A Clean Slate

by Laura Caldwell

  She had confirmed for me the conclusion I’d been drawing all along, and it made the steady thump in my temples hurt all the more. When I hung up, I remembered the pain relievers in the cabinet. Maybe just one wouldn’t hurt. In the kitchen, I stared at that cabinet for a few seconds before I finally swung the door open, pushed past the cans of tuna and the bottles of Wellbutrin and found the one with the pain relievers. I didn’t recognize the name of the medication. I opened it and peered inside at the long blue pills that looked potent enough to tame a wild boar. Before I could analyze it too much, I shook one out and popped it in my mouth, taking a swallow from my water glass. I put the bottle in my purse.

  Next, I picked up the phone and called Cole. Fifteen minutes later, I was on the El, headed for his studio and the conversation I’d been dreading.

  “You are not quitting, you silly bitch!” Cole’s eyes flashed angrily at me, and he wielded his bulky black address book like a weapon, waving it around my head as I sat—slumped is probably a better word—in his beanbag chair.

  “I have to,” I said. “I’ve loved working with you. Mostly, anyway.” I tried a smile to lighten up the situation, but he only scowled deeper. “I just can’t live on this money.”

  “I’ll pay you more!” He said this with a pleased smile, as if he’d just discovered the cure for cancer.

  “Do you have any idea what I was making at Bartley Brothers? Do you know what I could probably make right now when I get back into the field?”

  He shook his head.

  I told him. It was a sum well into the six figures, a sum that was much less, I’m sure, than he’d been making in his heyday, but enough to be impressive just the same.

  “Well.” He looked troubled at this bit of information. “I could give you a few dollars more an hour,” he said pathetically.

  I did the math in my head. “That still would give me barely $24,000 a year. It’s not enough to buy a house in this city or even get a decent apartment.”

  “Bollocks!” He slammed the date book down on the butcher-block table.

  “It’s true. If you figure that a down payment would be at least—”

  “That’s not what I mean! You’ve got talent, real talent. Surely you know that.”

  I felt a flicker of pleasure at his compliment, but was immediately struck by the thought that ultimately it didn’t matter. Practically speaking, talent didn’t pay the bills; it didn’t bring you any closer to fulfilling your goals. You could be the best photographer in the world, and it wouldn’t mean you could make a living at it.

  “Look, Cole, I told you about my memory loss. It’s been a whirlwind for me since I realized it, and working with you has been the best part. I’ll never regret that, but I have to be realistic. I’m already over thirty, and I want to be married and have kids someday.” I thought about the way I’d tried, and was unable, to imagine myself pregnant that afternoon, and added, “I think.”

  “What does any of that have to do with your being a photographer? You can be a mommy and a photographer, too. If you just keep working at it, you could make a name for yourself.”

  “But you don’t know that I could ever make any money at it. I’d like to pretend that money doesn’t matter, but it does. I want other things in my life, too. I’ve always wanted a house somewhere and a nice car and nice things….” It sounded so lame and shallow to my own ears that I let my words die away.

  I brushed my bangs away from my damp forehead. The room was getting warm. Too warm.

  I thought about asking Cole to turn the heat down, but he spat out his next words. “Don’t you think I want that, too? Do you think I like living in the same place I work? Do you think I like having to struggle now when I used to have anything I wanted? Don’t you think I want to send money to Josie?”

  “Yes. No. I mean…” Again my voice failed. The strength of his emotions had startled me. Cole had always seemed the type who could live happily in the room over someone’s garage. I’d never really thought about what he’d had to give up after Manhattan.

  He crouched before me, taking one of my hands in his. Up close, I could see the lines etched around his eyes.

  “You’ve got something,” he said. “You’ve got an eye that takes most photographers years to develop. The way you look at a shot, it’s brilliant, totally new, totally you. If you keep working on it—”

  “Can you guarantee that I’ll make it someday?”

  “I think it’s a real possibility.”

  He was making this so much harder than it had to be. I wanted to quit and move on. I wanted to stop thinking about this job, about being a photographer; I wanted to stop thinking altogether. Once I got another analyst position, I could slip back into the comfortable confines of that day-to-day life, the one I knew so well, the one that came with enough money to let me do whatever I wanted. Of course, I would never stop taking pictures. I’d always have photography—it wasn’t like I was giving it up. But this job was a hobby, just as Ben had said.

  So why was it so hard to leave?

  “You don’t know that I’d make it on my own, Cole. No one can say if I’d ever make money at this, so don’t pretend you can.” My voice rose a little. It was too hot in here. It was time to go.

  “Kelly Kelly.” The way he said my name twice like that, in a tone so tender, made me feel like crying.

  This was embarrassing. I pushed myself awkwardly to my feet. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Don’t do this.” He rose so that we were both standing now.

  He was too close to me, then he seemed far away. I couldn’t get enough air. I was confused for a second. What was I doing here? And then in the next instant, I remembered that I’d quit, that I was leaving. I took a step, but one of my knees gave way and I staggered slightly before I righted myself.

  “Are you all right?” Cole dipped his head down, his face near mine, his eyes concerned. Too close again, and yet in the next instant he zoomed away from me, then back again, as if he were a human rubber band.

  I couldn’t breathe. I took a step back.

  What was I supposed to be doing?

  The light in the room became blindingly bright, then faded, then burst back to full strength. Something in my head started to pound. I felt a rise of nausea in my stomach.

  Finally, I thought faintly. I was getting my period. I wasn’t pregnant, after all.

  I welcomed a tiny wash of relief before my knees quickly buckled again. I felt the muscles of my face go slack, the tension in my shoulders loosen. I sank to the floor, past Cole’s arms, which shot out a second too late. I felt the side of my head strike his hardwood floor.

  26

  I heard the low murmur of whispered conversation. I tried to blink, but my lids felt glued to my eyes. I kept working on them until at last they opened a crack, revealing hazy light, a dark shape coming clearer.

  Laney, I realized. It was Laney. She was sitting next to me, trying to smile, but her eyes were worried and red.

  “Did I get my period?” I said. It was the first thing that came to mind.

  Laney’s eyes went wide. She made a weird-sounding laugh, then looked over her shoulder at someone standing behind her. That person nodded, said, “Yes,” and I felt utter joy at the confirmation that I was not having Sam’s baby. But then I realized how odd that was. Why was I asking her whether I’d gotten my own period? Why was Laney asking someone else? Who else would know but me?

  The questions made me tired, made my head hurt. My eyelids fell shut again like heavy cellar doors. I let my mind roam vaguely, a hazy search for context, but before I could set anything straight, I focused on the sound I’d just heard—“Yes”—and the figure behind Laney who’d said it. Although it was only one word, I recognized that voice from my dreams.

  I forced open my eyes again, forced myself to look at the figure, to focus. It was surprisingly difficult. I felt as if I was looking through binoculars that wouldn’t cooperate. I kept staring, willing my eyes and my brain to pla
y nice together, and finally, slowly, the figure came clearer. Tall, male, pale skin, and two freckles under his left eye. I made my own eyes open wider. It was him. I had a momentary fantasy that he was here to save me from something, maybe myself, but then he smiled, and I took in the whole of him—the broad shoulders, his rippled dark hair, his white lab coat. And that’s when something crystallized. Actually, that’s when many things—details, snapshots, flashes of feeling—rushed into my brain as if the dam that had been holding them back had finally given way, and yet none of them seemed in context or in the right order. I could see my hand shoving the key in my mailbox, the key refusing to budge; I could see Sam in my hotel bed; the image of Ben through my viewfinder; a doctor’s office; Ellen Geiger’s front room; the feel of me crying, and crying, Laney bringing me Chinese food.

  I opened my mouth. “What’s going on, Lane?”

  “You fell, sweetie.”

  “Where? Where did I fall?”

  “At Cole’s,” she said.

  “Oh.” I tried to make the images stop and focus there, on Cole’s studio, and I remembered quitting, the room being too hot. Cole’s face too close, the dizziness, the floor swooping up toward me. “Am I okay? Did I hurt myself?”

  I wriggled my toes under the sheet. They seemed to work all right, but my back felt creaky, my head ached. And beyond that, I had the feeling that something more was wrong. There was that scared look in Laney’s eyes, the look she could never hide from me.

  “The fall didn’t cause any injuries,” Laney said. “But…” She stopped and looked over her shoulder again at the two-freckled guy.

  “Can I have a moment alone with Kelly?” he said.

  “Oh, sure,” Laney said. She leaned toward me, over me, and that’s when I realized that I was lying down. “I’ll be right outside,” she said, brushing her fingers against my forehead.

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it. I won’t leave, you know?”

  “Sure. Thank you.” My voice sounded weird, formal.

  Laney stood, and I saw then that Cole was standing on the other side of her. He grinned at me. “Feel better, Kelly Kelly,” he said.

  They both turned away, and as they left the room, I could have sworn I saw him take her hand.

  The two-freckled man sat on the edge of my bed. Up close, he wasn’t quite as sexy as I’d made him out to be in my daydreams. The dark hair had shots of gray through it, which made me think of Sam, but his nose was thick and coarse, his ears jutting too far from his head.

  I scooted around on the bed, trying to find a comfortable sitting position, but my back still ached and my head hurt like hell. It was strange to be talking to this guy from my dreams while he was fully clothed and I was in a thin cotton gown.

  “Do you know your name?” he said.

  “Kelly McGraw.”

  “And do you know mine?”

  “Dr. Sinclair. Neurosurgeon.” I actually surprised myself with that last bit. The details, images, bits of information kept swirling round and round, waiting for me to catch them, to call upon them.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  I glanced around, seeing a tiny white TV extended from the ceiling on a steel arm, a pink plastic pitcher on a cart near my bed, a basket of daisies, a half-empty IV bag hanging from a steel stand. “I’d say a hospital.”

  A debilitating wave of terror rushed in as I spoke the words out loud, the realization hitting me at that instant. It was as if this fear had been waiting for me all along, like the dark form of a man waiting in the shadows.

  “And do you know why you’re here? Aside from the fall, I mean.”

  I waited a moment for the particles of information to form into whole concepts. Some were clearer than others, some too far away to reach, and the answer to his question was out of my grasp. I shook my head.

  “Kelly, do you remember seeing me in my office back in May?” Dr. Sinclair asked.

  May, May, May, I chanted in my head. The month of my birth, the month Ben had broken up with me, the month I’d been fired from Bartley Brothers. I had a flash then of Dr. Sinclair, my two-freckled man, sitting in a lab coat on a little stool, me above him, wearing only a sheet. No, it was a gown, similar to the one I had on now. But when was that?

  “I don’t know,” I said, and I felt tears well in my eyes.

  He patted me awkwardly on the arm. “Do you feel up to this conversation? It can wait until tomorrow.”

  How tempting it was to accept his offer. I could push away his questions, along with the ones of my own that were racing about in my mind, mixing with the jumble of random information. It felt familiar, somehow, the concept of putting off something that was simply too hard to deal with. And yet I sensed that I had already shoved too many matters far away. They wouldn’t stay there, obediently, any longer.

  I wiped at a tear that had dripped down my nose. “No. Please tell me.”

  “You were referred to me by Dr. Markup,” he said.

  “The headaches,” I said, suddenly remembering Dr. Markup’s office, the pounding pain in my brain that had brought me there. The headaches were intermittent and very brief at first, so that I could chalk them up to stress. Eventually, though, they’d stuck around longer, become nearly unbearable. They made dim light seem searingly bright and painful. They made me nauseous and anxious.

  “That’s right,” Dr. Sinclair said. “Do you remember the tests we did? What we found?”

  It was something horrible. I could sense that, and it seemed closer now, refusing to go away this time. “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “We diagnosed you with AVM. Arteriovenous malformation.”

  “Bleeding in the brain.” I spit out the phrase forcefully, like a game show contestant who has finally came up with the winning response.

  “You remember this now?”

  “A little. Not really.” Had I actually known this all along but been ignoring it? No. It was something I’d learned in the weeks after my horrid birthday, and I truly had forgotten it—maybe I wanted to forget it—starting that day at the dry cleaners.

  “Well,” Dr. Sinclair said, “an AVM is a very tricky condition. We don’t know why these bleeds start, nor do we truly know how to treat them.”

  I looked away from him, toward the tiny white TV on the arm high above my bed. I wished it was on, showing something inane like The Price Is Right or an infomercial for knives that cut through beer cans, something mundane and ordinary. But it was just a dusty gray screen, and I couldn’t stop the awareness that was growing in my mind, the processing. A few more errant pieces seemed to fall into place—my flashes of the two-freckled man, the whiteness surrounding him. The vision of myself in that bath. The way I’d passed out at Cole’s with my legs “flopping,” as he’d put it. The headaches, the queasy stomach. They’d all been memories or symptoms of my AVM, ones I’d been able to chalk up to hangovers or ignore altogether.

  Dr. Sinclair consulted something in his chart. “We treated you as far as we could back in May and June, and you were told to follow up with us in a few months. When we didn’t see you, we called and you said that you might go elsewhere for a second opinion. Did you do that?”

  “Not that I know of.” I got a vague image of myself in the month after my birthday, moving numbly through my old town house, trying to fathom the massive earthquake-like shift in my life. No job, no Ben, compounding the fact that there was no Dee, and then this hideously surreal news from Dr. Sinclair.

  “Your friend informs me that you’ve had some memory issues for the last month or so.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I sounded like Ellen Geiger.

  “Why didn’t you come to me when it happened?” Dr. Sinclair asked.

  I turned to him again. “Because I didn’t remember you.”

  “That makes sense.” He smiled, his teeth unnaturally white and ruler straight. He seemed to me like the kind of man who works very hard at his looks, who maybe isn’t as self-assured as the image he puts out to the world
, and that made me like him. He asked me all sorts of questions about the memory loss, rarely responding to my monosyllabic answers, just making notes, nodding encouragingly. I wished Laney was with me. I wished someone was here other than the two-freckled man and myself.

  There was a quiet moment while Dr. Sinclair flipped through the chart and wrote something one place, flipped again, wrote more.

  A nurse in pink scrubs came into the room. “Oops, sorry, Dr. Sinclair,” she said. “We’ve got lunch when she’s ready.” She gave me a cheery, condescending smile.

  He twisted around in the chair to see her. “Thank you, Shelly. I’ll let you know.” He twisted back to me. “Well, it seems that some of your memory has returned, and you’re very lucky in that respect.”

  I felt like laughing. Lucky? Instead I said, “But why did it leave to begin with?” The words came out loud, strained, and he looked startled. “Is it just the AVM or is it something else, something I did?” I wasn’t sure what I meant, but I felt culpable.

  He dropped his chart in his lap and leaned forward. “Your bleeding was rather widespread, so it’s very likely that the bleed is what caused your memory loss.”

  “But it could be something else.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “What else could it have been?”

  “In all likelihood, your medical condition is the reason you suffered the memory loss.” He pursed his lips. “Your friend Laney also tells me that you’ve experienced a great deal of emotional loss this year. Is that right?”

  “Yes, I lost my job and my boyfriend.”

  “And your sister some months before, correct?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s possible that stress played a role in your AVM, and your memory loss, as well,” he said. “Clinically speaking, stress has biophysical ramifications. It causes narrowing of the blood vessels and therefore can be a triggering event in AVM bleeds. Also, psychologically speaking, sometimes when the mind has too much to deal with, it can shut down or seal off a portion of itself. And yet it’s unlikely that anyone will ever be able to tell you for certain what the precise causes were.”