Me Again (27 page)

Rebecca adjusted her head on her pillow to look more directly at me. “What things are you talking about? I don’t remember any. You’re always so smart when we talk or when you send me email.”

“It was before,” I said.

“Before what? Before I met you?”

I cleared my throat. “I mean before. You know, before my stroke.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t remember anything before then.”

“Let’s just say some memories came back to haunt me.”

Rebecca pulled her arm out from under my hand, and I was suddenly horrified, sure that I had unintentionally crossed some line by touching her. But then I saw that she was fumbling with a remote control device of some sort, and then her bed began to tilt upwards, bringing her into more of a seated position.

In a measured voice she said, “Jonathan, would you mind telling me what the hell you’re talking about?”

So I did.

At great length.

What started out as a halting admission of my apparent malfeasance with my former accounting coworker then cascaded into a description of my discovery at the storage warehouse, my subsequent effort to return the money, which in turn led me to recount how Mrs. Margolis revealed the existence of my long-lost sister. Soon I was replaying my graveyard conversation with my dad.

By the end I was crying. So was Rebecca. I know, some suicide-prevention counselor I would be.

“I’m sorry,” I said between sniffles. “I shouldn’t have... I mean... I don’t know why I unloaded all that on you. I just meant to tell you about the bad things I’ve done. The rest just sort of spilled out.”

Now Rebecca reached out to touch my hand. “Jonathan, you needed to say those things. And you promised you wouldn’t lie to me, so you were doing what you promised.” She patted my hand absently as she spoke. “I’m glad you told me. And I’m really sorry your sister died.”

This got a not-terribly-manly sob out of me before I reeled my emotions back under some semblance of control. “I’m sorry, too,” I said. “I miss her.”

“I know you do. But I’m glad you can remember her now.”

“Yeah,” I said, removing my glasses and wiping my eyes. “So am I. But it hurts.”

“I know.”

I dug into a packet of tissues I found sitting on the tray next to her bed. As I dried my cheeks, I thought back to the confession that had launched this emotional torrent. “So now you know I’m not as nice a guy as you thought.”

“Yes you are,” she said, her hand landing firmly on mine again. “Maybe
before
you weren’t. But now you are. I’ve seen how you are, and you’re nice.”

She paused, thinking. “Maybe when you lost your memory, you forgot how to
not
be nice.”

I smiled. Then I thought about some of my less than charitable sentiments towards people like Brandon. And Big Bob. “I don’t know about that,” I said, “but thanks.”

“Well, whatever you did to get all that money, you wouldn’t do it now, would you?”

“No. No way.”

“See? I know that about you. And you’ll figure out what to do with that money. I know you will. You’re smart.”

“Thanks.” I was both surprised and flattered to hear her echo Mrs. Margolis’s positive assessment of me.

Rebecca sniffed. “Now pass me the Kleenex.”

Before doing so, I took a few more for myself.

Chapter 32

A
FTER SOME UNCEREMONIOUS nose-blowing and eye-dabbing, our conversation resumed.

“Look,” I said, “I’m really sorry for venting like that. I mean, here you are in the hospital, and I’m talking your ear off about
my
problems. Real sensitive of me.”

Rebecca’s expression grew stern. “Would you please stop apologizing? You needed to talk about that stuff. And I bet you don’t have many people you can talk to.”

“It’s a short list,” I admitted.

“You and me both.”

“And you’re my favorite person to talk to.”

I hoped I wasn’t out of line saying this, but I was feeling that maybe I needed to quit worrying so much about what I did or didn’t say to her. She was showing herself to be a true friend, accepting me for what I was, good or bad. Still, her reply caught me off guard.

“You are, too.”

My surprise must have shown on my face.

Looking down, Rebecca said, “That’s probably not something a married woman is supposed to say to a man who’s not her husband.” Then she leveled her gaze at me and said, “But it’s true.”

We looked at each other for a long moment, while I mentally tried out and discarded possible replies to this disclosure.

A nurse saved me, bustling in to check on Rebecca. After examining and adjusting some of the medical apparatus to which Rebecca was attached, she turned to me.

“Sir, I’m going to need you to step outside for just a minute.”

Well acquainted with the indignities that can accompany a stay in the hospital, I stood up, smiling at Rebecca. “No problem. I’ll be in the hallway – just let me know when you’re all finished.”

Rebecca gave me a small smile as I was whisked out of the room.

While I loitered in the hallway outside Rebecca’s room, I noticed a man and woman in street clothes coming slowly down the corridor towards me, pushing a small child in a wheelchair. As they drew closer, I saw that they were about my age. Neither one was speaking; instead each of them simply stared straight ahead, as if at something a great distance away. The child – a little girl with hair a color I believe they call strawberry blonde – slumped in her chair, sound asleep under a pale blue blanket.

As my eyes drifted downward, I became aware of the unusual way the girl’s blanket fell, which made it apparent that she had no legs.

The couple passed by me without a glance, the only sound the squeaking of the wheelchair’s axles. The dark rings under their harrowed eyes suggested that their daughter was the only one of them who had slept in the last day or so.

Not wanting to stare, I looked down, and saw my own legs, skinny but intact. I resolved to be more thankful for the gifts I still had, reminded that we do not control how long those gifts may be in our possession.

This may seem uncharacteristically introspective of me, but I was finding the experience of being in a hospital due to health problems that were for a change not my own was causing a powerful shift in my perspective. I thought back to my parents’ first sight of me after I awoke from my coma: their horror and pain at seeing me incapacitated. And the nearly physical blow of seeing Rebecca looking like death yesterday. Emotions can definitely run high in these facilities. Spend a little time in a hospital fretting about somebody you care about, and you may find yourself waxing equally philosophical.

Eventually Rebecca’s nurse emerged from the room and gave me the all-clear. I walked back in to find Rebecca looking fresh and alert, her short, once sleep-tousled hair now more neatly arranged. She was sitting up, with a blue plastic covered dish on the tray in front of her.

“You look like you’re feeling better,” I said hopefully.

“A little,” she said, a trace of a smile emerging. Then she shot a dubious look at her tray, which appeared to be untouched. “They want me to try eating something, but I’m still not wild about the idea.”

“Well, you’re going to need to eat something eventually...”

“I know. And I will. Just maybe not right now.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “I’m not going to pressure you.”

“I know you won’t,” Rebecca said. “That’s one of the things I like about you. Everybody else is always trying to get me to... to do stuff. To change. To improve. To...”

“To be like you were before,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“Same here,” I said. “To be fair, I think they mean well. They know we each got sick, and they want us to get better.”

Rebecca nodded. “That’s what Bob is always saying. He wants me to
help me get better
.”

“Better is a funny word,” I mused.

Rebecca wrinkled her face. “How is it funny?”

I spoke slowly, forming my words deliberately as my thoughts crystallized. “Well, when you’re dealing with things you can cure, like an infection, or things you can accomplish, like learning to walk again,
better
is a positive thing. It’s a goal – something to aim for. So wanting to get better is good, at least in that situation.”

Rebecca looked at me expectantly, so I went on.

“But when you’re dealing with stuff you can’t necessarily fix, like me being able to count or remember certain things, or you being, you know...”

“Bubbly?” Rebecca said.

“Ah, yes – the dreaded B-word,” I said, trying without success to elicit a smile. “In situations like that, the idea of always trying to get better... well, it sort of implies that right now you’re not good enough.”

I shook my head. “That didn’t come out very well. What I mean is—"

“No, no – I understand,” Rebecca said. “And that’s exactly how it feels – like you’re not good enough, so you need to get better. You need to
be
better.” She sighed. “And that’s a lot of pressure to be under.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think they mean to make us feel that way. I mean, here in the hospital, that’s everybody’s job. To try to help people get better.”

“I know.”

“And our families,” I went on. “I guess it’s only natural for them to want us to be as healthy as possible.”

“But I do feel healthy,” Rebecca said. Looking at the IV in her hand, she added, “Well, I did, before yesterday. But you know what I mean.”

I nodded. “I do. And I feel pretty healthy, too.”

“But it’s like that’s still not good enough,” Rebecca said, shaking her head. “We’re still not the people we used to be. Neither of us. And I don’t think we ever can be, do you?”

I couldn’t lie to her. “Frankly, no.”

We sat together in silence, considering this. My thoughts drifted to the little girl I’d seen in the hallway.

“I think maybe it’s different when it’s not physical.”

“Maybe
what’s
different?” Rebecca said, confused by my sudden and seemingly disjointed remark.

“People’s expectations.”

Judging by Rebecca’s expression, I had not succeeded in clarifying my observation. I tried again.

“Suppose you were in an accident, and you lost a leg,” I said. Rebecca looked even more confused, but I plowed ahead. “Nobody’s going to tell you to
cheer up, think positive, and just stay focused on growing that leg back
.”

“But that’s because everybody knows legs don’t grow back,” Rebecca said, beginning to look a little exasperated with me. “They don’t, what’s the word – regenerate. People know that.”

“Exactly,” I said. “People know that. They...
accept
that. They don’t try to change that fact or pretend it didn’t happen. Instead, they take it as a given, and then look into what they can do
next
, now that the leg is gone. Maybe try a wheelchair. Or crutches. Or an artificial leg.”

“So what are you saying?”

I wrestled with my idea, trying to pin it down. “Maybe when it’s clearly a physical thing, it’s easier to accept. It’s somehow more... absolute. It’s certainly more obvious – if you’re missing a leg, nobody can deny it. But people can’t see the things that have changed in us. I mean, we’re not missing any arms or legs or anything.”

I paused, honing in on my target.

“But what they have seen is you and me making a lot of progress. We both had to learn to walk again – hell, I had to learn to do pretty much everything again – so it’s probably natural for them to expect us to eventually get back to the way we were. Back to being the people they remember when they look at you and me.”

I leaned forward, gripping the arms of my chair as I flailed away at the idea. “What I’m getting at is that maybe it’s hard for the people who care about us to accept that some of these changes in us are permanent. But you and I know that they are. We didn’t choose for this to happen, but there’s some stuff we simply can’t fix, any more than somebody could grow a new leg.”

I stood up, finally getting a grip on the point I was trying to make.

“I just think life has got to be about more than
fixing
ourselves. I mean, that’s really all we’ve been focusing on, but at some point I think we need to draw a line in the sand and say
this is who we are – take it or leave it
. And quit trying to rebuild ourselves into what we once were, because we both know that’s just not going to happen.”

I sat down, suddenly aware I had been raising my voice.

“At some point,” I said, “we’ve got to stop trying to restore our lives, and start actually living them. That means we have to quit focusing on being broken.”

I looked at her. “Rebecca, you are not damaged goods. Yes, you are a changed woman. I’m changed, too. But I think it’s time we start to look at that change as... well, as an opportunity, not a handicap. I mean, look at it this way – with no memory, I’ve basically got a clean slate to work with. And you – well, it’s sort of like you got a do-over, with a different personality this time. Like a... a new, revised version of you. And of me, too. So why don’t we explore that? Focus on who we
can
be, not who we used to be.”

I was on my feet again, but I didn’t recall standing up. Caught up in my own rhetoric, I began to pace the tiny patch of floor next to Rebecca’s bed, words flowing more quickly and urgently from me than they ever had before. I couldn’t stop them. So I didn’t try.

“I just think it’s time to start truly accepting who we are – just like you’d have to do if you lost a leg – and then say
okay, given that, what’s next
?”

At the foot of the bed, I turned to face Rebecca.

“But if I’m going to find out what’s next, I’ve got to start by being okay with the fact that no, I will never be the same as I used to be. And neither will you. But you’re smart, you’re a good person, and you’re beautiful, goddamn it. With your short hair and your little smile and your hoarse little voice and your incredible honesty. And any man who doesn’t see all that – who doesn’t
love
all that – well, he’s an idiot.” With that, I sat down heavily in the chair next to her bed.

I believe the term
a stunned silence
adequately describes the effect my tirade generated.

My mind and my heart were racing, trying to think of what to say next, while also trying to come to terms with what I was feeling.

Reflexively, I started to apologize for my outburst, but then I stopped myself. Because I realized that whatever else I might be, I wasn’t sorry. Embarrassed? Somewhat. Out of line? No doubt. A delusional fool? Quite possibly.

But I wasn’t sorry.

Rebecca’s eyes never left mine, and the prolonged silence was making me very uneasy. But I was bound and determined not to be the first to break this impromptu staredown.

Finally she spoke, in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible.

“You’re right.”

My heart leapt, but then my mind caught up with it. Right about what? I’d just unleashed a jumbled torrent of ideas and emotions in her direction. Which part was she agreeing with?

As if reading my mind, she said, “About everything.”

This time it was my turn to be stunned.

Her eyes unwavering, she went on.

“Instead of trying to change ourselves, we need to... to change how we think of ourselves.”

I nodded stupidly.

“And we need to get our families to understand that. To change how they think of us, too. I mean, so far it’s like you and I are only ones who’ve tried to get to know each other for who we are now, instead of who we used to be.”

Apparently still bereft of speech, I nodded again.

“But I don’t think...”

Rebecca stopped, the pause pulling me unconsciously forward in my chair like some unseen magnet.

“I don’t think,” she said again, her voice slightly stronger, “that I can be married to Bob anymore.”