The Life Lucy Knew

He looked at his arms, holding them out. “Am I?”

“Your arms are for sure,” I said. “Were you guys away somewhere?”

“No,” he replied. “Lots of walking outside lately. Plenty of good vitamin D sunshine this winter.”

I nodded and was about to ask the obvious—how one’s arms got tanned in minus-twenty-degree weather when coats were a requirement—when a pot clanged loudly from the kitchen, followed by a long string of curse words. “Mom okay today?”

“She’s fine,” he said. “You know how she gets when her sugar drops.” But then he looked pained, realizing his blunder.

“I know,” I said, nudging him with my shoulder. “I remember, Dad.”

He smiled, relieved. “She’ll be better after that oatmeal.”

“So, Mom says you’re meeting a Realtor this morning. What about?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. “Nothing for you to worry about, pumpkin.”

Telling someone not to worry about something was a great way to ensure she would do just that. “Dad, what’s going on?”

“Your mother and I are considering a few changes.”

“What sort of changes?” I asked.

Dad patted at my knee again. “There’s a house a few streets over your mother has had her eye on. So we thought we’d see what we could get for our place. The market is excellent right now. Quite excellent.”

“That’s it? You might move a few streets over? Why don’t you repaint the house or update the kitchen instead?”

Dad slapped his palms against his thighs as he stood. “All good ideas, sweet pea,” he replied. “I’d best get going. Tell your mom I’ll call her after the meeting.” He leaned over to kiss my cheek, told me not to bother getting up.

“Go easy on yourself and remember what the doctor said. This is going to be a long process. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“I know.” I smiled at the pithy remark he was so fond of. “I’ll take it easy. Promise.”

As he left and the front door clicked shut behind him, I felt a vibration from inside my sweatshirt pocket. Thanks to the lingering effects from the concussion, I was supposed to be “screen free” but had so far been noncompliant. Like many in my generation, living without my phone felt akin to going through life blindfolded.

The vibration signaled a text from my sister: all caps and begging me to take away our mother’s phone. Obviously Mom had called Alex about lunch, my sister picking up only because she thought it might be about me, and was now holding her hostage with rambling chitchat. Our mother was not good at taking cues someone wanted off the phone.

One might think Mom and Alexis would get along brilliantly, both of them free-spirited and artistically minded—Mom had been a high school art teacher, who now dabbled with acrylic classes out of her home studio. But there had been plenty of explosive arguments between them over the years, the similarities not enough to dispel the oil and water quality of their relationship. I quickly texted Alex back, Be nice, and then clicked through to my email.

A few Welcome home! Hope you’re doing great. We miss you! emails from my team at Jameson Porter, and one from Brooke Ingram, my second in command and closest work friend (outside of Matt). She had sent me a card in the hospital that read “At least it’s not syphilis. Get well soon,” which had made me laugh hard enough to cry and told you everything you needed to know about Brooke. Today’s email was a running checklist of outstanding communications projects, which I’d asked her to send daily to keep me in the loop for when I went back to work.

Of course, like everyone outside of the doctors, my family, Matt and my best friend, Jenny, Brooke didn’t know about my memory lapses. Matt and I had agreed to keep it quiet, hoping things might reset themselves soon and it would be a nonissue.

Knowing I probably had only minutes until the oatmeal was ready and Mom—or Matt—busted me for being on my phone, I clicked on the Facebook icon. Twenty-six unread messages. I didn’t have time to deal with the messages or my bloated timeline, nor was I interested to see all those picture-perfect posts when my life felt like anything but.

Taking a deep breath, I glanced nervously toward the kitchen and then the bedroom before typing into the search box. I had almost done this a dozen times already but had so far held back because I knew it wouldn’t help things. But today...well, the urge was too strong to ignore this time.

A handful of names filled my screen, and I scanned the first few until I saw him. Daniel London.

The picture was tiny, but I recognized him immediately. My finger hovered over the “add friend” button, but then the bedroom door opened and I jumped, my phone dropping between the couch cushions. I scrambled to pick it up again, quickly closing Daniel’s Facebook page, which illuminated my screen.

“Everything okay?” Matt asked. Black. The thought popped into my mind. Matt takes his coffee black. Try to remember.

“Yes, yes,” I replied, feeling as though I had Mexican jumping beans inside my belly. “Alex texted. Mom’s making us oatmeal. Steel-cut.”

“Sorry I have to leave. I love oatmeal,” he said as he tightened his tie. I had the urge to write these things down: black coffee, likes oatmeal. “Going to say bye to your mom.”

“Matt?” I rose quickly onto my knees and grasped the back of the couch with both hands so I was facing him. He was only a foot away and close enough I could touch him if I wanted to.

“Yeah?”

Looking into his face, which carried the hope that I might say something revolutionary (like, I remember you now! I remember us!), I had the feeling he wanted to reach for me but wasn’t going to, because he wasn’t sure what I wanted.

I paused, regretting the urgency with which I had said his name. I was quite aware anything I said now would be insufficient, but I pressed on regardless. “Thanks for sleeping here. On the couch, I mean. Last night.” It was anticlimactic, and Matt was unsurprisingly deflated by my words.

“No problem,” he finally said before heading into the kitchen. I watched him go, then sank back down onto the couch.

No problem. I wished it were that simple.

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

“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.”