Remind Me Again What Happened

by Joanna Luloff

  But Claire had done a lovely job putting this gathering together. The food was delicious; the cheese arranged just so on the plates she had found long ago at a thrift store in Allston. She had wrangled with some samosas, and the table was filled with other hints of her travels in India—some lentil patties, spinach and potatoes, and chicken that had become perhaps just a bit too blackened. I was impressed with all she had done (with Sophie’s help). When she had found some recipes tucked into one of her India journals, I had wondered if she would be able to pull all of this off. But the house smelled warm and wonderful and the food tasted even better.

  The back of my throat started to tighten. I still loved her, was amazed by her. She was always pushing against her own limitations and fears. She had always been that way. And she had always tried to take Charlie and me along with her in her relentless push forward and beyond. The past was something to build on, not dwell on, and here she was, trying to start from scratch. She couldn’t see it, but I could—she was still the same person she had always been. She might feel like a stranger in her own skin, but to me she was a continuation of who she’d always been—shimmering, fearless, proud, defiant Claire.

  All those years ago, the week she and Charlie prepared to leave for Vermont, she was rarely in the house. She knew how miserable I was, even though I was trying to hide it, and she must have sensed that bumping into me in the kitchen or on the back porch or in the living room would be a reminder of the absence soon to come. I think she was trying to prepare me in small ways for her—their—disappearance. I woke up in the morning to find them already off on some errand, a hastily scrawled note on the countertop asking me to meet them somewhere for dinner that night. That was another thing she arranged—no shared meals at our kitchen table. I never considered that she might have been protecting herself too. I wonder now whether she was trying to keep her eyes forward out of some kind of habit. She had trained herself not to look backward, and that was what our house had suddenly become.

  On a couple of these evenings, I did join them out in the city. We went to Chinatown for dumplings one night and traveled to Cambridge on another to watch Touch of Evil at the Brattle. But the other nights I stayed home, trying to get used to the quiet and stillness of the living room. I drank wine by myself and left for work early, only to find that Claire was already out and about, her notes left behind. Or I stayed late at work, making excuses with fictional deadlines or imaginary plans with colleagues.

  When the U-Haul appeared in front of our stoop, I forced myself to stay. I helped lug boxes of books out to the sidewalk. I dragged suitcases and two plants and a rocking chair onto the curb. I handed out water to the teenage boys Claire had hired to lift the heavier things, of which there were so few. Most of our belongings we had inherited from my parents. That old rocking chair is in the guest room where I’ve been sleeping now.

  When it came time for the truck, and with it Claire and Charlie, to pull away, Charlie grabbed both my hands and kissed me on the forehead. “You are my very best friend, Rach. You must come to visit soon because I can’t imagine us being parted for more than a day.” I had nothing to say, then, though my head was screaming. I didn’t cry, both to prove to myself that I was strong and to try to alleviate their guilt. Claire sat in the passenger seat of the truck, refusing to look at me. She had warned me that she was terrible at good-byes, and now I saw just how true it was. When Charlie climbed into the truck, she turned to me quickly and mouthed, “I love you,” behind the closed window. It was a warm day, but she had refused to open the window the whole time she sat there. I lifted my hand. I still hadn’t spoken a word to either of them. And off they went.

  Claire

  Here is my body on the floor. I can see the traces of dirt and crumbs wedged into the kitchen tiles. I thought I had cleaned this floor so thoroughly only a few hours ago. It smells of bleach and grease, and the ceramic feels cold against my neck. It is peaceful here on the floor, but I know I am being selfish because things are not at all right and I will be causing others worry. I can feel a pulsing in my neck, where my trach scar still cuts a line into my skin. When I feel that throbbing in my scar, I know that I am about to have a seizure or I know that I’ve just had one. I fear I have ruined Charlie’s birthday party again. I cannot feel the length of myself on the floor; I don’t know if my fists are clenched or if my palms are open to the ceiling. There is a faint pulsing in my knee, but I cannot tell you where my legs are in relation to the rest of me. Perhaps there is something twisted and contorted down there. I have no idea.

  The cold tiles press against my skull, and I can hear my own breathing. In and out, quiet and rhythmic. And there is my heart, beating its own rhythms against my breath. I am aware of myself on this floor and in this breathing body, but the kitchen is growing fuzzy, and there is no voice pushing out through my mouth, which I sense is open and gasping, and I feel ashamed. My eyes are open, but I can’t focus on anything beyond the crumbs on the floor. My eyes are open, but I can’t see properly, and I can’t close them, and this too must make me ugly.

  There is suddenly someone holding my wrists, and it is as if my skin has caught fire. I try to throw this presence off me, but I am being held now and there are hands on my head and I can feel others’ breath on my face and my body is on fire. There is a sharp sting of pain in my left knee—there is my leg!—and I kick, kick, kick, but they won’t let me go. And here, then, is Charlie’s voice. “Please, Claire. Come back. It’s all right. We’re here. You’re in the kitchen. I’m here. Rachel is here. Look at me, Claire. Please. Look at me.”

  Charlie’s voice. I hear him, but I can’t see him. I want to tell him that I’m on fire, that he must let go of me. But the hands grow tighter and I fear we are all growing desperate and frightened and I can’t tell them just to let me be. I’ll come back; it’s okay. I can hear you, just let go of me. I’m catching fire from your hands and your breath, and even your voice, Charlie, is hurting me. “Sophie, please, call an ambulance,” he says.

  And suddenly I can picture Sophie here beside me, her painted toes, and the dusting of flour that had speckled the hem of her skirt, and I want her to tell me the truth, to lean in close and push the others away. Sophie is cool to the touch and she is kind and she means me no harm and her voice is calling out the address to our home and she is scared; I hear it in her voice, and I want her to come to me so I can tell her not to be afraid—that I’m not frightened and she shouldn’t be either. This has all happened before. There will be calm after this; it is what we can look forward to. Just leave me on this floor and my body will cool and we can bring out the cake and sing our song to Charlie and none of this will matter anymore.

  Sophie, it doesn’t really matter to me if you’ve been in my house before, or if you know where the measuring cups are. I’m glad you know what Charlie’s favorite cake is. I like your ordered calm. I am jealous of it. It is easy to see why Charlie might love you. I am not angry. Just tell them to let me be. I am fine. In a few moments I will stand up and shake out my hair and we will all be a little embarrassed, but we can still salvage this party. It is still Charlie’s birthday and we haven’t lit the candles or eaten your delicious cake, Sophie.

  A few more moments, I promise, just let me lie here on this cool tile. I will count my breaths. One. Two. Three. And then I will be able to see all of you again. One. Two. Three. And I will gather myself up and we will all dim the lights and sing “Happy Birthday” to Charlie. One. Two. Three. Rachel on one side of me, Sophie on the other. And the three of us will sing to you, Charlie. We can salvage this party. Count with me. One. Two. Three.

  These are impossible things to write. I do not believe them myself. I have no real memory of being on that floor or interrupting Charlie’s party, no memory of what could possibly have been going through my mind. These notes are always approximations. I have a vague feeling of embarrassment and shame, but this, of course, could just be an aftershock. I listen to Rachel tell me about Charlie finding me
on the floor. She promises me that he kept the rest of the crowd at bay, that she helped him keep the guests in the living room so that they wouldn’t have to see me there, twitching on the floor. I can only imagine how ugly I look in these moments. My lips are raw and sore from where I bit them, bit them right through, in fact. Where on my body won’t I have stitches by the end of this year? And my tongue feels too big for my mouth, swollen and unruly, and I don’t feel like talking, so I’m writing instead, and this too feels useless, because all I have in the end are Rachel’s words and Charlie’s barely audible sighs.

  Charlie is angry because he thinks I was drinking and that’s what triggered the last seizure. Rachel told me this. Were you? she asked me, and I couldn’t be sure, even if I didn’t think that I had been, but I promised her that, no, I hadn’t had anything to drink, not even a little wine, because I knew that was what she wanted to be able to tell Charlie, and she didn’t want to have to be angry with me either. But who knows? Maybe I did have a sip or two because everyone else was and I don’t like the feeling of being on the outside all the time, like a child, with a glass of water in my hands, not even sparkling, because the bubbles can send me off into a coughing spasm. I am discombobulated. My throat isn’t even under my control these days, and instinctively I touch the scar on my neck, the lasting impression of my trach. These bumps on my body, scars and scrapes and the remnants of stitches, map my memories for me. Rachel sits in the chair across from my bed; the TV is on mute. She is letting me be for a while. She brought some of her own work to do. Charlie has gone out for a run. The hospital smells of overcooked vegetables and antibacterial soap and I can’t believe that I’ve dragged us all here again.

  Earlier, Rachel asked me what it feels like in my brain. “Tell me again, what do you remember?” she said. “Can you see our house? Can you see our intro to graduate research class? Can you see the day that Charlie moved in?” She leaned forward in her chair.

  I told her that I have a feeling for our house. I see yellows and plants and hear the sounds of an old radiator whining and clunking. The Green Line trolleys screeched periodically in front of the house. I think I remember that.

  “But can you remember specific days?” she asked me. “Conversations we had or arguments or birthday dinners?” Rachel was searching my face. She had brought her hands onto her lap, and her feet were tapping. For a moment she looked like a much younger version of herself, and I felt a quick flicker of memory. I wanted to give her something precise and concrete so that she might know how much our friendship is still embedded inside me, even if my memories are fleeting and faulty. And then a breath of memory came.

  “There was a woman, an old woman, who lived in the apartment next door. She used to steal our Sunday Times. We used to make Charlie get up so early on Sunday mornings to try to grab it before she had the chance, but he was often too late. Am I remembering that right?”

  Rachel flinched and her voice grew disappointed, even as she tried to smile at me. “Yes, I remember that. I’m sure Charlie does too. He used to be so grumpy about our ruining his Sunday laziness.” Rachel stared deep into my face. It was as though she were trying to catch me in a lie of some sort, and I suddenly felt interrogated.

  “Is there something you want me to remember, Rach? It seems like you’re trying to get at something.”

  She leaned back into her chair. “I can’t tell you what to remember, Claire. There is no point in that. You can’t just borrow someone else’s memories—they would be meaningless.”

  But I don’t agree with her. When Charlie is in one of his more patient moods, I’ll often ask him to describe things to me, and I do feel things stirring. An image forms like an old and discolored photograph. The edges are frayed and some of the details remain fuzzy, but I can see us at a table, playing Scrabble. Charlie’s mouth tastes like tea, and Rachel laughs with her head tossed back, all her lovely teeth exposed. She is the only one of the three of us with no cavities.

  “You don’t have any cavities,” I said without really knowing why.

  Rachel laughed. She had momentarily forgiven me, it seemed. “It’s true. I don’t.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t remember whatever it is you want me to, Rach. You could start, you know, and we can try to remember together.”

  Rachel smiled at me, and for a moment it looked as if she might cry. But she didn’t. Instead she took a sip of water and picked up her book again. “Forget it, Claire. I’m just being stupid.” And here her voice turned into forced lightness. “Maybe it’d be good for all of us if we just focus on right now and getting you out of here and home.” And just like that, the room grew quiet and I felt as though I should apologize again—for what, I’m not sure. And this might be the most frustrating thing of all: sometimes you know you have hurt someone and can’t even explain to yourself why or how.

  Rachel has grown still; when she works, she almost looks as if she is sleeping. What I’d like to tell her is that I do remember things. I do have memories of my mother in the hospital, dying slowly, my father graying next to her, his gaze fixed on her at all times. I can only imagine how much my mother must have hated that—watching his vigil, knowing she was the cause of his desperation and fear. I tried hard not to look at her. Like Rachel does now, I brought books and I doodled and I played solitaire on a table with wheels. I brought stuffed animals to sleep with my mother, to keep her company, after we’d leave for the house, when evening visiting hours were over. My mind is funny that way. If I go far enough into the past, everything is so clear; it’s like I’m watching a movie of my former self. But if you ask me about yesterday or last year or my wedding day, I will stare at you blankly and look to Rachel or Charlie to fill in the gaps. But there is my mother being lowered into the ground on a too-bright June morning, my father’s knuckles turning white in my hand. I thought he was going to break my fingers. I insisted on wearing a green dress because it was my mother’s favorite color, and though my aunt Sylvia argued with my father about the inappropriate color, saying that I should be dressed in black, I got my way because my father was too tired to fight and my aunt loved her brother too much to make the day any worse for him.

  I have told Charlie that if I die, I want to be cremated and no fuss is to be made. Instead everyone should just go out for a drink and tell stories and get drunk on my behalf. If I had my way, I’d ask Charlie and Rachel to bring my body up to the highest mountain here in Vermont and let the vultures eat me and scatter my remains on their flights. Just like the Zoroastrians. Charlie flinches when I mention any of this, but it seems worth talking about. He tells me that there aren’t any vultures in Vermont, but I’m not sure he’s right about that. Rachel humors me. You’re not going to die, she says, but if it makes you feel better, I promise we won’t bury you. And she also promises that they’ll get too drunk to stand and tell embarrassing stories about all three of us, because who would care about embarrassment at that point? I love Rachel. I hope she knows how much. It surprises me sometimes that she is so much stronger than Charlie. I don’t know if I ever understood that before, but I see it now.

  She is happy when things grow quiet. And sitting here in this room, me in a mismatched sweat suit that Charlie brought from home (I would never wear this!) and Rachel curled up, legs tucked under her, in that horrendous Naugahyde chair, I feel memories stirring in me of our old home and of slow, sluggish evenings together, our heads angled over books. There is a photograph of the two of us; it is fall and there is an orange-leaved tree you can see on the far side of the window. Rachel is looking down, pencil clenched in her mouth, and I am staring the camera full in the face, grimacing at the photographer, who I can only guess is Charlie. The image is framed in our study, and I look at it sometimes when I’m at the house, begging it to open up some of the hidden spaces of my memory. Here, in this hospital bed, am I remembering Rachel and me hunched over our books, or am I merely remembering a photograph and what I hoped it was telling me? Everything in my mind feels borrowed.
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  Can I explain how much guilt I feel in bringing Charlie and Rachel here, carving that worry into their faces? Those sighs of Charlie’s. And that look of orderly seriousness in Rachel’s expression. She writes everything down that the doctors say. She understands that they are changing my cocktail yet again. Upping this, lowering that. She helps Charlie organize my pillbox, which looks as though it should belong to a ninety-year-old who has suffered three heart attacks. I am ashamed of that box. Perhaps it is selfish of me, but if I had it my way, I would just up and leave. Take the box and my prescriptions and just go, leaving my footprints in the snow. I’d rather take the risk of travel and movement than have to stay here and watch what I’m doing to the two people I love (or loved—this, too, is hard to distinguish) the most in this, my life.

  I would leave a note, begging them not to worry, telling them that I knew what I was doing, that I’d be fine no matter what happened. I would tell them that we all have too much worry in our lives right now, that they should go back to their Claireless ways, spend more time with each other, go for walks and keep alcohol in the house, and take that stupid chair out of the shower (I never use it anyway). They are the only ones left who know me as I used to be, and even if I don’t entirely know who that past person is/was anymore myself, I’d rather them think of me not as a sick person but as someone smart and funny and brave. I want to be that person in the photograph, grimacing and defiant, an outsider on my own terms. I want out of this stupid bed. I want out of this life that no longer feels like my own. Charlie would find it all impossibly ungrateful and selfish. He wouldn’t see that I would be trying to give us all a gift.

  I feel like a child listening to grown-ups talk about serious matters. They whisper in front of me, as if to protect me. Charlie and Rachel wear the concerned looks of parents, and for a moment I allow myself the childish pleasure of obliviousness. The doctors are baffled; they don’t know why I keep having these seizures. They don’t know why the adjustments to my medications aren’t working. Something has been triggered, they say. Something that might always have been dormant inside me. An autoimmune disease, perhaps. All they know is that I continue to have inflammation in my brain, along my spinal cord.