuckle. "Okay, I can do that."
It's quiet again. But not awkward. It's hard not to get lost in the past, me thinking about what happened that night. And her, trying to figure out it all. If I’m this confused I can only imagine how hard it is for her.
So, I try to make it better
"Noémie, you play the ukulele beautifully. You really, really do."
She smiles, and her hand strokes along the curve of the instrument in her hand with a love I understand as a fellow musician.
"You really think so?” There’s nothing to do but nod. “Thank you. My grandpa taught me."
"Wow, he played?"
"Yeah. When I was little, my grandpa used to take care of me when my parents were at work, and I'd spend the whole day following him around like a little puppy. He had a collection of ukes, but there was one, one special one that he kept by his armchair. It was the only thing he brought with him when his family immigrated here from Belgium when he was 7 years old. He loved that thing."
"Loved?"
"Yeah, he passed away about 5 years ago. He had cancer." Her voice is wistful, but not sad.
"Did he ever hear you play?"
"Oh yeah,” she nods enthusiastically. “He taught me everything I know about music. I hear him in everything I play."
Her openness touches me. Her ability to share these things that make up the very fabric of her. She’s forming more and more into this living, breathing, tangible being in front of me, instead of just a memory that keeps me company at night. It makes me want to be a part of it, and the only way to do that is to cut myself open and bleed.
"I lived with my grandparents when I was little as well." I pause. I don't want pity. But something tells me, she will understand. "My parents died in a car crash when I was about nine years old. My little sister and I moved in with them after... they were gone."
"Oh. That must've been hard for you."
"I’m not really sure how I’m here today, to be honest. There have been times, especially in the beginning, I just wanted to join them.”
She reaches out and sque
ezes my hand and then lets go.
“So, why are you still here?”
I tell her something only one other person knows. “I have a baby sister, Anca. I pretty much do everything because of her. She doesn’t like that. She’s 22 now.” I laugh a little, at how many times Anca tells me to get my own life and stop meddling in hers. “But after a while, it was for my grandparents as well. They made it easier than it should’ve been. They're great. I really miss them. I couldn’t repay them for everything by… causing them more pain.”
"Are they still alive?"
"Yes. They live in Romania. That's where we're from."
She smiles. “Oh, okay, I detect a tiny accent. Not sure from where though. Romania. I’ve only ever seen pictures. It looks beautiful.”
I nod. “It’s the most stunning place on earth.”
“So, that's where you should go... when you get out of here. Go visit them. Go home.”
I haven’t thought of Romania as home in, literally, decades. But something about the way she says it makes an overwhelming homesickness wash over me. I have a craving for the rugged hills and small, warm cottages of my childhood. So much so, I feel a prickling in the back of my eyes that I try to suppress. I give myself a few minutes waiting for it to subside then my mouth opens before I can stop myself. "Would you come with me?"
"To Romania? To visit your grandparents?"
I shrug.
She just grins. "Sure, why not? I always wanted to go to Europe. Mostly France and Belgium but I don’t mind swinging by Romania.”
And my mind ignores the list of reasons why not, and just allows me to enjoy the moment.
I reach over and my fingers stroke up and down the strings of her ukulele, emitting an almost inaudible sound, more like an aura that hangs in the air like an invisible wind chime.
"Do you play an instrument?”
My hand snaps back, involuntarily. And something twitches in my wrist and it suddenly aches.
"Um, I used to."
"Used to? You don't anymore?" There's a frown on her forehead.
"I don't know, to be honest."
I know it’s a vague answer to a pretty straightforward question. But she seems to pick up that it’s not something I feel like talking about. And I’m not. Not yet. Not to her.
"Why are you in here, Jez?"
I close my eyes, and like it often does, the screeching sound of tires on the road echo in my brain. My eyes snap open, the light is usually enough to scare the sound away, but right now, it doesn't. I get lost in it for a second, before she asks the question again.
"Jez? Did you hear me? Why are you in the hospital?"
"Um, I don't really want to talk about it."
"Sorry." She leans right back, as if my hesitation to answer her question is a personal rejection. But it isn’t about her.
"No, it's okay! I mean, I'm okay. I just, I'm enjoying being here with you. Not having to talk about my blood pressure, or how I'm feeling, or when I'm going to be better. I'm just... I like talking to you." And I hold my hands out, to show they’re empty. Because it’s really as simple as that. I just like being here with her.
"I like talking to you too."
"And, I like hearing you play."
"I haven't played for a while. I stopped. For a few years. But when you sent me that first note, I couldn't stop myself."
The idea that she would ever stop baffles me. I know there must be a story behind it but I understand more than anyone, that sometimes… there are circumstances beyond your control. I hope I’ll learn the reason one day though.
For now, though, I just say, “I’m glad. You should always play."
She pulls the ukulele onto her lap, plucking a little melody on the strings. "Do you want me to play something now?"'
I grin. "Pretty much more than anything else in the world."
"What would you like to hear?"
"Anything you want to play.”
“Something old, something new?"
"How about something borrowed and blue?"
She thinks for a moment, and then nods her head, "I’ve got it. Perfect."
She shuffles forward on the couch, bracing the ukulele on her right knee. Her throat clears and I get a thrill at the thought they she might be singing along.
I sit back and take it all in.
She plays Love is Blue, L'amour est bleu. Her voice, husky and high, painting my world with color. As she sings, her voice grows stronger and stronger with confidence, her foot tapping on the floor and her head tilts to the side and her eyes flutter closed.
On the other hand, mine grow wider. Watching her. Falling for her.
She ends the song with a drawn-out chord. Her eyes open as the last of the note fades away and her lips curve up high in a bright smile.
"Like I said, beautiful.” I let her interpret what I’m referring to.
"I liked playing for you... I don’t know why, I feel like, you get it. What my music is about."
"I think I do too."
"Did I play for you... before?"
"No.” I shake my head. And now the past me finally gets to know what it’s like to be jealous of present me. “I didn't know until I heard you the other day."
"That's good."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, because there’s something you’re learning about me now, too. Instead of just the other way around. And well, this is me. The me as I am now. In all my fucking glory.”
"Nice to meet you, now Noémie. Potty mouth and all."
She grins, and I realize it's the first time tonight that she's grinned... really grinned. You don't grin like that unless you're feeling comfortable. And something in that thought makes me grin right back.
The stupid grins eventually fade into a comfortable silence again, and I drag myself up onto my feet, stretching my legs out a bit, giving my arms a test lift and then drop them back down, ignoring the niggling stiffness in them. The moon is high in the sky and its light is uninterrupted by clouds tonight. The blinds on the windows aren't closed all the way, throwing the room into rows of light and dark, the furthest wall is the back drop of abstract shadows creeping up to the ceiling.
"Tell me something no one knows about you," she says, out of nowhere.
I feel my head turn sharply, looking at her. almost harshly, I guess, because she instantly backs up against the couch.
"Sorry... I didn't mean..." she stutters.
I sit back down on the couch, facing her. "No, no, it's fine. You, er, you just surprised me. I wasn't expecting the question." Not again, that is. This isn't a case of a sense of déjà vu, it really did happen.
She relaxes a little. "You don't have to answer it... It's just something I always want to ask people. I'm pretty nosy."
I ponder the question.
Well, no, I ponder the answer.
I know what I want to say. But in a way it feels like it’s unfair. A betrayal. To the two of us, three months ago in that alley. To try to relive the moment. The truth is, that secret I told her, isn't entirely true anymore.
"Okay. No laughter, no judgment, right? And whatever is shared in this room, stays here?"
"Deal. Although I doubt there's anyone out there wanting to pay me for secrets about Jez Petrescu."
I bite back a smile, if only she knew.
"Okay, well, I've never, ever been in love before."
"Wow, like ever?"
"Well."
"You have?"
"No."
"You haven't."
"No."
"Which is it?" She laughs, confused at my own confusion.
"You heard me!"
"Yes, but I don't understand you. You're saying you've never ever been in love."
"Yep. I guess."
"Wow."
"Have you?"
"Abso-fucking-lutely."
I can't help the smile that spreads from one end of my mouth to the other.
"But... love sucks. Well, when you fall out of love that is."
&n
bsp; I nod, because that's what you're supposed to do. Not giggle and tell someone that they've told you all this before. No, you nod and you smile, because it's easy to lie when your memory is intact. It's hard to be truthful. And it appears, at least on this topic, she has been.
"Why are you laughing?" she demands.
"I'm not! I'm smiling, because, I guess you're right. Love sucks."
"You wouldn’t know. You just told me you’ve never loved. Have you forgotten?'
"You sure you should be asking me if I’ve forgotten something?" I nudge her foot with mine, playfully.
She gasps, but there's laughter in her eyes.
"Too soon, Cyrano, too soon!"
"Cyrano?!"
"Those notes! I know Robbie wrote them."
"Yeah but he was supposed to say they were from me."
"Oh, was he? Well, he didn't. I thought our night nurse was sending me love notes"
"That rat! I'm going to buzz his button twelve times tomorrow during his precious baseball game!"
She giggles and the room fills with music even more heavenly than her singing.
"Just kidding. Of course, he said they were from you. That's why this one, "she pulls a piece of paper from her pocket. I can just make out the words "Autumn Leaves" scribbled on it, "is all scrunched up. You're lucky I read them at all."
She's right. I am. So I tell her so.
"I'm the luckiest man in the world right now."
She stops giggling, and her hands fall into her lap, a smile still dancing on her lips.
"Why did you have Robbie write them?" she asks.
I don't say anything, and hold out my hand and slowly try to make a fist. Sweat springs out of every pore as I bite back a yelp. Every muscle, every joint in my hand screams, begging for release. I stop when I can't squeeze any tighter and there is a still a gap between my gnarled fingers and my palm.
I shrug and release and let my arm fall down to my side.
"That's why."
She reaches out and slides her hand into mine.
It's an action completely unexpected. And familiar all at once. Tiny, microscopic tremors skate up my arms and through every atom of my body. One touch. That's all it takes.
"Your fingers and my brain would be great friends," she says, softly.
And my fingers twitch, aching to mold around the small fingers laying alongside them.
