The Life Lucy Knew. Karma Brown
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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.
“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.