I pulled back like I had been struck.
She had destroyed the illusion that allowed me to bring myself this far. I quickly pulled out and rolled off the bed. I felt repulsed and unpleasant. It was as if the corpse had suddenly sprung to life like some bad horror movie.
"You should not have done that, Audrey," I whispered, my back to her.
I could hear her sobbing behind me and although I wanted to console her, I knew that I could not. To do so would be unfair to her. I let her go in my mind, though the pain was unbearable. Every part of my body was screaming to embrace her.
I simply stared at the wooden floor as she got dressed, my hands shaking at my sides.
I flinched as I felt her touch on my arm. "I truly hope someday you will get help, Oliver," she whispered into my ear.
That was the last time I ever saw Audrey, although I think about her every day.
My experience with her, although having a profoundly negative impact on my psyche, helped me come to understand myself in many ways. The pain of losing Audrey has disconnected me from society in a way I fear I shall never recover.
It's not too much of a curse, really, to only love the dead.
Unlike many, I see the beauty in the darkness. I see God's touch everywhere—even beyond the grave. To call it a curse is an injustice to that splendor which resides in death. The nearly overwhelming tranquility that exists is for my eyes to see, and to portray, so the rest of the world can see as well.
Perhaps it is the price I pay for loving the dead.
I also understand I can only love that which is unattainable. I suppose it's sad in some way that I can never truly love a woman unless it is impossible for her to return that love. I guess some would say in the dark world I have created for myself, I never have to face rejection, or deal with all the negative things that come with a truly rich relationship.
So here I stand in the shadows amongst my paintings, surrounded by a beauty only I can seem to understand. I love them all in my own way, and although others would not be able to see the bonds, they are there.
I often pleasure myself to my painting of Audrey. It's all I have to show that, on some level, I am capable of loving the living.
It's a reminder that, for an instant—one heartbreaking instant—I stepped into the real world and felt for a moment, however brief, that I can be touched emotionally by a breathing soul.
I've come to the conclusion that I don't exist in the same sort of reality the rest of the world does. It's not so bad existing a little left of center. There are far worse ways to love.
The Rememory Man
Forgive and forget.
It was a saying to live by.
A saying that many people had based their entire existence upon.
What happens, however, if you can't forgive?
What happens if you cannot forget?
Angela pondered these questions and more as she awaited the coming of The Rememory Man. For seven decades she had been a forgiving person, a person who placed friendships and the helping of others above her own needs. She had forged her demeanor in the crucible of Samaritanship and was known within the community as a good person.
Turn the other cheek.
Forgive and forget.
All's well that ends well.
Love conquers all.
She had lived by these idioms and truly felt that she was a forgiving soul...which was perhaps the crux of the problem. How could she continue living at this point in her life if she had no experience with hatred?
And God how she hated.
The hate consumed her, filling her insides with an acidic bile of condemnation that kept her from the very possibility of happiness from entering her life.
Her hatred kept her from socializing. After all, how could she trust people anymore? Her lifelong belief in people's goodness had evaporated because of one single, devastating event. How could she love someone who was capable of such incredible malevolence?
She was so involved in her own insolvable problem that the knocking at the door made her to jump. She lurched to her feet and stared at the two inches of wood that separated her from the ignorance she had summoned. Yet now, at the very moment her solution had arrived, she felt pause.
If her pastor ever found out she had called The Rememory Man, he might well ban her from the church. If her friends discovered what she had done, each one would wonder whether it was them she sought to sanction.
Her hand was poised halfway to the deadbolt. She stared at the slender fingers that had once played piano before arthritis had begun their twisting curse. Liver spots dotted the tanned surface. Quickly, she drew back her hand and covered it with her other to still its shaking.
Although her memories had always been her one true comfort, echoes of happiness that propelled her through life, she would ask the pagan priest to interrogate her past and excise a memory. She would trust a mythic stranger to help her become who she once was—someone who lived by the motto Forget and Forgive.
She opened the door and beheld the small twisted man, his age wound within the creases of his weathered skin.
Even her grandmother had spoken of The Rememory Man. At times he was called a savior. Other times he was a threat she would wield to control her children and her grand children. Don't you make me call The Rememory Man now. I'll have him take away all the good things and make yer life as bad as you think it is. Even as a child the possibilities had terrified her.
"Come in," she said, remembering that evil things needed to be invited in.
The Rememory Man entered, his tall gnarled staff propelling him into the room. She noticed his long white hair lying lank upon his brown cloak as he passed, twigs and leaves, and dried animal parts tangled as if they were ornaments painstakingly placed. As she closed the door, he turned, his eyes filled with a combination of youthful strength and the painful wisdom that could only come from a lifetime of too much knowledge...too much of other people's knowledge.
Angela gestured for The Rememory Man to take the low, green couch. Angela sat in her dead husband's leather chair, her hands gripping the armrests, squeezing, soaking up the courage to continue.
"Before we begin," he said, his voice a gravelly drawl, "I need to remind you of the seriousness of your choice. I'm a believer in a person's ability to solve their own problems. When I'm called, it's a result of some failure in this process. I will indeed remove the memory in question and you will never even know it existed." He paused. "Is that what you want?"
"That's what I want," she said softly.
"You understand what I've said? You will never even realize it existed. Never."
She didn't care. She just wanted to be done with it. She wanted to get on with the process of living. Hatred had never been a part of her and when she died, she wanted only to remember love.
"Yes," she repeated, her anger slipping slightly.
"Then we shall begin."
He moved to her side and without hesitation, placed a hand upon her head. It was warm to the touch and she could smell his earthiness. The aroma of honeysuckle and loamy earth of the mountain forest that hung on him like a second garment embraced her and she swooned. She could smell pine and the crispness of autumn leaves. She remembered as a young girl kicking up great piles of the red and orange castoffs in her treks among the trees. She had been so young then, full of hope and faith. The memory solidified her determination. She wanted to be as pure as that young girl again. She wanted to be happy.
She felt the tendrils of his magic insinuate itself into her mind and flash through a lifetime of events until it found that single one that had changed it all. She chanted with The Rememory Man, their words filling the house:
Forget and Forgive.
Forget and Forgive.
Forget and Forgive.
It was when Angela closed the door and The Rememory Man moved on to his next client, that she wondered if it really had been a good idea. It was doubt really, because she would never again remember the reason she had c
alled him in the first place. After all, he'd taken it with him.
She could feel the replacement, a blank space filled with someone else's memory. The Rememory Man had told her to leave it alone. That it was part of the price. When he took one, he replaced one. She was just keeping it safe in case the other client wanted it back—like someone would do with her memory very soon.
Angela had always liked her memories. At her age, it was really all she had. She limped away from the door, silently cursing calcium deficiency and an old bone's tendency to break. It had been so silly. She had only fallen off a chair. Just the same, her doctor told her she had broken her hip. Even though that was last year, it still pained her terribly. In the mornings, she had to make herself get out of bed. She used to take the stairs in the department stores, huffing and puffing for the exercise. Now, it was the elevator all the way.
Doctor Hassan said it was just in her mind. He said there was no reason it should be hurting her. As she passed by the table filled with the pictures of her family, she wondered why she hadn't chosen to replace that memory. If it was all in her mind, its absence would only quicken her step.
The next morning she lay in bed remembering her earliest boyfriend. It had been the first time she had ever been touched that way by a member of the opposite sex and the memory still sent lonely shivers across her breasts. They had been swimming in the creek. He had looked so fine in his teenage body, thin muscles jumping with every quick movement. Then he swept her up and kissed her, both of them hip-deep in the warm Tennessee water.
She remembered searching his eyes for the reciprocal love she prayed was there. She remembered how they truly sparkled, how his tanned skin shimmered with the wetness of sunlight and water, she remembered how his lips formed the whispered words I love you. She remembered how he had kissed her deeply and how his shaking hands daring to slide over her small firm breasts. She had moaned as he slipped fingers under the edge of her swimsuit, brushing softly against her nipples.
She got out of bed. Fueled by the memory, she set about her chores. She brushed her teeth and stared at her dead husband's toothbrush still in the wall-mounted toothbrush holder. He had been dead for six years, but it was these small things that kept the memories fresh. He had never been one to put it away. She remembered how she used to scold him and cluck as she placed it back in the holder next to hers, him drinking coffee and grumbling.
She busied herself about the kitchen and glanced askance at the empty pink cat dish beside the refrigerator. She stopped and stared. She didn't have a cat. She thought hard and realized that she had never had a cat. The presence of the bowl seemed so strange, yet it didn't match the hard lump that had formed in her throat. She must have had a cat. That's what it was about.
The Rememory Man had told her to get rid of the physical evidence. He had told her it was an important part of the process. The memory he took must have been about a cat and if she had one, it must have died. Strange. She could think of so many other things that were worse than losing a pet. It was only an animal, after all.
She plucked the bowl off the floor and pitched it in the wastebasket. She certainly didn't need it now.
From the drainer near the sink, she grabbed a mug that her daughter had given her last Mother's Day. A mosaic of pastel shells and breaking waves wrapped around the white ceramic—a souvenir of her daughter's trip to Wilmington Beach without her.
Coffee done, she stepped into the back yard and sat gingerly on the redwood chair her son had made her the year before. It was low to the ground and allowed her to straighten her legs as she sat. The high back supported her spine, very important according to her doctor.
She would need to weed the garden today. She had put it off for a week and the peonies had found themselves surrounded by dandelions and would die from the evil weed's crush if she didn't take the time to save them. She sipped her coffee and smiled as she saw a pair of robins cavorting among the low branches of the dogwood. The tree had bloomed last week and the remaining white flowers seemed to be courting tools as the male bird flirted and dodged away from the female.
She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and watched as Henry dug a hole in his back yard. He placed a small package wrapped in a white garbage bag into the shallow pit and shoveled the dirt back into place with a garden shovel. She stood, careful not to spill the coffee, and ambled over to the thigh-high, white fence that separated the two yards.
"Henry," she said. "If that's the family jewels, you better bury them again. I'm afraid I saw you."
The older man dropped the shovel and the liver spots on his hands jumped as his hands began to tremble. He stood up slowly, one hand on his back, and searched her eyes, smiling wearily.
"Was that The Rememory Man I saw leaving your place, yesterday?" he asked, his voice, still high pitched after seventy years.
"It was," said Angela. "But I don't think that's any of your business. Is it?"
"No Ma'am," said Henry, walking over to where Angela was by the fence. He laughed, "I just never imagined you wanting to forget anything."
"What are you saying, Henry. Are you saying I live in the past?"
Henry wiped his forehead. "No Angela. I was just thinking. You aren't mad at me anymore, are you?"
"Mad at you Henry? Why should I be mad at you? You are a stubborn son of a sailor and nasty if you don't get your way, but I have never been mad at you."
Henry squinted at her, making the left side of his face rise comically. He searched her face carefully, then sighed.
"Never mind. I was just teasing is all."
Angela tsked and asked, "So what were you burying back there?" gesturing to the spot with her half-empty coffee cup.
Henry followed her gaze and paused a moment. Finally, "I'd rather not say. And you don't need to check, because it ain't the family jewels." He glanced down at his pants. "Those are safe and sound and definitely something you shouldn't worry your pretty little head about."
Angela felt her face flush. "I must say, Henry. You certainly are a dirty old man."
She turned and stalked away, but paused a moment to flash him a smile. He had been a good friend for a long time. He wasn't flirting, he was just being himself. There was no way he would ever leave Glynnis.
The memory of her old friend bit into her happiness. She had known Glynnis for thirty years and the Alzheimer’s had hit her hard. Days would go by when her friend didn't even know her, know her own husband. The poor woman was stuck in the past.
It had been a good day. Not only had she finally weeded the garden, but she had cleaned out the closet in the guest bedroom that her husband had begged her to do for years. She had never really felt the need before. After all, it was only filled with boxes of old pictures from when she was a teenager, when she was married, her daughter's wedding, her son, her grandchildren. It had seemed her whole life had been there.
Her husband would have been proud of her. She had put two boxes together to be mailed off to her children so that they could remember as well. She would hold on to them, and if they didn't come this Christmas, she would mail them off.
As she lay alone in bed, she felt the sense of accomplishment suffuse her. So much better than the feeling she had when she had left something undone. She leaned over and rubbed her hand across the space her husband used to sleep in and closed her eyes. Even with all the snoring, she still missed him.
She found herself thinking about The Rememory Man's memory and she couldn't help wondering to whom it belonged. It must be a terrible memory for someone to have paid for its removal. She closed her eyes and picked at its edges. Even if she took a peek, it would never be her memory. She felt around the edges and thought of a box...a box wrapped with silver birthday paper and a silver ribbon. She willed her mind to untie the bow and watched as it began to unfold within her mind.
The phone rang and brought her fully awake. She shook her head to clear the image of the box and leaned across the bed she picked up the receiver.
/> "Yes?" she wearily asked.
"I told you never to worry about the memory. I told you never to care. Leave it alone."
She propped herself up on an elbow. It was The Rememory Man with his cold uncaring voice.
"I wasn't..."
"Leave it alone, Angela. Leave it alone."
Before she could reply he hung up. She replaced the receiver slowly and lay back down.
How had he known?
It had been another good day. In fact, it had started out remarkably the same. She had seen Henry burying another package in the back yard. Before she could say anything, though, he had hurried inside. The way he looked, she could tell he didn't want to be bothered.
Like the time he had hit that kid. It really hadn't been his fault. The way she heard the story, the boy had come flying across a lawn and into the street. Nobody would have been able to stop in time. The boy had survived with a broken arm. Henry had survived with a haunted memory. Sometimes, when they were talking, she could see his eyes go sad and she knew he was remembering. He had stopped hunting and fishing after that.
Killing. Any killing, he just couldn't stand.
She found herself once again thinking about the memory that wasn't hers. As she imagined it, she saw the bow already undone. All that she had to do was to unwrap the package. In her very bones, she felt that if she was to unwrap it, she would know what it was. Maybe just open the box a little and peek inside.
She willed her mind to tear aside the wrapping and heard the phone ring. She knew who it was, but she ignored it. She willed the sound away as she had done with her children, and ability she had learned after a thousand temper tantrums. She found herself as the child she once was, sitting in front of a present at a birthday party. She felt the presence of an invisible family surrounding her, egging her on as she tore the wrapper away only to reveal a shining golden box. She removed the rest of the wrapping paper and sat back and stared.
The box glowed like it was hot, threatening to burn her skin. Undeterred, she reached up and pulled the lid away. She held it to the side and peered in. Suddenly, she felt the birthday party dissolve and she was whisked through fifty years until she saw an old hand lying tired on a white and yellow quilt.
Appalachian Galapagos Page 17
