He pressed his lips together, his face solemn. Then he opened and looked inside the bag. At first I thought he was going to cry and I steeled myself for it. But then his face broke into a grin and he pulled the tie out of the bag. Black-and-gray stripes, decidedly boring.
Exactly like the one I’d ruined for his Halloween costume.
“I didn’t remember, about the tie,” I said quickly, because I didn’t want him to get his hopes up. “When Jenny gave it to me, I couldn’t figure out what it meant. But now I know.”
“It’s perfect. Exactly the right gift,” Matt said, grinning as he tied it around his neck. “How does it look?”
He was dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, and so he looked ridiculous with the tie on, but I smiled. “It classes things up for sure.” Matt laughed and sat beside me on the bed, putting an arm around my shoulders. He kissed my temple as I leaned into him.
“We’re going to get through this, Lucy. You and me, together.”
I took the long end of his tie and held it out to the side, the way he’d described the costume. “Was it like this?” I asked.
“Pretty much,” he said. “And it was awesome.”
He kissed me then, and it was nice. Warm, comforting and starting to feel more normal every time.
21
I convinced myself there was no need to tell Matt I was going to meet Daniel again. I had decided it would be the last time and so told myself mentioning the meet up would only assign it more importance than it deserved. Matt had enough to worry about these days and I didn’t want to pile on anything else. But the real reason I didn’t tell Matt was because I knew it would hurt him. How could it not?
So, with all that swirling through my mind, I said nothing—again. Actually, worse, this time I flat-out lied. I told Matt I was meeting Jenny, because he asked if I wanted to go out for lunch and I needed an excuse. I felt rotten about the lie all morning and waffled between calling Daniel to cancel and telling Matt plans had changed and I could meet him for lunch, after all.
But as time ticked on I didn’t cancel on Daniel or admit the truth to Matt. Instead, I dressed carefully, straightened my hair and even spritzed on some perfume. And as I was getting my coat out of the front hall closet I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and immediately went back to the bedroom, put my hair in a ponytail and wet a washcloth to rub off the perfume. This was not some sort of romantic reunion, where I put my best face forward and hoped Daniel was intrigued enough to want to see me again. He was married, and not to me. It couldn’t be simpler than that.
* * *
Moonbean Coffee was busy when I arrived, but I managed to snag the same table as last time, near the window. I ordered a latte and tried to unwind the tangle of nerves in my stomach. I hadn’t realized how anxious I was to see Daniel again—maybe because I knew there was a chance I’d end up telling him everything, and I wasn’t sure where that would lead. Or where I hoped it might lead. Which instantly revved up my guilt, wrapped the anxiety ribbons tighter around my chest, because I couldn’t think about Daniel without also thinking of Matt.
I was also edgy about going back to work. I probably wasn’t ready—Matt was right—but I was impatient for things to normalize, and going to the office felt like a normal thing to do. So I would fumble my way through it and hope for the best. And anything seemed better than spending another week in our apartment, restless as I waited for something to happen, to change.
Five minutes passed, then fifteen. I checked my phone repeatedly, ordered another latte and a muffin. Waited some more. An hour later my coffee was half-drunk and cold, the muffin partially eaten, and Daniel still wasn’t there. And with a cold wave of humiliation I realized what had happened—Daniel wasn’t coming. He had forgotten all about me.
Now I understood when he said, “Same time next week?” hewasmerely being polite, and I had been a fool to assume it was a firm date. Maybe he had every intention to have coffee with me again, but as the week went on he forgot about it as the pressures and responsibilities of his own life flooded in. I thought back to our conversation at this very table, one week earlier. Had we agreed to this? Yes, I was sure we had.
But then a terrifying thought: What if my brain made up the whole thing? What if I had gone to sleep one night and my mind crafted this memory, like it had all the other ones of Daniel while I was in the coma? With shaking hands I tapped my phone on and went back through my calls.
Daniel London.Last Monday, and we’d talked according to my phone’s log for five minutes and forty-five seconds. I resisted the urge to ask the barista if she recognized me, and could only hope the coffee date with Daniel had in fact happened the way I remembered.
With a sigh and a few belly breaths, the shaking in my body subsided slightly. I felt confident the memories of running into Daniel at the bar and having coffee last week were real, but as for today’s meeting, who knew what the truth was. The flare of anger was swift, and I jammed my phone into my purse before standing up and hastily pulling on my coat. I hated this, all of it. I wished I could start over somewhere else, like someone in the witness protection program. I could create an entirely new identity, not dependent on anyone or anything that came before. Change my name, tell believable stories of a past I didn’t need to be corrected on. Because I wasn’t the same person I used to be, and it scared me to realize I didn’t know myself anymore.
* * *
While I waited for my appointment with Dr. Kay, I pulled out my notebook, opened it to a blank page and wrote the date, taking a few moments to capture my morning routine (laundry for work, review of my questions and answers for my appointment with Dr. Kay, meeting Daniel at Moonbean—he didn’t show). I had decided on my brisk walk to her office I would do this every day, morning and evening, to make it easier to track my memory and make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything critical. The fresh air had also done me good. I wasn’t as agitated as I had been in the coffee shop—agitation, I knew, could be a side effect from my head injury, but more likely it was a symptom of how out of control I felt about my life.
* * *
Dr. Kay’s office smelled like cinnamon and clementines and then I noticed the candle burning on the edge of her desk. Some sort of seasonal Bath & Body Works candle, probably a gift from a client over the holidays. The scent reminded me of Christmas Eve from when I was a kid, when my mom would make mulled wine to take in large flasks for our traditional caroling through our north Toronto neighborhood. I took a deep breath through my nose and settled into one of two chairs by the window.
“How are you, Lucy?” Dr. Kay asked, shutting the door behind her and setting the timer before joining me by the window.
“Good. I’m fine.” It came out automatically, because that’s what you say when people ask you how you are. But then I reminded myself Dr. Kay did want to know how I was, especially if I wasn’t fine. “Actually, scratch that. I’m okay but not great.”
She nodded, crossed one leg over her other knee, causing her dress pants to rise up slightly at the ankles. She was wearing pink socks with snowmen on them, which made me smile. I gestured to her socks. “I see you’re hanging on to the holiday spirit. Christmas-scented candles and snowmen socks in April. Nice.”
“It’s more about what’s clean in my drawer in the morning,” she said, laughing. “I get a lot of holiday-themed gifts, as you can imagine. But I’m fairly partial to that candle. And these socks.” She leaned forward, looked at her ankles. “They’re cozy and happy, don’t you think?”
“I do,” I said, shifting my coat on the arm of the chair so it wasn’t hanging over my lap.
