Somebody, Please Tell Me Who I Am

by Harry Mazer

  “Are you becoming a cliché?” Niko asked.

  “No, I’m becoming a drunk,” she replied sweetly, coming back into the kitchen with two full glasses. “I recommend it highly. Take. Drink.”

  Niko didn’t like the direction of this conversation. “You seem angry.”

  “He’s my fiancé.”

  “He doesn’t have to be. You don’t act like you want that.”

  Ariela drank the rest of her glass and fell silent for a few seconds. “That is so unfair, Niko. How do you know what’s in my mind?”

  “I don’t. You never tell me.”

  “Why should I? Why should I have to say I love him to you? There. I love him, okay? Are those the words you wanted to hear? Those words aren’t for you. They’re for him and me. I’ve known it for as long as I can remember. I love him and I will never love anyone like that for the rest of my life. I just spent a year surrounded by some smart, kind, funny, talented, hot-looking guys and I was lonely and scared and hurting inside, and I was also five hundred and sixty-three miles away. So I could have done whatever I wanted. Even so, none of them was him. Even the best of them, even the guys that reminded me of him most, if you stacked them up side-by-side, everyone else was the CBS version. I could hear his voice talking to me, I knew what his reactions would be, I could smell him. Do you know what that feels like? No, you don’t. Right now I want to be with him more than anything in the world. And it’s hard for me to face something I’ve been denying all year long. He’s not him anymore. He’s gone, Niko.”

  “But—” Niko began.

  “And don’t give me your morbid little story about Uncle Petros again either, because that doesn’t apply here. Ben is not dead, and he’s not alive. He just isn’t. Do you understand? What am I supposed to do, Niko?”

  Her words were becoming crueler and crueler, and Niko was less willing to make excuses for her. She was flying out of orbit and something had to pull her back in.

  He realized she had opened up to him, and he owed her no less. The events of the year tumbled around inside his head, things he had and hadn’t shared with her. There was one biggie that he’d never dared to bring up.

  “He got in, you know,” Niko said.

  Ariela stared at him blankly. “Um, translate, please.”

  “Ben,” Niko replied. “He applied to Chase and got in.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “That’s how much he loved you,” Niko said. “He didn’t tell his mom or dad. He must have paid for the app himself. He hid the acceptance letter but his mom found it. I saw it.”

  “If you saw it,” Ariela said sharply, “what was on the envelope?”

  “A thumbs-up print. In the left-hand corner.”

  Ariela sank. She shook her head. “He never told me.”

  “That’s the way he was,” Niko said. “Is. He wanted to be with you.”

  “If he wanted to be with me,” Ariela said. “he wouldn’t have gone off to war! Must have been a tough decision—hmm, let me see, getting shot at in the Iraqi desert . . . college with Ariela . . . getting blown up . . . college with Ariela. . . . Hey, no-brainer!”

  “He was unsure. The assignment from the Army came before the acceptance, and he had no choice.”

  “You—you shithead!” Ariela leapt across the table and pounded Niko on the chest. “Why did you tell me this? You just want to make me miserable!”

  Niko grabbed her arms. “I don’t!”

  “Then what are you trying to do?”

  “I don’t know!”

  She collapsed into him, sobbing. “What are we going to do, Niko? What’s going to happen to him? Why doesn’t he recognize us? What’s going on in his head? Will he be whole again? Will he be happy?”

  Niko held her tight, rocking her back and forth. “I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “I feel so lonely,” she said. They sat there for a long, long time, listening to the duet of the appliances. Finally Ariela lifted her face to his. “I need . . . to lie down.”

  He nodded. He heard her breath synchronized with his, growing quicker, as she fell asleep on his shoulder.

  August 11

  Ben couldn’t sleep. People stared at him from all around the room. They were not real people. But they were laughing and smiling and making funny faces. He was among them, too. That made him feel cold and not sleepy. Why was he in those pictures?

  Everybody was a child. Women were girls and men were boys. Ben was a man, so he must have been a boy.

  Men remembered when they were boys. Dr. Larsen talked about this. He was born in a place called Båstad. It sounded funny, halfway between “Bostad” and “Boostad.” Dr. Larsen didn’t remember being born, but he did remember being little and running around with no shoes and going to a place called Mellbystrand in the summer and stepping on a piece of broken glass and watching a doctor stitch him up and then he knew he wanted to be a doctor when he was big.

  Did you have to remember what you wanted to be when you were big, back when you were little? What if you didn’t? Did that mean you couldn’t be anything?

  Ben thought about a movie he saw, where people’s brains were invaded. They couldn’t think or talk. What if they took your memory but left everything else? What if they took your memory first, and then the other things? What if they were here in the room, waiting for you to go to sleep?

  What if they were hiding behind the table full of pictures?

  “Go away!” His arm could make them go away. He lashed out with it. There was a noise that hurt his ears. And then the table was empty and he felt much, much better.

  “Ben?”

  Ben stopped breathing for a moment. But he knew whose voice it was. A light went on overhead and the woman who was his mother appeared at the top of the stairs. She had on a thick robe and was tying it with a belt.

  He wanted to stand up but when he moved his foot he stepped on something that gave him pain.

  “What were you shouting about?” She was walking down the stairs now. His toes felt warm, and he looked down to see that they were in a pool of blood. “What was that crashing noise? Oh my god, what did you do?”

  Now she was turning around and shouting “Frank.” Very loud. That was the man’s name.

  Ben watched her pick up the pictures that were on the floor. Some of them were made of glass and they were broken. The ones that were on the table.

  Who put them on the floor?

  Who else was down here?

  The woman was now touching his foot. It hurt! Who was she? What was she doing?

  Why was he here?

  He didn’t like it here. He wanted to be back with Dr. Larsen.

  “Ben? Are you all right?” the woman was asking.

  Now the man was running down the stairs. He was using a loud voice.

  Ben lay back on the bed. He closed his eyes and called as loud as he could. “Help . . . me!”

  November 25

  “You are looking fine, young man,” said Hayseed. “Wish I could walk as good as you. Hey, you still sing?”

  “Row, row, row your boat,” Ben warbled.

  Hayseed let out a loud whoop that made the cashier look. “This guy has not changed a bit!” he announced.

  Hayseed’s real name was Wade. He had been in Iraq, where they had been friends. Now he was visiting for two days, and Ben’s mother loved him. He always said everything was perfect, he gave toasts at every meal with funny jokes, he washed dishes, and he always asked if he could help. He was a gentleman. He talked funny, a little bit like Jed Clampett on TV. When Ben had told him that, Hayseed had burst out laughing and said that Ben had “not changed a bit.” He said that a lot. It felt nice.

  Now they were in the Waldbaum’s supermarket together. Hayseed had only one leg, but with his crutches he moved very fast. Ben moved slowly. He was pushing the cart. Ben’s father was waiting out in the minivan, because Hayseed had insisted that he and Ben go into the store together.

  “I’m supposed t
o ask if you remember what’s on the list,” Hayseed said. “It’s a mnemonic. A memory kind of thing.”

  Ben stopped walking and thought carefully. “Milk. Tea. Chicken legs. Spaghetti. Mustard . . .”

  “And . . . ?” Hayseed said.

  “Um . . .” Ben thought: You put milk in tea, you put chicken on top of spaghetti, you put mustard on . . . “Hot dogs.”

  “Yee-hah!” Hayseed shouted. “Okay, lieutenant, what shall I procure?”

  “Milk. Against back wall,” Ben said.

  “Which part? It’s a big wall, soldier.”

  Ben imagined the back wall. The milk was at the end of this aisle and just to the left. Hayseed was already hopping away. His shoulders were broad. He was wearing his uniform, crutches tucked under his arm.

  A mom wheeled a cart by him, with a little boy in the seat. He was fidgeting and squalling. A red doll fell out of the cart, but the mom didn’t see it. She just grabbed a can of tomato sauce and kept walking. No one noticed the doll.

  “Ten o’clock . . . ,” Ben said.

  “Copy,” Hayseed called over his shoulder.

  Ten o’clock, upper-left side of the clock, nine to the left, six behind you, three to the right, twelve straight ahead. Eyes moving. Eyes hurting. Heat. Scratchy throat.

  “Window,” Ben said. “Second floor.”

  “What?” Hayseed replied.

  The doll was growing larger.

  “Move, move, move!” Ben shouted. His throat was closing up. He was hot. The equipment was loading his shoulder down.

  “I’m tryin’!” Hayseed replied.

  Ben felt his breath quickening. Someone was running from window to window. He was carrying a rifle.

  “Moving below!”

  Hayseed was out of sight. Ben pulled the metal cart in front of him and dropped to the ground. He braced himself for the big noise, but it didn’t come. Someone was laughing. They were laughing at them.

  “Ajji ajji ajji hajj hajji . . .”

  Someone was coming out of the house. He was dressed in white. He had blood on his shirt. Something in his hand.

  A cell phone.

  Ben’s eyes widened. The doll was glowing bright. The doll was on fire.

  Ben turned and ran. He screamed. No one was moving. Everyone was going to die. He tripped, and things fell all around him. They were throwing tuna fish cans now. To slow them down. Where was Hayseed? Other people were running toward him. To attack him. They were surrounding him. They looked mad and scared. One of them was holding a cell phone. “The toy!” Ben shouted. “The toy!”

  He looked back to the little red blob on the floor.

  Tickle Me Elmo sat up and laughed.

  November 25

  “Is he awake?” Hayseed asked.

  Ben opened his eyes. He was in his room again. He saw Orion’s Belt. His mom and dad were hovering over him, as well as Ariela and Chris. Hayseed raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Well, good morning, Private. Welcome to La La Land.”

  “I had. Dream. Very bad,” Ben said.

  “The people at Waldbaum’s had a worse one,” Hayseed said. “You messed up the store pretty good.”

  “Um, we weren’t going to talk about that,” Ariela said.

  Hayseed shrugged. “Hell, I was proud of him.”

  “My arm hurts,” Ben said. He looked down and saw bruises up and down his left arm.

  “You had a flashback or something,” Ariela said, taking his hand. “But you’re okay now.”

  “Sounded like you were back in Iraq,” Hayseed said.

  Ben’s heart started beating. Everyone was talking at once. He tried to sit up, but Ariela was gently pushing him back into bed. His father was talking with Hayseed, telling him they needed to go upstairs to have a talk. Soon they were going upstairs, and so was his mom. Only Ariela and Chris remained. Chris had been sitting far away, so quiet that Ben hadn’t noticed him.

  “What happened?” Ben asked.

  Ariela knelt close to him. “I’m not sure if it’s good to talk about what just happened.”

  “I saw things,” Ben said.

  “You should rest,” Ariela replied.

  “Hayseed is missing a leg,” Ben said.

  “Yes, he is,” Ariela said. “Please. Sleep.”

  “He’s my friend. I knew him.”

  Ariela shuddered. Her voice got very low. “Ben, are you remembering things?”

  “I remember. Elmo. Elmo was in the store.” Now he was shaking too.

  “The doll,” Ariela said. “They found a doll on the floor in Waldbaum’s, yes.”

  “It’s bad,” Ben said. “It’s going to . . .”

  His mind saw a big, yellow village and people in white, then it saw nothing.

  “Going to what?” Ariela said.

  He didn’t want to answer. He didn’t answer.

  “Do you remember anything good, Ben?” Ariela said. “From before?”

  “No. Yes.”

  “Chris, please come here,” Ariela said.

  Chris stood stiffly from his chair. He was carrying a manila envelope. He knelt down next to Ben and put the envelope on his bed.

  Ariela put her arm around him. “Chris, please sit still with me. I know you don’t feel right, but you’re safe. Ben is going to look at you, okay?” She turned to Ben and said, “Would you please look at your brother? You don’t have to say anything. Just look at him.”

  “Okay,” Ben said. “Hi.”

  “I wrote something,” Chris said. “It’s in that envelope on the bed.”

  “What is it?” Ben asked.

  “A poem,” said Chris. “I wrote it by hand.”

  “He wrote it last year,” Ariela said. “But he didn’t show it to anybody. He didn’t want to. He wants to now.”

  “I started writing it when you were in Washington,” Chris said. “In Walter Reed Army Medical Center.”

  “I don’t remember,” Ben said.

  “You were in a coma,” Chris replied.

  Ariela held the sheet out to Ben. “Why don’t you read it?”

  “Did you? Read it?” Ben asked.

  “None of us have,” she replied.

  Ben tore open the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I used the VLOOKUP formula,” Chris said.

  Ben held the sheet into the light and read:

  My Brother

  A Sestina

  By Christopher Ian Bright

  We visit Ben whenever we please

  (At least we think it’s Ben!)

  I say, “My name is Chris.”

  So many miles we have come

  in order for him to hear

  us, to bring his memory back

  Week Two: We go back

  with a radio to please

  my brother. He can hear,

  so I say, “Hi, Ben!

  “When we go, you’ll come?

  “This is your brother Chris!”

  Third week for Chris.

  Mom rubs Ben’s back.

  But Ariela can’t come,

  although I begged, “Please!”

  Don’t worry, okay, Ben?

  (Do you really hear?)

  Hey, I hear

  you said “Chris”!!!

  You see, Ben,

  you’re coming back!

  So hurry, please,

  hurry and come!

  I’ll come.

  I’ll hear.

  So please,

  tell Chris!

  Talk back

  now, Ben.

  Ben,

  come

  back.

  Hear

  Chris,

  please.

  Ben, hear?

  Come, Chris.

  Back, please!

  © by Christopher Ian Bright.

  Ben looked at Chris, and then he looked at the poem again. “I love this,” he said.

  “Chris, this is beautiful,” Ariela said.

  “I’m writing a pantoum about baseball,” Chris said. “About th
e history of the slugging percentage.”

  “Really?” Ben said. “I would like to read it. This makes me feel. Proud.”

  “Proud?” Ariela said.

  Ben nodded. Pride was a thing Dr. Larsen talked about a lot. Being proud. He said it wasn’t something you knew, it was something you felt.

  He felt.

  Ariela leaned closer. “When you first came home in August, Ben, you said his name. You said ‘Chris.’ No one was telling you what to say.”

  Ben nodded. “Yes.”

  “You remembered him.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you haven’t been remembering other people. Not really.”

  He looked at her. He didn’t know whether to say yes or no.

  “How much do you remember about Chris?” Ariela continued. “Should I tell you stories about him, about stuff you and he did together?”

  “No stories,” Ben said.

  “We can talk about the nineteen eighty-six championship Mets,” Chris said. “You made a YouTube video setting the Bill Buckner first-base bobble to music, and I have seen it seven hundred and twenty-six times.”

  “Chris, can you stay quiet for . . .”—she looked at her watch—“. . . five minutes, and let your brother just look at you?”

  Chris sat silently, which she took for a yes.

  “Can you do that, Ben?” Ariela asked.

  “Yes.”

  Ben looked at his brother but Chris’s face got all unfocused. He blinked and he was in focus again. Ariela wiped something from his cheek. “Breathe and look, Ben. Breathe and look.”

  Ben blinked. He blinked again. He was seeing a baby. He was kissing that baby and playing with it. He was watching two grownups fight, and the baby was in the hospital and Ben was visiting. He was worried. He saw a dark spot on a wall, a crack. It was blood. A line of blood that went almost to the floor. He blinked again and Chris was staring at him and then suddenly Chris was skinnier and younger, and a great big bump had grown on his head. He kept blinking and saw Chris in a group of older people. And Chris wasn’t exactly happy but everyone else was, and not-exactly-happy Chris was working hard and writing his alphabet and sometimes making a sharp sound that was a laugh, and Ben felt relief because somehow he knew Chris would no longer have so many bumps on the head. It was a great, lucky thing to live in a place where strange and smart people cared about Chris. And then he blinked one too many times and he was thinking about boots and guns and people dressed in sheets, so he stopped blinking and thinking.