The garden of dead thoughts

by Natasha A. Salnikova

  Mother … your mother … said that this room hadn’t been occupied since I moved out and went to college. They used this room for storage. I could see that. A lot of things had been transferred to the garage when I came back from the hospital, but they couldn’t find space for the other things still in here. My … mother said she was a clutter bug, but I couldn’t remember what that meant and she didn’t explain it. Anyway, the room I had spent most of my time in before college was stuffed now. There was even a huge suitcase filled with my mother’s clothes under my bed and a violin on the wall that I learned how to play when I was ten. I could probably still play it, but I didn’t want to try it now. I didn’t have energy for things like that.

  I saw my wife. A beautiful woman. Tall, nice body … I supposed it was nice. She resembled a few of the actresses in films I had watched recently. I watched movies all day long because there was nothing else to do, and I didn’t have the energy for anything else. My wife’s chest was not as big as those actresses’. Did it matter? Did it make her less pretty? Her hair was light, her eyes were gray, and I also liked her neck. I couldn’t remember if I loved her. I probably did, because we’d gotten married. Why wouldn’t I love her? She wasn’t ugly or stupid. Well, I didn’t know much about her intellect just yet, but I could tell she was not ugly. At least for my taste (if I could remember what my taste was).

  I also had a son who was five years old, but I hadn’t seen him yet. He missed me and he wrote me a letter with his mom’s help. She was going to bring it to me when she came to visit me next time. She usually came every other day. She couldn’t visit more often because she worked. She told me that she also missed me and couldn’t wait until I came back home. I believed her. Why not? I believed everyone.

  Before something had happened to me, I lived with my wife and my son, but my mother said it would be better for me to stay with her now. My wife, Elaine—I liked her name—worked full time and I needed constant care, like an invalid. I needed someone to serve me food, give me pills, and hold long conversations, hoping that I’d remember something. Anything really. I absorbed the information I had received, but I still didn’t remember. I got angry and anxious sometimes because of it. I overheard my mother telling my father in a different room that I had never been like this. She didn’t know what to expect from me and she was constantly stressed. I made her stressed. What if my amnesia decided to stay forever? Would my mother be stressed forever as well? I couldn’t answer this question.

  She was stressed. I was also stressed and tired, and irritated—probably due to medication. I didn’t really care. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want anything. Well, maybe one more blue pill because a headache was coming. Like a hungry, annoying mosquito, it was approaching slowly, but surely.

  A clock shaped like a soccer ball showed 11:15. I had taken a pill at eight and Mother would give me another one exactly four hours later. I didn’t even have to ask. She’d knock on the door and stretch out her hand. She would not give me more than one. She said the doctor explained to her they were addictive and I should control my dosage. Was I a drug addict before? My mother said I wasn’t, didn’t she? My thoughts ran in circles like mad dogs. I thought my mother said I wasn’t addicted. Yes, that was what she had said. At least, I preferred to think that.

  There were plenty of books in the room. My mother said I liked to read when I was younger and wasn’t busy with work. She told me what I liked and didn’t like all the time. I liked to dream, bake cookies, fish. I had read two books my mother gave me during my time here. One by Fitzgerald, another by Salinger. The names seemed familiar, but I couldn’t remember if I had read them or not. Boring books. I didn’t want to finish them but I did it anyway for my mother. What if she wanted to discuss something from them with me? My mother looked like a good woman. She took care of me and I wanted to make her happy.

  Yes, she told me about things I’d done in life. She told me about people I had known and showed me pictures of places I had visited. I found out that my mother’s husband wasn’t really my father; he was my stepfather. My mother had divorced my real father when I was three. I asked her why, but she waved her hand, lowered her eyes, and said she also had amnesia. It was amnesia for that period of time. Things must have been pretty bad. I probably should have asked her more about it, but I didn’t want to.

  The pain was getting worse, throbbing in my temples, but she wouldn’t give me a pill earlier. I could wait. I knew she wanted the best for me. She was my mother after all, but I needed a dose so much.

  Books in colorful covers filled the shelves. I spied a red one. Crimson. I liked this color even though my mother said that my favorite color was blue. I got up from the bed and almost fell. A black cloud covered my vision. I thought I would fall, but the fog cleared and I walked to the shelves.

  Johanna Lindsey’s When Love Awaits. There was a dark-haired man with a naked torso on the cover, pressing to his huge chest a half-dressed woman. My mother said that I loved classical books. I wondered if Lindsey was classical. I didn’t think it was my genre, but I didn’t have much to do so it didn’t matter.

  “Until in the blazing glory of passion’s realm, they learned the truth that only love can bring.”

  Twenty minutes until the pill.

  “I’m not a drug addict; I’m sure of it,” I said to myself.

  My bed was soft. I liked to lie on my stomach, holding my hands under my chin, and read. Actually, I didn’t like to read that much, although my mother said I did. I needed to decide what to call her. Mother or Mom? She wanted me to call her Mom but it sounded too childish for some reason. In films, little boys said that. But those were films and this was life, and my mother knew better. She hadn’t lost her memory. Mom. I’d call her Mom.

  Every spot in my brain cavity was hurting, not only my temples. The letters became blurry in front of my eyes even though I tried to concentrate with all my might. Maybe I didn’t need to. Why did I do it?

  Mother … Mom entered the room when I said it was open. She always knocked and I always answered like that.

  “How are you?” she asked as she gave me a blue pill.

  I swallowed it and washed it down with water.

  “The same. Fine.”

  “Did you remember anything?”

  “Nothing since you asked me last.”

  “I’m sorry, Roman. I just worry. What are you reading?”

  I turned the cover over. My head was throbbing. Too bad the pills didn’t work immediately.

  “It’s a woman’s story, your father would say. He doesn’t read stuff like this. You never have either.”

  “I don’t remember what I’ve read. I like the cover.”

  “Tell me what you think when you’re finished. I enjoyed it. Lunch is almost ready. I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks … Mom.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She smiled, patted my head, and walked out. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, waiting for the pill to work.

  Chapter 2

  “Once you and I went to camp and sneaked into somebody’s cabin. We covered all the windows with mud and then dug up a tree in the yard, dragged it into the cabin, dressed it in an old shirt, and put it in their bed. It was hilarious! Remember?”

  Steve was telling the story and he was laughing so hard he was about to fall on the floor. I shook my head again. It seemed that my friend (my mother said he was my friend) didn’t believe it was possible to not remember anything, but still talk and function normally. He told me one strange and senseless story after another in which, according to Steve, I had participated. He looked into my eyes, moved his hands, and constantly asked if I remembered. It irritated me, but I smiled and shook my head after each question.

  My mother wanted to stimulate my memory, which refused to cooperate, and had invited a couple of my school friends for dinner. My close friends, as she put it. She made my favorite dish—baked chicken. It was good and could be my favorite. Though I
enjoyed the cake she made yesterday even more. Too bad it disappeared so fast. I was still thinking about it.

  One of my friends was Steve, the second was Bob. Steve worked for a real estate company. His hair was a brownish color and his eyes were a dirty green. He smiled all the time, but his smile didn’t look natural. It looked like he was posing for a picture. Would I know what was natural and what was not? I didn’t know and I didn’t remember. Steve was dressed in a neatly pressed gray suit with white pinstripes, and a blue shirt. He was immaculately groomed. He looked like a character from a modern romance novel; a millionaire from Wall Street.

  Bob was Steve’s opposite. He worked for some TV station as a cameraman. He was overweight and his hair looked like he hadn’t brushed it in weeks. He wore a brown sweater that was stretched at the elbows, and jeans with worn and faded knees. He had a stud earring in his left ear that was a bad match for his sweater. He didn’t talk, but mostly nodded and ate. I appreciated that. I was not only in a bad mood from this useless chatting, but my head had started to ache and I wanted my pills, plus a cup of strong coffee. I discovered coffee just yesterday and fell in love with it instantly. No matter what my mother told me about it.

  “Robert, why are you so quiet?” my mother asked. Her eyes were burning with excitement, as if this evening was decisive for my recovery.

  Robert was reaching for another forkful of chopped salad and stopped halfway, put the fork on his empty plate, swallowed, drank some water, put his hands on his knees, and looked at me. His eyes were brown and his beard needed to be trimmed. “I don’t really know what to say.”

  “Tell him about his school days. What was he like?” my mother suggested.

  “He was awesome. You were awesome, bro, yes. Everyone loved you. Good grades. You were always calm, stable.”

  “That’s right,” Steve said. “Calm, but not quiet. You know what I mean? The girls liked him, but he didn’t date anyone until he finished school. Then he met his soul mate, Elaine. I think it was his first year of college. What do you think, Bob?”

  Bob was searching the table again and turned to me when Steve called him.

  “Yeah, right. Freshman year.”

  I was sure he didn’t remember. He had short-term memory loss—I thought that was what it was called. All people suffered from it to some degree, the doctor told me. Or all people could suffer from it in certain circumstances.

  “You and Elaine were inseparable from day one,” Steve said. “Got married, had a kid. You had it all figured out. I mean—your life.”

  “That’s right,” Bob said after he drank some water. “You’ve got it together, man.”

  “To be honest, I was always jealous of you,” Steve said. “In a good way. You’ve got looks; teachers were in love with you. I’m talking about school now. You had such integrity that everyone wanted to be with you or be like you.

  “Yeah.” Bob stuck a spoonful of salad in his mouth.

  “I keep telling him how much people love him,” my mother said. She pushed the salad bowl closer to Bob. “Our neighbor, Linda, used to call him a sunny boy when he was little. He always smiled and was so polite to everyone. I couldn’t be more proud of him. Every mother dreams of having a son like him. You’re my sunny boy forever, Roman.”

  “How sweet,” Steve said and drank some soda.

  Sunny boy.

  I didn’t feel sunny. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe the trauma. It ruined everything in my brain and the drugs danced on the ruins, turning them into dust. I am a cool dude, according to everyone. Well, I was. What was I going to be? I didn’t feel sunny or cool. I felt like a person in one of the books I’ve read. I think it was a science fiction novel. He traveled to a parallel universe where he had a double. A man who looked exactly like him. Everyone he met knew him, but to him they were all strangers. That was how I felt. I was a traveler between the worlds.

  “I always followed your example,” Bob said, moving away from the table. He looked like he had eaten enough. “Always reserved, responsible. A person you could rely on. I could always rely on you. I want to have you back, man. As soon as possible.”

  “Right, right,” my mother said. “Your mom told me many times that your friendship with Roman was a good influence on you.”

  “Unfortunately, nothing good became of me,” Bob said as he stretched out his sweater over his stomach.

  “Don’t say that.” My mother waved her hand. “You’re a good, kind man, and you have a great career.”

  “Yeah, well, Steve stopped calling me for some reason.”

  “Me?” Steve’s eyes bulged. “I … I’ve called you. Seldom, because I don’t have much time, but otherwise … What about you?”

  “I called you last Christmas. You promised to call me back. Then New Year’s. You promised to call me back. I’m still waiting.”

  “I was busy. Why do you have to wait anyway? Just call me!”

  “Sure. Why not?” Bob said. “On my birthday too? Is that how it works for you millionaires?”

  “What does that have to do with millionaires? I’m not a millionaire. What are you talking about?”

  “More whiskey, boys?” My mother picked up a bottle, looking from Bob to Steve and back. She wore a worried expression on her face. The conversation had moved in the wrong direction.

  I observed this scene with great pleasure. I didn’t know what my parents did before, but since my return from the hospital, the house had stayed silent. My mother and father rarely talked. Their conversations consisted of questions about going to the store or making dinner. They also rarely answered the phone, and the TV was barely audible. But now I witnessed interactions. Not pleasant, but real, exciting.

  Had they talked to me before my accident? Had they called their friends? Had we discussed each other with each other? I didn’t know that and my friends didn’t say much of what I wanted to hear. Maybe if my mother left us alone, they would say more. For example, maybe I was not as perfect as they said. Maybe I was a womanizer. I cheated on my wife. I wasted money. I was rude and obnoxious. Maybe my friends would be different without my mother around. Something told me that was true.

  We raised our glasses, drank, and ate some more. I had disgusting grape juice in my glass. My mother didn’t let me mix the painkillers and alcohol. She said it would be bad for my liver and could have unpredictable results. She also said that I didn’t drink.

  “Did I like whiskey?” I asked. I wanted to break the silence and also confirm my mother’s words. It didn’t matter if she lied to me or not, because she was my mother and she wanted the best for me, but I was curious.

  Bob and Steve exchanged glances.

  “You didn’t drink at all,” Steve said.

  “Sometimes he drank wine. On holidays,” Bob added. “A little. One glass, never more.”

  “Why? Am I an athlete?”

  “You used to say you didn’t want to look like a pig,” Steve said.

  “Wow. I’m really … decent.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” my mother asked. “You are a decent man, yes. Be proud of that! You are a good son and a great father. I raised you right.”

  The front door opened and closed. After a couple of seconds, my father came in. He was my stepfather, to be exact. I hoped not to forget all this information. Was there amnesia after amnesia? My stepfather was a big man, but not fat. He was almost completely bald, but his head was covered with a baseball cap now. His pleated shirt stretched over his stomach, his small eyes darted around the room and over the table. He smiled wide. He seemed to be in a good mood, which didn’t happen often.

  “Hi, three men and a woman,” he said with delight as he put a box of candy on the table. “Your mother said she forgot dessert. How are you? Remembered anything?”

  That was how he was since my accident. I didn’t want to disappoint this man, take away his joy, but I shook my head.

  Father moved his arms like a scared bird moved its wings.

  “How can that be?
How long have these clowns been entertaining him?”

  “Vincent!” My mother stood up and looked at Steve and Bob shamefacedly. “It’s not his fault. Why are you acting like this? Sorry, boys.”

  “Pour me some,” my father said as he sat by me at the table. It was the first time he had openly shown his emotions. It seemed my memory loss troubled him a lot. Or maybe he wanted me to remember something specific for him. Maybe he wanted me to remember where he stashed some money. I didn’t know, but maybe.

  In spite of my father’s rant, everyone continued to talk about me and what a nice fellow I had been. How well and fair I had treated people, and what great care I provided for my family. I was a gallery of positive characteristics. Be jealous, everyone. As Bob pointed out, they actually were.

  Steve’s phone rang a few times during the evening. He explained every time that it was about work, and finally he apologized and left to meet a client. Bob said good-bye about half an hour later, after eating about half a dozen candies.

  The three of us sat at the table for almost an hour after the guests left. We turned the TV on and watched the news while my father ate salad and baked chicken. My favorite. Then I took my pill, a little later than usual, and went to bed.

  Johanna Lindsey’s love stories seemed so appealing for some reason that I was disgusted with myself. It was not manly to read romance novels, my father said. However, I wanted to read them. Did that make me gay? Something had to be wrong with me! Only I didn’t think homosexuals were aroused by multiple sexual scenes with women. I read them carefully and then ended up spending time in the bathroom.

  I had to stop all this wondering. I was a good person. That was what everyone said, and for now, it was enough.

  Chapter 3

  After two weeks of staying home, my hair had started to grow around the stitches, and almost all my bruises had disappeared except for one in the stomach area. It was a big green spot with yellow dots, as if somebody had spilled paint on me. My mother gave me only two pills a day, even though I felt sick between doses. In those hours, I could think only about those little demons in blue coats. They relaxed my body and confused my thoughts. I hadn’t taken them long enough to become addicted. That was what my doctor said and I believed him.