“You look better,” Jenny said. She held up a white plastic bag, heavy with take-out food containers. “Lunch, as promised.”
The smell of whatever was in the bag wafted past me, and my stomach grumbled. I pulled her inside and set the bag on the kitchen table. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Feigning a last-minute headache relieved me of lunch with Mom and Alex, but the second I was alone I wished everyone would come back. It was too quiet and the silence meant I could ruminate on my situation without interruption. Thank goodness for Jenny and her bossy insistence she was coming over whether I wanted her to or not.
“What silverware do we need?” I asked.
“Way ahead of you.” Jenny opened her purse and pulled out two sets, rolled tightly in napkins. “I got you the chili. Beef chili.”
“Thanks.” I sighed. “I know I’m not actually a vegetarian, but I feel like I’m supposed to be.”
Jenny reached across the table to rub my arm before unrolling our silverware and flattening out the napkins.
“It was that documentary on Netflix, or that’s how I remember it. About how carnivores are ruining the planet. What’s it called?” I snapped my fingers, trying to bring the name to mind. “Something about knives...”
“Forks Over Knives,” Jenny said, prying the lid off her take-out container and stirring the golden orange soup.
“Yeah, Forks Over Knives. I can still picture all those tortured animals—God, even the chickens made me sad—but still, I want to eat meat.” I cringed, slapped a hand to my forehead.
“Look,” Jenny said, licking a drip of her soup from her thumb, “you’re a good and kind person who loves animals, even chickens, and it’s okay that you still want to eat them. You’re just a bit mixed-up. I’m the vegetarian.”
I rubbed my fingers deep into my temples. “Yes. You told me that.” It was Jenny who, after watching Forks Over Knives, had done a one-eighty two years ago—going from Friday night wings and a beef brisket sandwich obsession to stocking her fridge with vegan butter and cashew cheese overnight. I sighed. “I’m like a memory thief.”
“Luce, pace yourself. It could be like this for a while, right? And in the meantime,” she began, passing me a soft white dinner roll and a pat of melting butter, “my plan is to be like a battery pack for your memory. I’ll give you a boost whenever you need. We’ll get you sorted.”
“I think I need to make a list.” Testing my memory, I tried to recall where I kept the notepads and pens (hallway console drawer) and was encouraged to find them exactly where I remembered. With a deep breath I grabbed both and went back to the kitchen table, uncapping a pen. “I need to write down what I remember and then figure out whether it’s real or not.”
Jenny tugged the pad and pen out from under my hands and moved them over to her side of the table. “You know how I love lists,” she said. “But let’s eat first. Then we’ll work on it until we go cross-eyed. Deal?”
“Deal,” I replied, opening my lunch container and digging into my very meaty, guilt-inducing chili.
* * *
“Okay, where should we start?” Jenny asked. She had the notepad and pen on her lap but had yet to write anything down.
“I have no idea.” I was exhausted. A headache threatened and I felt too full from the chili, even though I’d eaten only half of it.
“Maybe with the stuff you know for sure?”
“Okay. Fine.” I sighed.
She raised an eyebrow, tapped the pen a few times against the blank page. “Tell me, without thinking too hard about it. What are you feeling about everything, right this second? One word.”
“Weird,” I replied. “It’s weird. Being here with Matt. Without...Daniel.”
“Weird,” she said, writing the word down in capped letters. Underlining it with a bold stroke of pen. “Yeah, that’s one word for it.” She grimaced, but in a comical, exaggerated way that made me laugh. I instantly felt better. It was easy with Jenny and I needed easy right now.
“So, I have to ask.” She clicked the end of the pen repeatedly. “Have you and Matt, well, since you’ve been home...you know?” She wiggled her eyebrows.
“No! God, Jenny, I just got home. I still can’t even—” The words caught in my throat. “Matt is my friend. I don’t... I can’t think about him like that.”
“Matt is your boyfriend,” she said, enunciating the syllables. She spoke more gently now. “He’s a good guy, Luce. Better than good actually.” She underlined the word weird again, and as I watched her, another word popped into my mind. Afraid. Abruptly I started crying.
“Oh, no. Lucy. I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t think.” Jenny shook her head, grabbed my hands, pulled me from the chair where I was sitting and tucked me in beside her on the couch. I rested my head on her shoulder and cried harder. “This is messed up.”
“Yes, it is.” My voice cracked and I wiped at my damp face, my hands coming away with streaks of the mascara I’d carefully applied before she arrived, trying to look like I had my shit together.
“I know Matt is supposed to be my boyfriend. Obviously.” I gestured around the room, where photos of us sat on top of bookshelves and on walls. His constant presence in this place I still couldn’t picture him in.
“But I don’t remember him that way. And the memories of... Daniel.” I practically whispered his name. “They’re vivid, Jenny. They feel so real to me I can’t believe they’re not. I remember everything—the engagement, living here together, getting married. Everyone has to think I’m crazy.”
“Stop it. No one thinks you’re crazy.”
“Well, I think I might be a bit crazy,” I said, my eyes widening. “How did all this happen from hitting my head? How can I remember marrying Daniel when we supposedly broke up years ago?”
“Have you gotten in touch yet? With Daniel?”
I shook my head and thought back to my earlier Facebook search, which I’d abandoned after Matt came into the living room. “Besides, even if I did, what would I say? ‘Hey, Daniel,’” I began, pretending to type on my phone. “‘Hope things are good with you, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, and, oh, hey. I remember our wedding day even though I’m apparently the only one who does. All the best!’” I let out a harsh laugh, and Jenny smiled gently.
“I can help if you want,” she said. “We’re Facebook friends. He’s gone back to school.” I was instantly jealous, Jenny knowing things about Daniel I didn’t. “Grad school.” She paused then and took a breath, her face clouding over briefly. “He’s actually pretty lame on social.”
“What was that look about?”
“What look?” she replied.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I narrowed my eyes. “Jenny, you promised me you wouldn’t keep things—”
“No. There’s nothing.” She sighed and then looked at me directly. Softened her voice. “But, Luce, you’re with Matt, right? And Daniel is—”
“Not my husband,” I mumbled, picking a piece of lint off my black sweater.
“Not your husband,” Jenny repeated.
“What happened with us?” I was asking myself as much as Jenny. But she seemed to think I was searching for an answer from her.
“You never talked about it, after you broke up,” she said with a shrug. “Just moved out, went back home with your parents for a bit. You wouldn’t give any details and I didn’t pry. Figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.
“And then six months later I started hearing about this cute strategy consultant with great hair who did triathlons and was obsessed with hockey and made you smile when you said his name, and you never mentioned Daniel again.”
“Until I woke up a few weeks ago, wondering why he wasn’t at the hospital and where my wedding ring was.” I gave a wry smile.
“Hey, I have something for you.” Jenny got up and reached into her purse. She handed me a gold-toned plastic bag. I looked inside, pulled out a black-and-gray-striped tie and a receipt. I stared at the tie, not understanding, before looking back at her.
“You bought this when we were out shopping the day of your accident.” I glanced back at the tie, fingered the silky fabric. “I know you don’t remember, but you bought it...for your anniversary.”
I turned the tie over and read the label, but it carried no meaning. “A tie?” My memory chugged as it tried to slide the right pieces in the right slots. “I bought a tie?”
Jenny laughed. “I told you it was lame. I mean, a tie for an anniversary gift? But you said he would get it. It was an inside joke and you were very pleased with yourself.”
“I bought this for my anniversary. With...” I nearly said “Daniel,” before reminding myself that, no, there was no anniversary with Daniel.
“It was for Matt,” she said, confirming the truth once again. “For your three-year anniversary.”