26.

but then again . . . no

I don’t know what I was expecting to happen when Dirk and I walked into my apartment, but nothing did. I guess I thought that being in my apartment might spark something. It didn’t. We simply appeared there. In the apartment, I looked at pictures of Dirk and me, and Cat and me, and Todd and me, and my family. Framed memories that meant nothing, that might as well have been someone else’s.

I’m not sure what I’d done to earn my release, considering I still wasn’t back to myself—whoever that was—but my family had spoken to my doctor, and doctor to psychologist, and all of them in turns to social worker, and it was decided for me (my vote wouldn’t have made any sense) that I should go home. Each time they’d asked, I’d correctly told them where I lived and where I bought groceries, where I took dry cleaning (although I didn’t remember the lady’s name or her daughter’s, or that there was a lady or a daughter) and where the post office was. I knew the ATM I used but not my PIN; I knew the nail salon but not what colors looked good on me; I knew how to get to work but had to be reminded what I did. In my mental landscape were gaps and dark patches like a thumb had been on the lens when the pictures were taken. I can’t express the strangeness of it all, but everyone has pictures like that—so maybe I don’t have to.

“So, this is your place,” Dirk instructed, just to fill up the quiet. “I cleaned it—well, I had it cleaned.”

“You did?” I asked, suddenly ashamed, wondering what kind of state I’d left it in. “Was it messy? Am I messy?”

“No,” he said, “just . . . you know. You hadn’t been here and I wanted you to come home to a clean apartment.”

“Thank you,” I said as I looked around. The place was clean. Spotless, in fact. And small. Incredibly small. I knew it was mine, and I didn’t recall thinking it was especially oppressive before. But through those clear, fresh, unschooled eyes . . . it was a damned cracker box. I looked at the bookshelf to see if anything I’d read would trigger a memory. It was then that I noticed there was a bird off in the corner.

“Hey!” I exclaimed. “Who is that?”

“That?” Dirk said, and I could almost have sworn it was the first time he noticed him too. “That’s . . . your bird.”

“I have a bird. Huh. What’s his name?”

“His name is Tweet . . . Tweetie. Tweetie . . . Bird.”

I walked to his cage. “Hi, Tweetie Bird,” I said. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you. I promise it’s not a reflection on you.” And in one of those instances that makes you wonder if animals really do understand more than they let on, right as I said that he pecked at his reflection in the little mirror in his cage. “Yes, that is a reflection of you.”

Dirk came up from behind me and put his arms around my waist. I felt my face get hot and wondered if I was blushing. He guided me over to my refrigerator and opened it.

“Stocked it full of all our favorites,” he said. Before I could open my mouth to thank him, he handed me a cell phone. “And . . . this is your new phone.”

“New phone . . . ?”

“We couldn’t find your cell phone anywhere on you after the accident, so I took the liberty of getting you a new one. It’s your same cell phone number. I programmed my phone number in there already so whenever you need anything . . . just press number two. The manufacturers put voice mail on number one. So I’m number two on your phone, but number one in your heart.”

“That is the sweetest thing . . .” I said.

And as if on cue, the new phone in my hand rang. I looked at Dirk, unsure of what was going on. Had he rigged it to ring at that second?

“I guess I should get that. I mean, it’s my phone right?” I flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Hi!” said the voice on the other end. “Are you home? It’s Travis. I thought I was going to come pick you up today. I guess they let you out a little early?”

“Yeah,” I said, and I started feeling clammy.

“Who is it?” Dirk asked. I started feeling very clammy.

“It’s Travis?” I said to Dirk as I covered the phone.

“That guy’s a dick! Hang up.”

“Um . . . can I call you back?” I said to Travis.

“Yeah, let me give you my work number.”

“Okay, let me get a pen,” I said, but then Dirk grabbed the phone out of my hand.

“She doesn’t need your number, bro. Don’t call here anymore.” And he flipped the phone shut. I was completely shocked and felt really bad for Travis.

“That wasn’t very nice, you know,” I said to Dirk.

“Nice? Baby, don’t you know who he is? That’s the guy that hit you with his car, and then he tries to, to bed you so you don’t go after him in court! We’re gonna sue him for everything he’s got. He’s bad news.”

Right then my mom knocked and then came in with a bag of groceries.

“Really? I had no idea,” I told Dirk.

“You had no idea about what?” she asked.

“That Travis hit me with a car,” I repeated.

“Oh, yes! Awful boy, that Travis!” she said. “We’re suing him, you know. Stay away from him.”

“Oh,” I said. He seemed nice, Travis, unlike most reckless drivers you meet. Not that I’d met many, or maybe I had—there was no way of knowing. And he said that we were . . . at least he insinuated that we were dating. No, he definitely said we were dating. Was he lying? Was he that conniving?

“No matter,” my mom went on, “I went grocery shopping! Dirk, honey, will you help me with these.”

“Of course, Mrs. Landau,” he said, “but I have to warn you, I had the same idea and the fridge is already pretty packed.” He grabbed the bags from her and placed them on the counter. “You look very nice in that sweater, by the way.” He seemed to know his way around my apartment and my family.

“Is he the best?” my mom asked me. “You hold on to this one, dear. He’s a keeper.” She’d also said something along those lines when I was in the hospital and I wondered, What was with the Dirk agenda? “Don’t mean to do a drive-by, but I have to run. I know you’re in good hands,” she said and then blew us a kiss as she walked out the door.

Dirk plopped himself down on my bed and patted the empty spot next to him for me to come sit. I did.

“How about a massage?” he asked.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I said, feeling uncomfortable enough as it was without any touching.

“I meant me,” he said, and then he pulled his sweatshirt over his head and lay facedown, shirtless on my bed.

“Oh!” I said, surprised, but then he rolled over and started laughing.

“I’m kidding! C’mon . . . lie back and let go. I’d tell you to forget all your cares, but you’re way ahead of me.”

Rather than argue, I just did as he said. I kept my shirt on, but I did lie facedown and let him rub my back. As nervous as I was, having this complete stranger/perfect boyfriend massage me, I somehow managed to let go and relax—and the next thing I knew my phone was ringing and Dirk was nowhere in sight.

“Hello?” I said.

“It’s Cat. I’m downstairs . . . Can you buzz me up?”

“Is Dirk still here?” I asked, looking around my apartment. It was too small for him to hide, so I realized he must have gone.

“Huh? I don’t know. Is he?” Cat said.

“No, sorry. I was just asleep . . . I got confused. I must have fallen asleep when he was giving me a massage. I hope I didn’t snore. Do you know if I snore?”

“Um, Jordy? I’m downstairs. Can you buzz me up?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. Yeah . . .” I said as I looked around for a buzzer. “Do you know how I do that?” I should have had a giant question mark tattooed on my forehead because that’s how I felt most of the time.

“It’s on the wall right outside your kitchen,” she said. “You know, that little hallway with the stove in it.”

When Cat walked in, she had that same look that everybody had since I woke up in the hospital. Like they were wearing five-pound earrings on only one side and they were weighing their heads down. They’d all say, “How are you?” with their tilted, feeling-sorry-for-me heads. I felt like a pity case.

“How are you?” she asked, as if on cue.

“I’m okay, I guess. I don’t know. How am I? Do I seem okay?”

“You know . . . you seem different than you were the first time you had amnesia.”

“Really?” I asked. “How so?”

“I don’t know. I guess somehow the last time you were still like . . . you. Not that you’re not you now, I mean, you’re you of course. But you seem more . . . I don’t know . . . lost this time. Do you feel more lost?”

“I don’t remember last time, so I can’t really answer that, but I certainly don’t feel found.”

“Your place is clean,” she said, looking around. Then she noticed something. “Oh my God, you still have Sneevil? Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said, concerned, feeling like I’d kept a library book out too long or I was wearing something that was totally out of fashion now. “What’s a Sneevil?”

“The bird. Sam’s bird.”

“Tweetie?” I asked.

“What-ie?” she said, scrunching up her entire forehead and cocking her head backward.

“Dirk said his name was Tweetie.”

“Figures. Dirk doesn’t know anything. That’s Samantha’s bird. Your sister?”

“Oh,” I said, wondering who was telling the truth. Every time Cat was around and Dirk was around, I seemed to get a different story. I didn’t know if I could trust her, and I still had a weird feeling about her and Dirk. She had such animosity toward him. It just didn’t make sense.

“You wanna go for a jog?” she asked.

“Did I used to jog?”

“Yeah,” she said. “With me.”

“Did I like it?”

“Not really,” she admitted.

“Well, that’s something then,” I said, relieved both that she wasn’t a total liar and that I wouldn’t have to jog. “Because going jogging right now sounds about as fun as a root canal. Maybe I remember that I hated jogging?”

“You did hate it,” she said with a shrug, “but you did it anyway. I was hoping for more of a speed-walk anyway . . .” She shot me a hopeful look but I still wasn’t interested in joining.

“No thanks,” I said apologetically.

“What can I do, honey? I feel helpless,” Cat said as she looked around for something to cheer me up.

“No, you’re great—just for hanging out with me. I’m this blob with no recollection of anything. How boring is that? And here you are.”

“You’re not a blob, and you’re not boring,” she said.

“I am. I’m like a vegetable. No, worse—something even more vapid. What’s lower than a vegetable? I’m tofu.”

“You’re not tofu. Stop it.”

“I am pure soy protein, not fit for a bagel.”

Cat got up and picked up a picture of her and Todd and me. “Listen, I was talking to Todd, who’s been really worried about you, and he and I came up with a great idea. We told Travis too, and he’s on board.”

“Travis?” I asked, confused once again.

“I know—can you believe it? Todd and Travis banded together. They bumped into each other at the hospital after you left today.”

“Okay, but Travis . . .”

“Listen—it’s genius,” she continued. “We want to have a party. For you. Like a This Is Your Life party. I think it’s a great idea. We’ll have everybody who was anybody to you there. Something is bound to trigger a memory.”

“And what if it doesn’t?” I asked.

“Then it’s a good excuse to have a party!” she answered.

“And Travis, he’s the guy who hit me with his car. Why is Todd talking to him? We’re in a lawsuit with him. He probably shouldn’t be— ”

“Jordan,” Cat interrupted. “I don’t know what you’re doing with Dirk again, but you really, really liked Travis.”

“Dirk is my boyfriend,” I said. “That’s what I’m doing with him. I don’t know what you have against him, and I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I have to tell you this makes me a little uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry,” Cat said, and chewed on her bottom lip. “It’s just . . . ugh. He is such a scumbag!”

“Was there something going on between you and Dirk?” I blurted.

“Jordan—I’m pregnant!” Cat exclaimed. “Remember?” Was that it?

“Is it Dirk’s?” I questioned. And judging from Cat’s hysterical laughter, I could surmise the answer was a definite no.

“That . . . is a good one,” she said, when she finally stopped laughing. “I promise you will meet Billy—my husband, who I love desperately—at your party. And then you will believe that I’m only looking out for my best friend. So, fine. I’ll leave this alone for now. Even though I know that you’d want to know that you basically hated Dirk and were completely smitten with Travis.”

I was starting to get a headache. “That’s not what Dirk says. Or my mom.”

“Okay. Fine. Well, can we do this party? I think it’s a great idea.”

“I —I don’t know. Can I think about it?”

“I guess . . .”

“Thanks, Cat,” I said, trying to swallow the exasperation so I didn’t get it all over her. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. This is just a lot to deal with and the idea of having a memory party is just a little . . . odd. But I know you’re just trying to help me and I totally appreciate it. I’m sure you were probably an amazing friend.”

“Well . . . naturally,” she said. “And not were . . . are. I am an amazing friend. And so are you.”

* * * * *

I was lying on my bed, frustrated that I had no tie to it. My bed in my apartment was supposed to be some sort of comfort, I thought, but it was just a piece of furniture in a room that was supposedly mine yet felt unfamiliar. No comfort. I felt like a visitor in my own apartment—in my own life, for that matter.

I wondered if there was any truth to what the doctor said—if maybe this was a result of some trauma, if I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. And what if I didn’t get my memory back? What was I supposed to do?

I didn’t know what it meant to be Jordan Landau. Was it up to me to piece it all together from what everybody told me or was I supposed to follow my instincts and make new choices, become someone else? Wasn’t that what Todd claimed I’d done? Faked it to reinvent myself?

I could understand the appeal of a clean slate and the freedom to do whatever I wanted with it to an extent, but completely losing my identity seemed like too harsh a punishment.

I was nobody. I didn’t have memories of the house in which I grew up, my family, my friends, my job. No first day of school or favorite teachers or birthday parties or scraped knees. I could talk on the phone, cook a meal, work a key in a lock, and use my credit card—well, I knew to present it anyway, though in the account’s current state, it didn’t get much farther than the presentation phase and then Daddy Cash had to step in. “How” was more or less okay. “Who” and “what” were a washout.

The phone rang—startling me, thankfully taking me out of my head.

“Hello?” I said, hesitant—not knowing if I would recognize the voice on the other end.

“Hey, it’s Travis.”

Travis. Another question mark. I knew the name now, and from his visit to the hospital, I knew he was bound up in some inscrutable romantic triangle—maybe it was a square or pentagon—but it was the same as having a book on my shelf that I didn’t remember reading or a piece of furniture that I didn’t remember buying. Dirk had one version and Cat had another. He was obviously persistent and wasn’t deterred by Dirk having hung up on him, so I figured I’d hear him out.

“Hi, Travis,” I said.

“How are you?”

“Okay, I guess. Just trying to remember things. Like if I liked living in a cold-weather state and if so why?”

“Good question. Feeling the cold?”

“Hating it,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s brutal today. Are we really discussing weather?” he asked, but I thought I could hear a smile through the phone.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s one of those immediate . . . relatable things. I don’t know what else I’m qualified to talk about. They did some exercises at the hospital where they held up pictures and asked me about them. We could do that . . . but probably not on the phone.”

“Yeah,” he said, and laughed. “Probably not.”

“Yeah . . .” I said back, and then there was a pause. He called me, so I guessed he had a reason.

“So . . . have you remembered things?” he asked hopefully. “People?”

“No,” I answered. “I wish. People are a missing link.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it’s hard. Can I say some things and see if they spark anything?”

“Sure,” I said.

“The Beacon?”

“No.”

“Longfellow?”

“Nope. Someone I know?”

“Not unless you’re about a hundred and fifty years old,” he said, “and I’m not sure that would be a turn-on. For me, at least. Let’s try . . . Thanksgiving? Going with me to crash strangers’ Thanksgivings?”

“No . . . did we do that?”

“Oh, yeah, we did,” he said, and then laughed as he remembered. “You were great.”

“This past Thanksgiving?”

“Yup.”

“I wasn’t with my family?” I asked.

“You were. You took a little break.”

“Huh,” I said, trying to keep up and failing. It got quiet again.

“Bumper cars?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. But at least this time it’s not my fault.”

“Yeah,” I said. “There seems to be some . . . stuff about that.”

“Jordan, it’s a mess. People are going to tell you all kinds of things . . . and we’d sort of had a fight. But—and I don’t want to confuse you—we were really happy before the stupid fight.”

“Okay,” I said, because I didn’t know how to respond to that.

“I know . . . it’s a lot to process and you’re probably getting different stories from everyone, but I care a lot about you. And there’s an explanation for everything that went down between us—at least my part.”

“You know,” I said, “I don’t remember what ‘went down,’ so I really don’t even know what we’re talking about.”

“I know,” he said. “I just had to say it. It had to be said.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.”

“Okay,” I said again.

“And if you think you want to see me, or you start to remember anything, I just want you to know that I’m not mad and I can explain—” He stopped himself. Then started again, “Never mind . . . I already said it. Okay, Jordan. Good night.”

“Good night, Travis.”

* * * * *

The next afternoon, Cat was back, and she was very pleased with herself because she had a plan. The plan? Try to get my memory back with negative association. Her reasoning was that during my first bout with amnesia—a phrase I don’t imagine gets used very often—she tried to help me by making my favorite foods, taking me to my favorite places, showing me pictures of good times past . . . and none of it worked.

She decided that we’d do the opposite this time. First stop: Elton John. She popped in the Greatest Hits CD and cued up “Your Song.”

“This is pretty,” I said. “What’s wrong with this song?”

“Wait for it . . .” was her response. We sat in silence, listening—and then at one point she stopped the CD. “There . . . did you hear it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “What was I listening for?”

“That line he said—‘If I were a sculptor . . . but then again . . . no.’”

“What about it?”

“It’s ridiculous. What is that? It’s always bugged us. You more than me, even. Did he change his mind mid-lyric? So why leave it in? It’s like a P.S. in an e-mail. Just move the damn cursor up and put it in the message.”

“I don’t know,” I said helplessly.

“Fine,” she said, and took out that CD and put another one in. And then another. And another. Nothing seemed familiar, but I will say that—even hearing them for what seemed like the first time—“Macarena” and “We Built This City” are two songs I don’t need to hear ever again.

When I finally got up the courage to ask that we stop the musical experiment, Cat willingly agreed and told me to grab my coat—we were leaving.

* * * * *

Cat had this knowing smile on her face when we walked into a bar called The Lounge.

“This is going to do it,” she said. “I can feel it.”

“Did I dislike bars?” I asked.

“This is a lounge.”

“Oh. Did I dislike lounges?”

“Not as a rule but sometimes. It’s not the lounge per se . . .” she said and then edged her way up to the bar and ordered us a couple drinks.

I took in the people at the lounge and noticed one girl in particular. She was sipping her drink while dancing—eyes locked on various guys at the bar, one by one. She’d sip and shimmy. If she didn’t get a smile or nod of encouragement, she’d move on to someone else. Her dancing had a clear message: If any of you gentlemen have an interest in taking me home tonight, I’m available and I’d love to show you my reverse cowgirl.

“Here,” Cat said as she thrust a drink with a leaf in it at me.

“Thanks,” I said, and took a sip.

Cat moved her face dangerously close to mine and cocked an eyebrow. If I didn’t think I knew better, I’d have thought maybe she wanted a kiss—but she was waiting for my reaction to the drink.

“Well?”

“It’s good. What is it?”

“It’s a mint julep. You hate it.”

“I do?” I asked, taking another sip, testing to see if maybe this sugary, minty confection wasn’t as tasty on the second sip. It was just as good as I’d remembered it from thirty seconds earlier. “I like it,” I said, feeling guilty.

“Well, so much for that,” Cat said disappointedly.

A few hours and three mint juleps later (mine being the only ones with alcohol due to her present condition), we found ourselves wandering (more like staggering in my case) through the Meatpacking District trying to hail a cab—not having much success.

“There’s one!” Cat shouted.

“That’s not a cab,” I corrected. “That’s a PT Cruiser. And it’s purple.”

“So it is,” Cat replied, squeezing my hand as we stumbled along.

Why did I know that a car wasn’t a taxi, but I had no memory of this sweet but oddly persistent woman who, when you took the almost-attempted kiss and furtive hand-holding into account, seemed to be another in my growing string of suitors? Several occupied and off-duty cabs passed us, so we decided to walk to the next avenue. On our minitour of the Meatpacking District, we passed what may have been a transvestite—what was definitely an impossibly tall woman with massive calves—two guys peeing—not on each other, thankfully, but still we didn’t need to see it—and a side of beef, literally.

“Yuck,” I said.

“That’s nasty,” Cat agreed, flipping her cell phone open. “Let’s call Todd. This is fun. We need Todd.”

“It’s late,” I said, too late.

“Todd, it’s us! Me and Jordy. We’re looking at a meat hook and thinking of yoooou!” Then she hung up. Machine, I guessed.

Finally, an empty cab was heading in our direction, but some girl in a parka was running for it.

“Hey!” Cat called out. ” Hey! That’s OUR cab! Get that cab—don’t let her steal it!” she yelled at me. But the woman in the parka got it.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but she was closer.”

“Great,” Cat answered. “Now, you can’t remember how to win a battle for a taxi.”

* * * * *

It had been a week since I was released from the hospital, and I didn’t remember much more than I had in those first dim moments of consciousness. I was warned about an uncertain recovery path, but without the library of memories to keep me occupied, impatience seemed to be my main occupation. I wandered aimlessly around my apartment, talking to the bird on occasion.

“This is my apartment,” I’d say, “but most of this doesn’t ring a bell.” And he’d look at me, then out the window, then across the room, just as clueless.

Another thing my feathered friend and I apparently did share was a landlord hostile to our presence there. The place wasn’t totally alien to me, but I did have a jarring sense that this wasn’t the kind of apartment I’d have chosen, had I been in my right mind. Apparently, I’d been a little short of punctual with the rent. Repeatedly. The credit card people could vouch for that. And there were other issues. In a series of error-ridden notes and letters, I was reminded that the bird was a “vialation,” rent was “well due,” “past overdue,” then “aggrievusly due,” then “payed in full—thank you Mrs. Landua.” Don’t be fooled: It turned out I wasn’t legally married, just legally under the care of Mrs. Judith Landau. I could figure that out later, I figured. For now, I’d take the happy inding.

I started going through all my things, hoping something would spark a memory. But nothing was jumping out at me. I stared at pictures of me and my friends, trying to re-create where we were when the pictures were taken, but everyone looked like a stranger to me. Including me.

Todd had come over several times, and it was clear to me why we were as close as we supposedly were. He was a really good guy who always made me laugh. Cat had stopped by two more times to apply new tactics in trying to help me get my memory back, but all her tricks and schemes were amounting to nothing—unless making my head spin counted.

It had been explained to me that I wasn’t terribly close to my family, so it surprised me when Samantha showed up at my apartment to see how I was feeling. She gave me a hug and really looked me in the eyes when she asked how I was doing. She seemed to care.

“I’m okay, I guess,” I said. “Not really. I just don’t know what to do with myself. I feel lost.”

“I owe you an apology,” she said.

“For what?”

“I was mean to you—before. When you had amnesia the first time. Do you remember anything from when you were staying with us at Mom’s?”

“No,” I said. And I wondered if I was trouble for them and why they didn’t want me to stay there this time.

“I didn’t believe you had amnesia. I thought you were faking it.”

This was interesting, considering Todd said I was faking it. “Was there a reason you thought that?”

“No, not really,” she said, picking things up and setting them down, “but I feel like I didn’t support you then and now you’re worse.”

“Samantha, I’m sure that isn’t the case.”

“You can call me Sam. It’s what you call me.”

“Sam,” I said, and smiled at her, trying to let her know that none of it was her fault. The bird started making noise, and Sam looked over at the cage. She looked guilty.

“Is that your bird?” I asked.

“Yeah, it is.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sneevil,” she said, and half shrugged in embarrassment. “Sneevil Knievel.”

“Huh,” I said, and got lost in thought, wondering why Dirk had said his name was Tweetie.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Oh, it’s okay. I like him. He keeps me company.”

“No, not about dumping the bird on you—which—I’m sorry for that too.” She got up and looked out my window. Then she went on not looking at me. “I’ve always been jealous of you. You’re smarter than me and you have a good job. And even though Mom and I have more in common, she respects you in a way that she doesn’t me. Even my father, who you’re not related to, likes you better.”

“I am sure that’s not true,” I said, walking over to her. “It’s not.”

“I know,” she said, as she cocked her head and sniffed back her humility. “But sometimes it felt that way.” I felt like I’d just gotten a glimpse into the dynamic that was our sisterly relationship, and it wasn’t pretty.

“Okay, then.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess I’ll go.”

“Okay,” I said, and then looked at the cage. “Do you want your bird back?”

“Um . . .” she said and exhaled, blowing her bangs off her forehead. “No, you can hang on to him for a little while.”

“Okay,” I said. “That’s fine.” I looked at Sneevil and wondered if she’d ever cared about him and how she even came to have him.

“Do you own anything besides Pumas?” Samantha said, so I turned to see what she meant and saw Todd at my door.

“Every time I think I missed out not having a little sister I’m reminded how blessed I truly was not to have any sisters. God forbid I ever end up with a satanic sibling like yourself,” he said to her.

“See ya, guys,” Sam said and made her way past him.

“Hi,” Todd said. “Is now an okay time?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “For . . . ?”

“Oh . . .” he stammered.

“Don’t tell me. I forgot something else . . . ? What now?”

“No, no,” he said. “I’m stopping by unsolicited. No worries.”

“Oh, phew,” I said. “Then, it’s as good a time as any.”

I wouldn’t recommend amnesia generally, but something about not remembering people made me see them with an intense clarity when they did poke their heads back into my life. Maybe it was because it felt like seeing them for the first time; maybe it was my mind playing catch-up in rebuilding impressions. Whatever the case, I drank in everything greedily—how they looked, spoke, and moved; what they did with their hands; how you could tell when they were listening and when they weren’t. And after seeing him exactly twice since the accident, I had a feeling Todd was different somehow as he leaned against the doorjamb.

“You coming in?” I asked.

He dropped his arms and looked at his feet, and for a second, I thought he was going to turn around and leave.

“That was an invitation,” I said. “Here, I’ll make it official. Please, come in.”

Still he stood, half smiling, awkwardly surveying the apartment’s interior, which didn’t take long. Sense of humor must be related to memory, because for the life of me, I couldn’t summon a single funny thing to lighten the mood.

“Todd, come in!”

Here he looked directly at me as if awaking and at last stepped into the room.

“That’s nice,” I said. “Is it new?”

“What?” he said quickly.

“Then again,” I mused, “I’ll be saying the same about everything I see people wearing.” And it occurred to me that amnesia might just have an advantage or two—for instance, a whole new wardrobe! (Or clarity with which to see the many blemishes in your current couture.)

But Todd regarded himself and his leather jacket, which was unscuffed and stiff and creaked a little as he walked.

“This? This I’ve had for . . . years. I don’t know. I fished it out.” He wandered around, looking at my candles and dried flower arrangements and plastic Buddhas, opening magazines and flipping through pages without reading anything. “You don’t think this is unusual, do you?”

I tried to guess at the reference. “No. Actually, most people seem to come in here and do the same thing—look around at my stuff, like they expect the loss of memory to have produced a total apartment makeover.” I picked up a John Deere keychain from a shelf. “Frankly, I’m not sure I’d have minded.”

“No, I mean me coming over here unannounced. I never come unannounced. But you don’t remember that.”

“You’re certainly welcome here. I’m not much company, not remembering anything about us, but they say that should get better over time.”

He leaned against the small kitchen table. “If it’s true that you don’t remember—and I’m not doubting that it’s true,” he said, though it sounded very much like he doubted it was true, “then is it true you don’t remember . . . you know . . .”

But I didn’t, so I gave him a look to say I didn’t.

“How it was between us?”

“Between you and me?” I asked.

“That would be us,” he said, standing up again and starting over his circuit of the place. He pointed a Buddha at me, and the Buddha’s upraised hands pointed at me too. “You and I were kind of together. You were kinda into me and I had a huge crush on you too. We were just at the point of moving beyond our friendship to something more.”

The crowd of suitors was getting thicker by the moment. It should have been a tremendous comfort, a jet-propelled ego boost, to have so many friendly, good-looking, put-together, and otherwise entirely suitable men interested in me, but although it sounds ungrateful, I wanted to close my eyes and wipe my mind clear of the whole mess. Despite the fact that I’d only started to make fresh etchings on that mind. So I sat down on the couch.

We were quiet for a while. I looked at Todd, and I figured out what seemed different about him. He was half smiling all the time, half leaning, half standing, half looking at me and half not. Half and half. In between. In the hospital, he’d moved quickly, forcefully, almost crazily. He always seemed to be on the verge of stumbling, then he’d catch himself. Laughing too loudly, frowning, sticking his tongue out. Now he seemed like a kid who knows he’s in trouble. I have to admit, though it was making me slightly uncomfortable, it was also somehow . . . cute. It was the type of thing that inspired adjectives like boyish and endearing. He sat down close to me and turned to face me.

“Jordan, if it’s true” (there with the “true” again), “if it’s true that you don’t remember, I thought maybe I could do something that would remind you.”

Without knowing exactly what this meant, I sensed something was up from the proximity. His knee was a thumb’s width from mine. And the silence. The gaps between us speaking were relatively quiet, but who picks out the silence and listens to it? I did then. I heard it chewing up the time.

He moved so that our knees were touching, and then his hand reached out and closed over mine. It trembled and felt slightly moist. Maybe a lifetime of confronting situations such as this is supposed to give you the instincts to deal with it. But nothing came to me. I was terrified, yes, but captivated too. I simply didn’t have any idea what to do in that slice of a second as he leaned slightly forward . . . inching his face closer to mine. Then he abruptly stopped himself.

“God,” he said. “My God.”

He bent forward, folding himself nearly in two and pulling me close, sweeping his arm around my shoulder and hugging me to him, his chin on my shoulder pressing down.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he said.

“I . . . don’t know?” I offered meekly.

“Wow,” he said, as he stood up and started to pace. “This will go down in history as the most loserish, creepy, scumbag thing I have ever done. You’ll be allowed to get mad at me for this. But don’t stay mad for too long.”

I didn’t know what he meant. “I’m sorry . . . What did you do?”

“Jesus,” he said and hesitated for a moment. “I just totally lied. That was all a lie. We’re not— We’re friends. Just friends. I’m so sorry this happened to you,” he said hoarsely. “I’m even more sorry that I tried to take advantage of the situation and I hope you forgive me. Oh my God, I hate myself.”

I was so surprised by it all, so uncomprehending, that for a moment I just held my arms out. Then I hugged him back.

He pushed away to face me, and his eyes were wet and the half smile was full. I began to cry.

“Oh, stop. It’s all right,” he said, shaking his head. “What’s between us will always be between us. You’ll see. It’ll come back. Or we’ll make it again.”

Todd. I wasn’t exactly sure who he was, but I was sure I’d like him forever.