A small notepad rested on the table between us, and Matt was grinning.
“What’s up?” I asked, somewhat nervous about the eagerness with which he had pulled me over to the table and asked me to sit. Barely giving me a chance to get my coat off after I came in from my session with Dr. Kay, the sting of Daniel forgetting about our coffee date lingering. It was nearly dinnertime and I could smell something delicious wafting out of the kitchen. The table was set with two plates, silverware and water glasses, but there was also a long row of spoons and forks down its center, along with a dozen wineglasses.
Matt continued grinning but didn’t immediately answer my question. Or fill me in on why the table was set like this, or the reason his fingers tapped excitedly against the notepad’s cover. “When did you get home?” I asked.
It was only 6:05 p.m., and by the look and smell of things Matt had to have been home for at least a couple of hours. Consultants at Jameson Porter—especially those on partner track—typically didn’t leave the office by five o’clock, let alone earlier.
He shrugged. “I came home after lunch.” I saw his laptop sitting open but asleep on the coffee table and felt guilty about how much work likely lived behind that dark screen. He had taken so much time off these past two months and I couldn’t help but worry what that meant for his upcoming bid for partner.
Turning my attention back to Matt and his blatant excitement, I slowly unwrapped the scarf from my neck. “So, are you going to give me a clue here? What’s the occasion?”
“This,” he replied, holding up the notepad and then slapping it against the open palm of his other hand. I stared at the notepad, then at him, and my eyebrows rose with impatience.
“A notebook?”
“Not only a notebook,” he replied. “I’ve been doing some research—on memory—and it gave me an idea for how to get some of the missing pieces back.”
My heart sank as I took in his words. I had the distinct feeling I was about to be tested or something, and knew inevitably I would fail at whatever he had planned and we would both feel worse about everything for it.
But all I said was “Okay...”
“Okay.” Matt pulled his chair in and opened the notebook. He held up a bookmark that had been tucked into the notebook’s pages—it was made of a caramel-colored wood, with a leather toggle on its end and bicycles etched into its surface. “I know you won’t remember this, but you hate that I dog-ear pages of books. And you especially hate how I fold the bottom corner instead of the top.”
“I do?” I tried to recall this hate he spoke of but couldn’t. I did, however, remember the first morning I was back home and noting how Matt marked the spot in the book he was reading. While I had found it odd, I couldn’t remember any stronger emotion about it.
He nodded. “You do. So you got me this bookmark shortly after we moved in here.” He held it out to me and I ran my finger over the etched-in bicycles, along the stiff leather toggle strings. It had barely been used.
“I’ve tried,” Matt said, as though reading my thoughts. “But, well, old habits die hard.” He grinned and showed me the edge of the notebook, where I could see a dozen little corner folds along the bottom of the pages.
“Back to my research,” Matt began, setting his finger on a line of text on the first page of the now-open book. “I read up on memory loss and treatments, and it seems spontaneous recovery is a real thing. Lucy, you could get your memory back—all of it, even—one day, like, poof.” He made a fist near his head and then pulled it away, opening his fingers quickly as he did. I nodded, because this was not news. The doctors had mentioned spontaneous recovery, which was how they often handled amnesia in movie plot lines, the character getting a second whack to the head and remembering everything.
“Right,” I said, my tone guarded because I wanted to acknowledge the possibility but without too much enthusiasm. Clinging to something as unpredictable as spontaneous recovery wasn’t a good idea for either of us. Maybe it would happen, but more likely not. I—we—had to learn to live with present circumstances, including my false memories.
“I know it’s a long shot, don’t worry. But then I came across this thing called ‘reminiscence therapy,’ where we would talk about past experiences and use tangible cues—like scent and taste—to help trigger your natural recall.” Matt was animated, his words tumbling out. “We’ve already been doing that a bit, right? With the photos and your list. But this is more specific and not just visual, what I’m proposing we try.”
I nodded, but even though he told me not to, I worried about his excitement. Was concerned about the possible (probable?) disappointment. The photos had unveiled one memory, of the ski trip, but unfortunately it triggered the confabulation rather than the real thing.
“It’s not a quick fix and it may not work at all,” Matt continued, watching for my reaction. “But I thought maybe it was worth a try.”
I hesitated only briefly. “I’m game,” I said. “So how do we do this?”
“Great. Amazing.” Matt exhaled, ramping back up again. “I made a list, wrote down a few experiences to get us started.”
“Lists are good,” I said, smiling.
“Lists are good,” Matt replied. “I’ve also got props, like more photos and food. Oh, and wine.”
“Wine is also good.”
Matt smiled, and it went practically ear to ear. Please don’t let me disappoint him again.
“First thing is the infamous Halloween party. I know I already told you about it, but I think we’re supposed to talk about the experiences multiple times. Plus, I found a picture.” He shuffled through the photos on the table and put one on the top. My hair was whooshed to the side, as was Matt’s tie, and we did look as though we had been hit by a huge gust of wind. We also had that decidedly drunken look—heavy-lidded eyes and disheveled smiles—and were tangled into one another, me tucked into Matt’s arms, his chin resting on my head, our hands holding up a huge bottle of tequila.
Matt snapped his fingers and jumped up. “Hang on, almost forgot.” He disappeared into the kitchen for a minute and came back with a bottle of tequila—same brand as from the photo. He cracked the lid and poured the clear alcohol into two shot glasses and handed me a slice of lime. “Tequila requires lime. But don’t worry, I washed it.”
I had a strange feeling in my belly when I looked at the lime in my hand, but it was gone before I could figure out why. “Thanks,” I said, turning my attention back to Matt.
“So I already told you about that night when you saved my sorry ass from having no costume and we won Most Original and then got very drunk on that tequila right there.” He pointed to the picture. “But what I didn’t mention was that was one of the best nights of my life.” His voice softened, and I felt a lump grow in my throat, along with a twinge of jealousy at how intact his memory was. Matt handed me one of the shots of tequila and then took the other one, clinking his tiny glass to mine. “Bottoms up.”
We tossed back the tequila, which burned all the way down, and chased it with the slice of lime, the sourness puckering my lips.
Matt then proceeded to tell me the whole story again and I listened carefully, laughed and smiled and blushed in all the right places, and did two more tequila shots while staring at the photo. Still, nothing happened.
“It’s okay,” Matt said when I admitted it didn’t seem to be working. “Remember, this isn’t a quick fix, right? I’m grateful you’re even willing to try. I know this can’t be easy for you. Ready for the next thing?”
I nodded, warmed and bolstered by the tequila. “Ready. But I have a feeling I could end up very drunk tonight.” I glanced at the row of wineglasses. “This could get messy.”
“Don’t worry,” Matt said, smiling. “I’ll take good care of you.”
* * *
I did get drunk. Very drunk. There was no spontaneous recovery, but at least the process felt productive. Like we were doing something. And if nothing else, it reminded me I couldn’t wallow in what had happened to me. Moving forward was the best option, and with the sort of clarity one gets from consuming too many shots of tequila and a lot of good wine, I decided that was exactly what I was going to do. Put the past in the past, and embrace the future. I repeated the mantra a few times out loud, and soon Matt joined me, becoming the thing we said prior to doing yet another shot.
Matt took me through a handful of experiences. There was the walking ghost tour in Niagara-on-the-Lake, but we’d visited too many wineries prior to the tour and were so tipsy by the time it started we couldn’t stop giggling, distracting the tour guide and other guests. Then after I jumped from behind a door at one of the supposedly haunted houses and shouted, “Boo!” nearly giving a retiree from Ohio a heart attack, the unimpressed guide took us aside and suggested we might do better with a different sort of tour.
Matt liberally poured wine from what he said had been our favorite winery on that trip, and produced a photo of me making a scary face behind some unsuspecting white-haired tourist, the flash causing my face to go whitewashed and my eyes red. I laughed hard, choked a little on the wine but still couldn’t remember.
He also cooked a meal we’d enjoyed during a trip to Austin—a work trip for Matt but one I had apparently tagged along for to partake in a long weekend. The photo showed me standing in front of a food truck, my hands weighed down by two grocery bags each holding enough food for a small dinner party. Matt said we ordered one of everything, including four kinds of barbecue, blue cheese coleslaw and banana pudding for dessert. Tonight he’d made the coleslaw and pulled pork shoulder—now I knew what had smelled so delicious—even attempting to replicate the sauce, which he had tried to procure but was a well-kept secret and he hadn’t been able to sway the food truck’s owner to share it.
And with every memory Matt recounted, every experience we’d shared, every bite of food and sip of wine that had meant something to us, I hoped it would be the thing that did it. We ate until I thought I might burst and drank until things became blurry and beautifully uncomplicated, but still I remembered nothing.