The Life Lucy Knew

“You’re sure? Okay, thanks.” He settled back onto the couch, turning on the television as though to prove everything was just fine. This was a perfectly normal morning for us.

I was relieved to find the mugs, as I remembered, lined up on one of the kitchen shelves. The faint sound of a newscaster’s voice made its way into our galley kitchen, even though Matt kept the volume low so as not to wake my parents. Matt was thoughtful. That I remembered well.

I glanced at the calendar tacked on the fridge while the coffee finished brewing. It was March already—it was still shocking to think I’d spent nearly all of February in a coma. So much time lost. Scanning the days, I saw Matt had a dentist appointment in two weeks and there was a thirtieth birthday party for someone named Jake (Jake from work?) at the end of the month. The rest of the days were blank, except for every Monday and Friday where someone—Matt, I assumed—had written in Lucy: Dr. Kay. Dr. Amanda Kay was the outpatient psychologist who was going to help me deal with the side effects of my head injury, with my “new normal.” I flipped ahead a few months, saw the many standing appointments and sighed wearily.

The coffeemaker beeped and I poured the hot liquid into the mugs, adding cream and a half teaspoon of sugar to both. It was only as I walked back into the living room that it occurred to me I wasn’t sure how Matt took his coffee.

Paralyzed by this realization, I stood still, the mugs clutched in my hands. I must have made Matt plenty of morning coffees over the past two years. But my memory failed to kick in, and when Matt shifted his gaze from the television to my statue-still stance, I gave up and asked, “How do you take your coffee?”

The wince was nearly imperceptible, but I caught it. “However you made it is fine,” he said. His eyes locked on mine as if hoping to convey this was the truth. But while I understood what he was trying to do, should have been grateful for it, the gesture made me angry.

“No, it isn’t fine,” I snapped. “Please tell me.”

He paused. “Black.”

I stared into the coffees, both of which were beige thanks to the pour of cream. “Right.” I turned back toward the kitchen and he was up a second later and following me.

“Honestly, I’m fine with however you made it. Lucy, wait.” He took the mugs with cream and sugar out of my hands and set them on the countertop. “It’s okay,” he said softly, pulling me to his chest. “This is all part of it. It’s okay.”

It should have been comforting, but our closeness felt unnatural. Matt was much taller than me (taller than Daniel) and we didn’t fit together easily. I wondered where I used to put my head when he hugged me—against his sternum, maybe? Because that was about where my cheek rested now. With Daniel it was between his neck and shoulder, right under his chin. “Don’t be upset,” Matt said again.

“I’m not upset.” I pressed my face into the soft fabric of his shirt, overcome by the hints of lemon and cedar and the warmth of him as I tried, unsuccessfully, to hide my crying. I didn’t remember being so emotional before my accident, but this head injury had left me with unruly and unpredictable mood swings. The doctors told me the moodiness would probably get better, but it might not, too. That had been their answer to everything. Your memory might resolve...or it might not. Your headaches will likely improve...but there’s a chance they won’t. Your brain is astonishing, will rewire as needed...but you may be left with a few holes, perhaps long-term. No one wanted to promise anything, which meant I also couldn’t count on anything. I was stuck waiting to see what happened along with everyone else.

I pulled back, stared into the face that was so familiar and yet not at all in this context. “I need to know these things, Matt. If I’m going to... I need to know—” I took a deep breath. “The truth. Even about how you take your coffee. It matters, okay?”

“Okay, Lucy.” He ran a thumb under my eyes before lifting the thin fabric of his shirt with his hand and using it to gently dry my cheeks. I was pretty sure he wanted to kiss me, his gaze lingering on my lips. My heart beat fast and the vertigo was back, making my socked feet unsteady under me, as though I was standing on a floating dock. Do I...want him to kiss me?

“You all right?” he asked, holding me tightly.

“Yes.” I wasn’t, and we both knew it, but he accepted this without argument. A moment later we separated, though I wasn’t sure who took a step back first. We leaned against the countertop, side by side, and Matt reached over for our coffees, handing me mine.

He grimaced after he swallowed his first sip, then laughed. “This is terrible.” I laughed, too, glad for the distraction.

“Here, let’s start over.” I took his mug and set it into the sink, pouring him a new coffee.

He smiled as he took it, leaning back again, though he didn’t drink it right away. He did say black, right? As I was about to clarify, he asked, “Did Daniel take his coffee with cream and sugar?”

Does, I almost said. But I swallowed the word back. Lie, I thought. Say you don’t know, can’t remember how Daniel takes his coffee, or anything else about your life with him. Don’t hurt Matt more than he’s already been hurt.

But I didn’t want to lie about something I knew for sure; because that list was shorter than the list of things I didn’t know.

I turned to look at him, but his eyes stayed downcast. “Yes.”

He nodded, staring straight ahead. “I need to go in for a meeting, so I’m going to shower,” he said, pushing off the counter’s edge. “Thanks again for this.” Matt held up the mug, but then rather than taking it with him, he set it in the sink, untouched beside the first mug.

“Sure,” I murmured a few seconds later, too late because he’d already left the room. I stayed in the kitchen because I wasn’t sure where else to go, thinking about Daniel and missing him enough there was a physical ache in my chest. I wondered where he was this morning—drinking his coffee with cream and sugar, completely unaware I believed he was my husband.

6 (#ue2eeafe9-4c50-556d-b0aa-9f348a12a6a6)

“Where’s Matt?” Mom asked as she emerged from the guest room, fastening one earring and then the other. She had a Ziploc of tea bags tucked under her arm.

“Getting ready for work.” I busied myself with stirring more sugar into a second cup of coffee, nodded toward the Ziploc bag now in her hands. “I have tea, you know.” But then I stopped stirring. Did I have tea? I had no idea actually.

“Oh, it’s fine. This is always in my purse,” she said. “How are you this morning, Lucy love?”

“Good. Better.” Except I made coffee the way Daniel takes it and I forgot I liked sleeping in Matt’s T-shirts and there’s no way I’m fooling anyone, especially myself.

“Good!” Mom handed me the tea and took two bobby pins out of her pocket, putting them in her mouth and pulling and twisting a front section of her long, silver-blond hair before fastening it with the pins. “Dad has a meeting with the Realtor this morning, so it’s you and me, kiddo. I thought we could have a girls’ day.”

“A Realtor?” I asked, my voice ratcheting up. “Why? Are you and dad selling the house?” While I hadn’t lived at home in nearly a decade, that house safely held my history and the thought of them selling it made me anxious.

Mom waved her hand around, her bangle bracelets jangling. “Of course not,” she said. “Just keeping our options open. So, what do you think about meeting Alexis for a late lunch?”

“Sure. Maybe,” I replied, though my plan was to stay put here at home until my memory fixed itself. “I’m a bit tired, though.”

Concern flitted across her face and she frowned. “Of course you are, sweetie. This has been quite a...um, transition.”

Dad came out of the bedroom, fastening the Rolex watch he wore daily that Mom had gifted him for his fiftieth birthday. Now nearing sixty, Dad looked a decade younger and still taught political science at the University of Toronto. He hated being asked when he planned to retire, like many of my parents’ friends had, because he claimed to have no intention of ever quitting teaching. “Those kids keep me young,” he would say, referring to his university students. “Retiring is the fast track to the grave.”

“I’m going to spend the day at the house,” he said to Mom and me. “Fix that leaky faucet in the master bathroom and touch up the paint in the front hall before tonight’s class.” Those certainly sounded like tasks one did to get a house ready to sell...

“Good. Yes,” Mom said. “I’ll stay here with Lucy.”

“You don’t have to, Mom. Stop fretting, okay? You’re wrinkling with all that frowning.”

Mom ran her fingers across her forehead as if trying to smooth the worry away, then smiled and patted my cheek. “Sweetheart, I am your mother and it’s my job to worry. And these things?” She pressed a finger to the space between her eyebrows and rubbed vigorously. “These are my well-earned love lines.”

“Barbara, have you eaten anything yet?” Dad asked, glancing at Mom’s insulin pump monitor clipped to the front of her leggings.

“I’m fine, Hugh,” Mom replied, annoyance coloring her tone. Dad held up a hand in surrender and I caught his eye, both of us thinking Mom’s blood sugar was probably low. She got snappy when it dropped.

But Mom recovered quickly, her smile bright and irritation seemingly gone as she took the tea back from me. “I’m going to put the kettle on and call Alexis, find out about lunch. Sound good?”

“Maybe breakfast first, Mom?”

“Oh, not you, too,” she muttered good-naturedly. “Fine. Breakfast. I’ll make my famous pancakes and bacon.” Then she saw the look on my face, which was probably a confusing mix of longing and disgust. “Oh, right, you’re not eating bacon.”

Along with the strangeness of forgetting Matt my boyfriend and remembering Daniel my husband, I also woke from the coma believing I was a vegetarian, among other small and apparently out-of-character changes. So even though bacon sounded appealing, a louder voice inside my head shouted I did not eat animals. Even ones disguised as delicious, crispy breakfast food.

“Okay, how about oatmeal? Does Matt like steel-cut?”

Another thing I had no idea about. I shrugged, feeling all at once useless like I had earlier with the coffee fiasco.

“I’m sure he does,” she said, her tone soothing. “Back in a jiffy.”

I sat beside Dad on the couch and he set a hand on my knee, patting it a couple of times. “So how are you feeling this morning, kiddo?” His graying, bushy eyebrows rose with the question. The skin on his arms seemed darker than normal, especially for the time of year. He and Mom weren’t the snowbird types—they liked the cold, and Dad often said shoveling kept his core and arms as strong as when he was thirty years younger.

“Good. Better.” My now-standard response. I gestured to his arms, bared from the biceps down because of his short-sleeved golf shirt. “Hey, why are you so tanned?”