The Life Lucy Knew

by Karma Brown

  As a result I was nervous around him, unsure about how to act and what to say and, quite specifically, where to sleep. My memory and my reality were at odds, in a battle it wasn’t yet clear could be won. Because despite the proclamations from my family and Matt—along with the undeniable photographic evidence on the walls, the “his and hers” sides of the closet, the clues sprinkled throughout the condo—that this was our place, my memory still told a different story.

  And while I did remember I was in a relationship, that I was in love, I didn’t remember it being with Matt.

  5

  When I came out of the bedroom the next morning, Matt was already up. He sat on the couch reading a book, pillows and blankets folded beside him. I set the photo albums I’d taken to bed with me on the coffee table and gave Matt yet another forced smile. I had been doing that a lot in the past twenty-four hours.

  My initial relief at remembering the condo had quickly given way to a series of awkward moments with Matt, culminating in a bizarre good-night incident when I went to bed. He had leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek and I’d tried to give him a hug at the same time, which resulted in him kissing my nostril and us squishing uncomfortably into one another. We’d laughed, but it did little to cover how out of sync things were.

  “Morning.” He smiled back, still looking as tired as he had the night before. “How did you sleep?”

  “Pretty well,” I said, though the last time I’d glanced at the alarm clock it was after three in the morning.

  “Glad to hear it.” He set the book down on his lap and I glanced guiltily at the stack of blankets beside him. While I couldn’t imagine sharing a bed with Matt, I suspected he couldn’t imagine not sharing one with me.

  When I first lay down on our bed, I chose the left side. For one, that was where I always slept, and two, there was a small stack of folded T-shirts near the pillow on the right side. Then my head hit the pillow and the scent of Matt (a soap and citrus smell that was distinctly him) wafted into my nose. It took me a few minutes to realize I was on his pillow, on his side of the bed. But...but...the left side of the bed was mine, the right Daniel’s! However, it seemed Matt and I had the opposite arrangement, and I cried as I switched the pillows, though I stayed on the left side.

  “I put the T-shirts you left out in the dresser. Hope that’s okay.” Being up half the night meant I had time to not only put Matt’s shirts away but also reorganize my clothes in the other half of the dresser. I also learned Matt rolled his socks and boxers, and kept his side of the closet much tidier than mine. “I didn’t want them to get wrinkled.”

  That was an excuse—the T-shirts had zero wrinkle risk, the cotton so soft it seemed a crease would never be able to hold its shape. No, I had put the shirts away because they reminded me of the boyfriend I couldn’t remember who was sleeping on the couch right outside the bedroom door. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Matt gave me a look I had a hard time deciphering. “Sorry. I probably should have left them. I thought—” I began.

  He waved away the apology. “Totally fine. I, um... Actually, I had left them out for you.” He dog-eared the novel in his hands—folding over the bottom corner of the page—and smiled, but it did little to hide his pained expression. His fingers strummed the book’s cover in a relentless rhythm as he seemed to struggle with what to say next, finally shrugging before landing on, “You like to sleep in my T-shirts.”

  “Oh.” A blush crept up my neck as I imagined Matt carefully choosing the shirts in anticipation of my homecoming, placing them just so on my side of the bed.

  “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Matt smiled again, more convincingly this time, and stretched his arms high over his head. His T-shirt rose above his belly button, showcasing a toned stomach, and I averted my eyes. How could I explain it felt like cheating, being here with Matt, glancing at his bare stomach this early in the morning? None of this made any sense. A wave of vertigo hit me and I held tightly on to the back of a chair, hoping Matt wouldn’t notice. Why did I think this was a good idea, coming back here? I should have stayed with my parents.

  “I turned the coffee on. Want a cup?” he asked, after what felt like an impossibly long and uncomfortable silence.

  “Yes, definitely. But I can get it.”

  “No, no, you sit.” He stood quickly, still in nursemaid mode, and I told him to relax.

  “It’s just coffee, Matt. I’ve got it.”

  “You’re sure? Okay, thanks.” He settled back onto the couch, turning on the television as though to prove everything was just fine. This was a perfectly normal morning for us.

  I was relieved to find the mugs, as I remembered, lined up on one of the kitchen shelves. The faint sound of a newscaster’s voice made its way into our galley kitchen, even though Matt kept the volume low so as not to wake my parents. Matt was thoughtful. That I remembered well.

  I glanced at the calendar tacked on the fridge while the coffee finished brewing. It was March already—it was still shocking to think I’d spent nearly all of February in a coma. So much time lost. Scanning the days, I saw Matt had a dentist appointment in two weeks and there was a thirtieth birthday party for someone named Jake (Jake from work?) at the end of the month. The rest of the days were blank, except for every Monday and Friday where someone—Matt, I assumed—had written in Lucy: Dr. Kay. Dr. Amanda Kay was the outpatient psychologist who was going to help me deal with the side effects of my head injury, with my “new normal.” I flipped ahead a few months, saw the many standing appointments and sighed wearily.

  The coffeemaker beeped and I poured the hot liquid into the mugs, adding cream and a half teaspoon of sugar to both. It was only as I walked back into the living room that it occurred to me I wasn’t sure how Matt took his coffee.

  Paralyzed by this realization, I stood still, the mugs clutched in my hands. I must have made Matt plenty of morning coffees over the past two years. But my memory failed to kick in, and when Matt shifted his gaze from the television to my statue-still stance, I gave up and asked, “How do you take your coffee?”

  The wince was nearly imperceptible, but I caught it. “However you made it is fine,” he said. His eyes locked on mine as if hoping to convey this was the truth. But while I understood what he was trying to do, should have been grateful for it, the gesture made me angry.

  “No, it isn’t fine,” I snapped. “Please tell me.”

  He paused. “Black.”

  I stared into the coffees, both of which were beige thanks to the pour of cream. “Right.” I turned back toward the kitchen and he was up a second later and following me.

  “Honestly, I’m fine with however you made it. Lucy, wait.” He took the mugs with cream and sugar out of my hands and set them on the countertop. “It’s okay,” he said softly, pulling me to his chest. “This is all part of it. It’s okay.”

  It should have been comforting, but our closeness felt unnatural. Matt was much taller than me (taller than Daniel) and we didn’t fit together easily. I wondered where I used to put my head when he hugged me—against his sternum, maybe? Because that was about where my cheek rested now. With Daniel it was between his neck and shoulder, right under his chin. “Don’t be upset,” Matt said again.

  “I’m not upset.” I pressed my face into the soft fabric of his shirt, overcome by the hints of lemon and cedar and the warmth of him as I tried, unsuccessfully, to hide my crying. I didn’t remember being so emotional before my accident, but this head injury had left me with unruly and unpredictable mood swings. The doctors told me the moodiness would probably get better, but it might not, too. That had been their answer to everything. Your memory might resolve...or it might not. Your headaches will likely improve...but there’s a chance they won’t. Your brain is astonishing, will rewire as needed...but you may be left with a few holes, perhaps long-term. No one wanted to promise anything, which meant I also coul
dn’t count on anything. I was stuck waiting to see what happened along with everyone else.

  I pulled back, stared into the face that was so familiar and yet not at all in this context. “I need to know these things, Matt. If I’m going to... I need to know—” I took a deep breath. “The truth. Even about how you take your coffee. It matters, okay?”

  “Okay, Lucy.” He ran a thumb under my eyes before lifting the thin fabric of his shirt with his hand and using it to gently dry my cheeks. I was pretty sure he wanted to kiss me, his gaze lingering on my lips. My heart beat fast and the vertigo was back, making my socked feet unsteady under me, as though I was standing on a floating dock. Do I...want him to kiss me?

  “You all right?” he asked, holding me tightly.

  “Yes.” I wasn’t, and we both knew it, but he accepted this without argument. A moment later we separated, though I wasn’t sure who took a step back first. We leaned against the countertop, side by side, and Matt reached over for our coffees, handing me mine.

  He grimaced after he swallowed his first sip, then laughed. “This is terrible.” I laughed, too, glad for the distraction.

  “Here, let’s start over.” I took his mug and set it into the sink, pouring him a new coffee.

  He smiled as he took it, leaning back again, though he didn’t drink it right away. He did say black, right? As I was about to clarify, he asked, “Did Daniel take his coffee with cream and sugar?”

  Does, I almost said. But I swallowed the word back. Lie, I thought. Say you don’t know, can’t remember how Daniel takes his coffee, or anything else about your life with him. Don’t hurt Matt more than he’s already been hurt.

  But I didn’t want to lie about something I knew for sure; because that list was shorter than the list of things I didn’t know.

  I turned to look at him, but his eyes stayed downcast. “Yes.”

  He nodded, staring straight ahead. “I need to go in for a meeting, so I’m going to shower,” he said, pushing off the counter’s edge. “Thanks again for this.” Matt held up the mug, but then rather than taking it with him, he set it in the sink, untouched beside the first mug.

  “Sure,” I murmured a few seconds later, too late because he’d already left the room. I stayed in the kitchen because I wasn’t sure where else to go, thinking about Daniel and missing him enough there was a physical ache in my chest. I wondered where he was this morning—drinking his coffee with cream and sugar, completely unaware I believed he was my husband.

  6

  “Where’s Matt?” Mom asked as she emerged from the guest room, fastening one earring and then the other. She had a Ziploc of tea bags tucked under her arm.

  “Getting ready for work.” I busied myself with stirring more sugar into a second cup of coffee, nodded toward the Ziploc bag now in her hands. “I have tea, you know.” But then I stopped stirring. Did I have tea? I had no idea actually.

  “Oh, it’s fine. This is always in my purse,” she said. “How are you this morning, Lucy love?”

  “Good. Better.” Except I made coffee the way Daniel takes it and I forgot I liked sleeping in Matt’s T-shirts and there’s no way I’m fooling anyone, especially myself.

  “Good!” Mom handed me the tea and took two bobby pins out of her pocket, putting them in her mouth and pulling and twisting a front section of her long, silver-blond hair before fastening it with the pins. “Dad has a meeting with the Realtor this morning, so it’s you and me, kiddo. I thought we could have a girls’ day.”

  “A Realtor?” I asked, my voice ratcheting up. “Why? Are you and dad selling the house?” While I hadn’t lived at home in nearly a decade, that house safely held my history and the thought of them selling it made me anxious.

  Mom waved her hand around, her bangle bracelets jangling. “Of course not,” she said. “Just keeping our options open. So, what do you think about meeting Alexis for a late lunch?”

  “Sure. Maybe,” I replied, though my plan was to stay put here at home until my memory fixed itself. “I’m a bit tired, though.”

  Concern flitted across her face and she frowned. “Of course you are, sweetie. This has been quite a...um, transition.”

  Dad came out of the bedroom, fastening the Rolex watch he wore daily that Mom had gifted him for his fiftieth birthday. Now nearing sixty, Dad looked a decade younger and still taught political science at the University of Toronto. He hated being asked when he planned to retire, like many of my parents’ friends had, because he claimed to have no intention of ever quitting teaching. “Those kids keep me young,” he would say, referring to his university students. “Retiring is the fast track to the grave.”

  “I’m going to spend the day at the house,” he said to Mom and me. “Fix that leaky faucet in the master bathroom and touch up the paint in the front hall before tonight’s class.” Those certainly sounded like tasks one did to get a house ready to sell...

  “Good. Yes,” Mom said. “I’ll stay here with Lucy.”

  “You don’t have to, Mom. Stop fretting, okay? You’re wrinkling with all that frowning.”

  Mom ran her fingers across her forehead as if trying to smooth the worry away, then smiled and patted my cheek. “Sweetheart, I am your mother and it’s my job to worry. And these things?” She pressed a finger to the space between her eyebrows and rubbed vigorously. “These are my well-earned love lines.”

  “Barbara, have you eaten anything yet?” Dad asked, glancing at Mom’s insulin pump monitor clipped to the front of her leggings.

  “I’m fine, Hugh,” Mom replied, annoyance coloring her tone. Dad held up a hand in surrender and I caught his eye, both of us thinking Mom’s blood sugar was probably low. She got snappy when it dropped.

  But Mom recovered quickly, her smile bright and irritation seemingly gone as she took the tea back from me. “I’m going to put the kettle on and call Alexis, find out about lunch. Sound good?”

  “Maybe breakfast first, Mom?”

  “Oh, not you, too,” she muttered good-naturedly. “Fine. Breakfast. I’ll make my famous pancakes and bacon.” Then she saw the look on my face, which was probably a confusing mix of longing and disgust. “Oh, right, you’re not eating bacon.”

  Along with the strangeness of forgetting Matt my boyfriend and remembering Daniel my husband, I also woke from the coma believing I was a vegetarian, among other small and apparently out-of-character changes. So even though bacon sounded appealing, a louder voice inside my head shouted I did not eat animals. Even ones disguised as delicious, crispy breakfast food.

  “Okay, how about oatmeal? Does Matt like steel-cut?”

  Another thing I had no idea about. I shrugged, feeling all at once useless like I had earlier with the coffee fiasco.

  “I’m sure he does,” she said, her tone soothing. “Back in a jiffy.”

  I sat beside Dad on the couch and he set a hand on my knee, patting it a couple of times. “So how are you feeling this morning, kiddo?” His graying, bushy eyebrows rose with the question. The skin on his arms seemed darker than normal, especially for the time of year. He and Mom weren’t the snowbird types—they liked the cold, and Dad often said shoveling kept his core and arms as strong as when he was thirty years younger.

  “Good. Better.” My now-standard response. I gestured to his arms, bared from the biceps down because of his short-sleeved golf shirt. “Hey, why are you so tanned?”

  He looked at his arms, holding them out. “Am I?”

  “Your arms are for sure,” I said. “Were you guys away somewhere?”

  “No,” he replied. “Lots of walking outside lately. Plenty of good vitamin D sunshine this winter.”

  I nodded and was about to ask the obvious—how one’s arms got tanned in minus-twenty-degree weather when coats were a requirement—when a pot clanged loudly from the kitchen, followed by a long string of curse words. “Mom okay today?”

&n
bsp; “She’s fine,” he said. “You know how she gets when her sugar drops.” But then he looked pained, realizing his blunder.

  “I know,” I said, nudging him with my shoulder. “I remember, Dad.”

  He smiled, relieved. “She’ll be better after that oatmeal.”

  “So, Mom says you’re meeting a Realtor this morning. What about?”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. “Nothing for you to worry about, pumpkin.”

  Telling someone not to worry about something was a great way to ensure she would do just that. “Dad, what’s going on?”

  “Your mother and I are considering a few changes.”

  “What sort of changes?” I asked.

  Dad patted at my knee again. “There’s a house a few streets over your mother has had her eye on. So we thought we’d see what we could get for our place. The market is excellent right now. Quite excellent.”

  “That’s it? You might move a few streets over? Why don’t you repaint the house or update the kitchen instead?”

  Dad slapped his palms against his thighs as he stood. “All good ideas, sweet pea,” he replied. “I’d best get going. Tell your mom I’ll call her after the meeting.” He leaned over to kiss my cheek, told me not to bother getting up.

  “Go easy on yourself and remember what the doctor said. This is going to be a long process. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  “I know.” I smiled at the pithy remark he was so fond of. “I’ll take it easy. Promise.”

  As he left and the front door clicked shut behind him, I felt a vibration from inside my sweatshirt pocket. Thanks to the lingering effects from the concussion, I was supposed to be “screen free” but had so far been noncompliant. Like many in my generation, living without my phone felt akin to going through life blindfolded.

  The vibration signaled a text from my sister: all caps and begging me to take away our mother’s phone. Obviously Mom had called Alex about lunch, my sister picking up only because she thought it might be about me, and was now holding her hostage with rambling chitchat. Our mother was not good at taking cues someone wanted off the phone.