by Harry Mazer
An anagram of sestina is I assent. Also It’s sane. And Eats sin.
© by Christopher Ian Bright.
December 14
It happened in the bookstore, and then again at Prince Hall.
The first incident was the piping of “In the Bleak Midwinter” over the speakers on November 29, while she was shopping for a biography of King Henry VIII. Christmas songs, she realized, were designed to lay dormant for months and then jolt you with joyous sense memories of cocoa-quaffing and gift-wrapping that led to an irresistible urge to shop. But for her the jolt was a shock of despair. “Bleak Midwinter” was Ben’s favorite holiday tune and the title of a war movie he loved. She’d last heard it at Roosevelt Field Mall almost a year earlier, where Ben had impulsively spun her away from the sweater rack and kissed her.
The second had occurred during lunch moments ago. Until today Prince had been her favorite refuge, a Hogwartsian womb of vaulted ceilings and dark-wood wainscoting. It also had perfect acoustics for a spontaneous outbreak of the Handel “Hallelujah Chorus,” which under ordinary circumstances would have had her on her feet screaming away with the sopranos, but today made her nearly hyperventilate. Mostly because she and Ben had once joined in on just such an outbreak in Grand Central Terminal with a group of Eastport chorus kids.
She had been doing so well till now. The reports about Ben had been arriving regularly from Atherton, California, where Mr. and Mrs. Bright had been living with friends. His progress had been steady and promising. He was responsive to stimuli and “vocalizing,” which brought to mind singing scales but actually meant making sounds and sometimes actual words.
These reports always filled her with hope and excitement. College was such a disconnect from her old life. It was about present and future, creating a life from scratch, a timeline with the starting point of Arrival.
Christmas changed everything.
Christmas was about everything good in the past that made you realize how much your life sucked now. Which was why she’d hiked all the way off campus in the snow to the environmental center, where she could get lost for a few hours in the forest and not have to brood in front of everybody.
Her fingertips were growing numb, and she blew on them as she walked among the trees. Her attempt to escape her own Ghost of Christmas Past was failing dismally. Ben, intact and full of life in all his imagined wonderfulness, had followed her here.
She became suddenly aware of footsteps crunching through the thin veneer of snow. She stopped cold.
The footsteps stopped too. Instinctively she turned but saw no one. “Hello?” she called out, her voice brittle in the thin air.
A deer, maybe. Although deer were quiet. And big enough to see.
She’d wandered pretty deep into the woods. Not too deep, she hoped. She turned to go, facing downhill toward the entrance, and realized that the pine trees were aligned in a matrix of perfect rows and columns. Probably some clumsy sixties environmental-engineering project. But it meant she had a clear shot out.
The footsteps had stopped completely. She began walking, slowly at first, then briskly.
One of the trees had a visitor. A hooded figure in black.
She gasped and jumped back. He stepped backward too, his eyes wide from within the penumbra of a black hood.
Scrambling for her shoulderbag, she blurted out, “I have mace!”
“Whoa, easy,” came the reply.
“Don’t come near me.” Immediately she remembered her mom’s oft-told story of how she’d once scared away a mugger in New York City. And so she took the cue and began singing at the top of her lungs: “Oh, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light . . .”
A smile flickered beneath the eyes. “What so proudly we hailed by the twilight’s last gleaming . . .” he joined in, in a tenor descant that harmonized perfectly.
He was smiling. He looked normal and vaguely familiar.
Oh, great. Suddenly, with her little canister clasped tightly in her hand, she felt ridiculous. As the song died on her lips, the guy shrugged. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. You have a great voice.”
“Who are you?” Ariela asked. “Do you make a habit of following girls into the woods?”
“What makes you think I didn’t think you were following me?” he said, then frowned. “Wait . . .”
Everything about him screamed Sensitive Midwestern College Guy. “You’re a Chase student, right?”
He shook his head. “The Naz. Jared.”
“You just said three words in English, so why do I feel I need a translator?”
“Sorry. I go to Mount Morris College of the Nazarene and my name is Jared. You?”
“Chase. And Ariela.”
Jared shrugged. “I understood that perfectly. And I should have figured, from the way you talk.”
“That my name was Ariela?”
“That you went to Chase. You sound smart. And like you’re from the East.”
“To people in California, this here is the East.”
“Is that where you’re from, California? Is that why you’re shivering?”
“No. You were right about the East. New York. And I need to get inside someplace warm.”
“I have a car.”
“How convenient. Race you to the parking lot.”
She took off at a sprint. Just beyond the ersatz forest, to the left, was a dangerously steep decline. She nearly fell but made it intact to the parking lot, where one ancient, rusted gray Corolla sat alone. “Is this yours?” Ariela asked.
Jared was huffing and puffing, the left side of his hoodie coated with dirt and brown grass. “Yes. Sorry.”
Ariela couldn’t help but laugh. “About the car, or your clumsiness?”
“Both,” he said, brushing himself off. “Let me.”
Ariela tried to pull the door open, but it was jammed shut. “You lock your car door—here? I thought only New Yorkers did that.”
“Hang on.” Jared turned his back to the car and gave the door a sharp kick. With a loud creak, the door opened. “It’s not locked. Just old. Easier to open from the inside, I promise.”
It took a few tries for Jared to start the car, and his forceful thrusts of the clutch sounded like the chomping of some metallic monster jaw. As they ascended Higgins Street, the engine’s groan was so deep and pervasive that it was more felt than heard, even as it blotted out all other sound. “If you want, I can let you off here so no one sees you!” he shouted.
But Ariela couldn’t make out the words clearly. “What?”
“In case you’re embarrassed!” he said, swerving toward the curb.
“No, keep going!”
After a tenuous moment when it seemed they might roll back down the hill, Jared pulled into a diagonal parking space near Center Ground. The engine died with a tubercular wheeze.
“Hey, a smartcar. You didn’t even have to turn it off,” Ariela said.
“Yeah, but will I be able to turn it back on?” Jared asked, his hand hovering tentatively over the keys.
“Well, you can stay here and experiment,” Ariela said, forcing open the passenger door, “or you can have a cup of coffee with me. My treat. For bringing me back alive.”
He followed her into the shop, where they both ordered coffee and a plate of snacks to split, and settled into the padded seats by the window overlooking campus. “I saw a play here once,” Jared said. “The Threepenny Opera. I mean, not here here. In the theater. My big sister was in it.”
“Before my time. I’m a freshman,” Ariela said.
As Jared sipped his coffee, steam encircled his face. His hood was down now, revealing an unruly, but not unpleasant, spillage of brown curls, a long and thoughtful face like an El Greco painting, eyes wide apart and deep brown. “It was great. But what do I know? I’m an engineering major.”
“You have a good stage face,” Ariela said. “Dark features, wide-set eyes.”
“Whatever. Thanks.” Jared’s face turned bright red. “So you’re a
theater major?”
“Well, I like musicals. I did them in high school. But I’m not sure I want to—”
“Which roles?”
“Maria in West Side, stuff like that. Soprano.”
Jared grinned. “Are you doing something here? I’ll come see you.”
“They’re not doing a musical this fall. So maybe next year.”
“Cool.”
They blew on their coffees. Suzanne and a couple of Ariela’s friends stopped by and chatted. She introduced Jared. He seemed to know one of them. They ate their snacks. He said good-bye, left, and was able to start the car. The time passed quickly and Ariela felt warmer.
“Hmm,” Suzanne said, watching the Corolla clank off. “Pretty hot.”
Their friend Cameron nodded. “So’s the car.”
“I’ll invite him back so you can get intimate with them both,” Ariela said.
Suzanne smiled as she got up to go. “No-o-o-o comment.”
In moments, Ariela was the only one left. She had been feeling good for the first time since lunch, but now she began to shiver.
She wasn’t sure if it was because of the cold, or the fact that during the time she’d spent with Jared she did not, and did not feel the compulsion to, mention Ben.
December 30
Enough. It hurt.
“Ben, that’s fantastic!” Dr. Larsen said.
Dr. Larsen was old. And nice. He had yellow and gray hair.
Thank you.
“Can you read aloud what you wrote, Ben?” the doctor asked.
Yes. Ben.
“Don’t rush it,” Dr. Larsen replied, acting like he’d heard nothing. “It’s okay. Take your time. Say what it is that you just wrote.”
I said, Ben. Ben. I just wrote Ben. “Mm. Mahng K.”
“Yes!” Dr. Larsen was applauding now, but softly. “You are Ben. Okay, can you tell me, is your name Ben Franklin? Nod for yes, shake your head for no. Answer if you can.”
No. I don’t think so.
“Come on, Ben, nod for yes, shake for no.”
Okay. There. No.
“I’m not seeing it or hearing it, Ben. But that’s okay. Can you blink once for yes, twice for no.”
Okay.
“Excellent! Now, once for yes, twice for no—is your name Ben Bright?”
Yes, that’s what you told me. Here, a blink.
“I see the blink, good! Can you speak your full name?”
Ben Bright. Right?
“You’re doing incredibly well, but I don’t hear anything. You need to take your time and listen to your own voice as it comes out. Try to talk as you exhale, okay?”
Ben Bright. Ben Bright. Ben Bright. “Aaahnng. Eyyyk. Aaah.”
Dr. Larsen was beaming. “Amazing! We are making such progress. Are you tired? Blink please.”
No.
“You must be exhausted.”
No. Not tired. No! “Nnnnk.”
Dr. Larsen’s eyebrows went way up. “What’s that, Ben? Is that a yes?”
Why can’t you listen to me? “Ohhh. M.”
The doctor nodded, ignoring his question. “Fantastic. Okay, I’ll be going now.”
Why can’t anybody tell me why I’m here?
“You know, your family will be visiting tomorrow. I understand your fiancée will be here too. Isn’t that great? You’ll be surrounded by love.”
Family?
“Let’s see . . .” Dr. Larsen said, glancing down at a chart. “Ariela. And Mom and Dad and Chris. They will be so happy to see how far you’ve come!”
Don’t know those people.
The doctor put his hand gently on Ben’s arm. “Better get a good night’s sleep, Ben.”
Will you please answer my questions?
Why am I here?
When can I go?
Are those people really my family? Why don’t I know them?
Who are they?
“Big day tomorrow, Mr. Bright!” Dr. Larsen said as he left the room. “See you then!”
Don’t go.
Tell me what happened to me.
Tell me who I am.
Somebody, please tell me who I am!
December 31
“I’m sorry, that’s bullshit, he doesn’t look good. He looks terrible. He does. He’s lost too much weight and his eyes don’t focus and there’s drool coming out of his mouth and every time he tries to speak the doctor acts as if he’s just recited the Gettysburg Address.”
Shut. Up. Just shut up.
The words were shooting out of Ariela like blood from a wound, but she couldn’t stop. She could hear them echoing off the fake-wood partition of the diner booth, and people around them were averting eyes.
Sleep deprivation, that was the biggest part of it. She hadn’t slept in days, and the red eye from Columbus to San Francisco had taken eight hours because of a delay at her layover in Phoenix. Phoenix. She couldn’t imagine why on earth there would ever be a delay in a place like Phoenix, which had no bad weather.
Across the table, Mrs. Bright was looking at her with huge, kind, pitying, blue eyes. Ariela wanted to cry. “I can’t believe I said that. Just shoot me, okay? Just take me outside and shoot me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Mrs. Bright reached out and cupped Ariela’s hands in hers. “I know. It’s hard to see him after such a long time.”
Ariela flinched but kept her hand still. She didn’t feel like touching or being touched, but she stayed put out of politeness and gratitude for the fact that Mrs. Bright had picked her up at the airport and agreed to house her for a few days. And the act of touching, that gesture of forgiveness and inner strength, made Ariela feel about two inches tall. Ben was Mrs. Bright’s son, her pride and joy, and Ariela had just ripped anything positive from their visit. “I’m so, so, so sorry,” she said. “I’m just feeling tense and sad. And maybe a little angry at the doctors for acting like that. They don’t know him. They have no right to talk to him like that. Like he’s . . . an old person at a nursing home.”
“They have to,” Chris said. “Because his brain has been damaged in the cerebral cortex.”
“Have one of these pickles,” Niko blurted out, brandishing a gherkin and then popping it into his mouth. “They’re good.”
“They look like severed dragon tonsils,” Ariela said.
Niko gagged.
“I’m having a grilled cheese, rye bread, no crust, white American cheese, grilled in extra-virgin olive oil,” Chris said, looking up from a sheet of paper filled with doodles and cross outs, and words crammed into and over and around each other.
Mrs. Bright tapped Ariela’s hand softly. “We’re not only here for Ben, we’re here for each other, so no need for an apology, ever.” She smiled at her son. “We’re all going through a lot.”
“I’m writing my sestina,” Chris said, “without my spreadsheet.”
“He’s using Excel to help with the meter,” Niko explained.
“Not the meter. That doesn’t make sense,” Chris said. “The construction.”
“Oh,” Ariela said. She tapped her fork and noticed for the first time that Ben’s father wasn’t with them. “Is Mr. Bright joining us?”
“No,” Mrs. Bright replied. “Not today.”
“These tonsils sure are amazing!” Niko said brightly.
Ariela glanced away. Niko was talking with his mouth full, and the green goop nauseated her. Chris was in his Chris-world: Mrs. Bright was trying too hard to keep things cheery. The conversation was like dispatches from another solar system, and no matter how hard she tried, nothing out of her own mouth was constructive. She tried to breathe deeply, but the air was nasty, like they were too near the bathroom door or the chef was cooking iguana for lunch. Everything in Northern California smelled funny, even the outside air, which had a strange spicy odor like fermented herbs. This neighborhood, this weather—balmy and bright in the middle of winter—it should have lifted her mood, but it added to a feeling of disjointedness, as if she were
on a movie set with a bunch of actors who had forgotten their lines. “Excuse me for a second, please,” she said.
She headed toward the women’s room, but the idea of another enclosed space made her feel ill. Instead she detoured to the front door and burst out onto the sidewalk.
Breathe.
She put her hand over her chest and felt her heart beating. Across the street was a stretch of neat, trendy shops, with neat, trendy cars parked at perfect-looking curbside parking meters. It all seemed so pristine, like a slice of SoHo swept clean of people and dirt, buffed to a shine, and put under a sunlamp. It was oddly comforting, but it didn’t stop her from wanting to sprint to the ocean and jump in while no one was looking.
Closing her eyes, she leaned against the wall and forced herself to take deep yoga breaths, to think about the visit, about Ben’s attempts to talk, about his eyes as he saw her.
Did he know who she was? It wasn’t clear. That was the most disturbing part.
“’Sup?” came Niko’s voice to her right.
“Claustrophobia,” she said, not bothering to open her eyes. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“I’m feeling a little off my game too,” he replied. “Mind if I join you?”
“Yes.”
He stayed put, but honestly she didn’t care. “Do you think he knew us?” he asked.
