Chapter 6
Doyle says he’s going in for just a couple of hours to catch up on work. It’s Thursday evening and tomorrow- he promises- we will do something fun. It’s just starting to get cool here on the mountain. The weather is perfect for football games and harvest festivals. October means it’s getting dark by seven and Doyle seems a little happier that his days of indoor exile are coming to an end. In the winter, he tells me, he can go out more.
I research things to do in Chattanooga after dark. I have no idea if we are dance club kind of people but somehow I don’t think so. I wonder if I was, but I find myself doubting that either I or my doctor husband like to hang out in a dimly lit bar full of drunks. I want to go downtown, so I ask him if we can go to the aquarium but he says it closes at six. I silently mourn, because for some reason nothing seems as appealing to me as watching a bunch of fish swim around. He lifts my mood by telling me that he knows people. He can get us in after hours. I feel my heart race with excitement. The aquarium might not seem like much to some people, but to me it’s the first normal thing we’ve done. He shrugs and gives me a look that tells me he’s been there, done that several times but doesn’t say so.
“Aquarium it is.” He tells me. “We’ll go get us a cheeseburger after and then stroll around downtown.”
But I’ve also read the warnings about the dangers of walking around the city after dark. I tell him so and he laughs at me.
“But Doyle! What if we get mugged?”
“Are you kidding? It’s Chattanooga Tennessee, not some sleazy third world city!”
I start to protest but he kisses me.
“Nobody’s going to mug us Darling.” He whispers. “Don’t worry. Don’t you think I can protect you?”
I smile and tell him of course.
“Trust me.” He purrs in my ear before he steps out the door. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
I hear the car start up in the garage and I am left alone in the house. I walk outside and watch the sunset paint the sky and the city twinkle to life below me. I wonder what to do while I’m alone so I prowl through my closet. Surely I have something in there, tucked away in some forgotten box somewhere- a photo book or journal or a box of trinkets from my childhood. I end the evening finding several pairs of shoes and a great leather jacket that I didn’t know I had but no closer to finding out who I once was. I groan and wander into my study where I prowl through the books in my bookshelves. Most of them are history or biography- things I have no interest in, and I wonder if I liked them in my other life. I open the cabinets below the shelves and find a trove of pink and purple romance paperbacks. I chuckle. I have found the secret stash of paperbacks, and I know these are the ones I would read but never have admitted it!
I pull out an especially dilapidated and dog-eared Little House book and I open it to the first page.
Spidery handwriting declares that this was read by Lois Anderson on March 9 1993.
My name is scrawled below in the same handwriting.
Given by Andrea Bradley Christmas 1992.
Loved it.
The woman wrote. I looked up at the handwriting. I wonder who this woman could be.
Lois Anderson. The name seems so familiar. It gives me a fuzzy, warm feeling- like I’ve just sipped hot coco. I lay the book aside on the floor and pull out more titles, flipping through more books in search of names. I find none until I pull a couple college textbooks aside and discover a shoebox behind them. I pull it out and open it.
I find a Bible inside and I frown, my face crinkles up. This is a funny place for a Bible. I think to myself. It’s almost like I was hiding it away. I pull it out and open the first page.
It reads- “Presented to: Andrea Marie Bradley upon the confession of faith. June 14, 1990 by Bethany Baptist Church.” I wonder how old I was at this point in my life and I laugh aloud. I don’t know how old I am now for that matter. I flip to the second page where I find the Family Record. I gasp when I realize that this is what I have been looking for!
At the top it says “Lois Anderson married to Bill Anderson.” The date is smudged and all I can make out is the 1935.
The next entry is newer. “Gail Anderson Bradley to David Bradley. December 7, 1973.”
The last one is my name. “Andrea Marie Bradley to ______________.” There is no name or date. I wonder why I’ve gone to the effort of filling out everyone else's names but not my own. Perhaps I lost my Bible… or my faith.
Nonetheless, I pull it out of its cardboard tomb and dust it off. A couple pictures are tucked away underneath. A plump old lady with a sweet face and a skinny old man looking at the camera as if he doesn’t really want his picture taken. On the back I see an adolescent handwriting that I assume was my own- “Meemaw and Peepaw Anderson.”
I smile at them. “Glad to meet you.” I tell the picture as tears run down my cheeks. “Meemaw and Peepaw Anderson.”
I wonder how you can miss people you can’t remember, but I find I do.
The next picture is a family portrait of sorts. I scan the photograph and find I only recognize my two grandparents. The three other couples, I guess are the married children of my grandparents. I wonder which one of these faces are my own parents, but they all are strangers looking back at me.
On the back it reads “Christmas 1988.”
I sniff and place the books back in the shelf, except for the Bible and the Little House book with my Grandmother’s writing inside the front cover. I’ll keep those out, I decide. I don’t know why but I do. Perhaps it makes me feel closer to this family I no longer know. I tuck them both into the drawer of my bedside table. For some reason I don’t want Doyle to know about them- just yet.
He’s going to be back around ten. I should do something for my hardworking man. I’ll make him a nice dinner and when he returns he will be so pleased.
I wonder if I can cook. I go into the kitchen and stare in the fridge.
Slim pickings there. The fridge is so empty there’s an echo. What in the world do we eat?
I then go to the freezer where I find frozen foods but nothing homemade. I decide to make a casserole. There are some canned vegetables and some canned chunk chicken. I’ll do a pot pie sort of thing. I scrounge in the pantry until I find a couple cans of cream of mushroom and I pull the ingredients out.
I’ve made this before! I know what to do! I think as I pull a frozen pie crust out of the freezer and start on my job. I’m busy pouring the ingredients into a casserole dish when my eye catches my left hand.
This is the first time I’ve ever noticed: I’m not wearing my wedding ring.
I took it off when I made meatloaf that time. The sudden recollection sweeps over me and my heart seems to skip a beat. I didn’t want to get it messy. I put it… That’s where my memory fades. I feel myself reaching up and putting it on a shelf of some sort.
I turn around and look for the shelf but I can’t remember what it looked like. I remember the feeling of putting my ring- up. My mind doesn’t remember- my body does. It felt the same way the first time I tried to type. I couldn’t tell you were the letter c was but my fingers knew and had little trouble finding it.
I set the timer on the oven for half an hour and I go to search for the shelf and my ring. I spend the rest of the time scouring the house for the phantom shelf but am not successful. I end up with an almost burnt pot pie and no wedding ring. I am at the point of tears when I hear Doyle’s BMW in the garage.
He looks at me in surprise as he walks into the kitchen.
“Cooking something?” He asks and I try to smile even though I don’t feel like it.
“Yes. Chicken pot pie. I thought I’d make you dinner since you were working.” I tell him.
He lifts an eyebrow. “How very domestic of you.” He says pleasantly but his tone conveys the idea that he’s not much imp
ressed by my domestic skills. He sniffs at it as he comes to inspect my work. “It certainly does smell nice.”
I urge him to sit down but he tells me he has to change. The hospital is full of sickness and germs he reminds me and e goes straight away to wash up. I set the table and wait for him. He returns in a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. It looks good on him, accustomed as I am to seeing him dressed up- I like the casual look very much.
We eat until he breaks the silence with his question.
“Are you going to tell me what’s gotten you so upset?”
Am I that transparent? I sigh. I guess I am.
“I—can’t find my wedding ring.” I tell him finally.
He looks at me like I’ve lost my ever loving mind.
He’s been doing that a lot lately. I wonder what it’s like to be married to an amnesiac. It’s not much fun from this side- I seriously doubt he’s having the time of his life either.
“Your wedding ring?” He asks.
“I remember feeling it. I mean- I sort of remember putting it up because I was making meatloaf and I didn’t want to get it all messy--” I start but he interrupts me.
“Darling. You’ve never made meatloaf in your life.” He tells me. “You don’t even cook.”
I feel my mouth drop open of its own accord and I snap it closed quickly. I most certainly have! I feel like I have anyway. “I do too!” I snap.
“Not to my recollection. Cook? Well perhaps a couple times, but meatloaf?” he makes a disgusted face.” It sounds horrible!”
Yeah, like German food is all that much to brag about. I think to myself and my scalp prickles with irritation at his last statement. I have made meatloaf and it was great!
I cross my arms over my chest and stare him down.
“Well where is it then?” I demand.
“What? The meatloaf?” He seems utterly confused. “What are we talking about?”
“My wedding ring!” I growl.
He looks down at his plate and I can see the wheels turning in his head. He looks up at me and shrugs.
“You had it before the accident. I have no idea. Perhaps you lost it—“He starts but I know he’s just fishing for answers
“No. I put it up. I remember putting it up.”
He wipes his hand over his face irritatedly and stares at me, not knowing how to respond.
“I don’t know honey. We’ll look for it.” He assures me but I know it’s only to placate me.
I nod, knowing I’m not getting anywhere. He turns the conversation to our date tomorrow night. I file the wedding ring conversation away in my head. I’ve remembered something more- even if it is more of a feeling than an actual memory.
It’s something at least.
The Life I Left Behind Page 7
