Somebody, Please Tell Me Who I Am Page 8

  “Do you?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Niko said. “Of course. Yes. I think.” He paused. “Maybe not.”

  “What if doesn’t remember us?”

  Niko sighed. “He will. I think that kind of thing is hardwired. It’s got to be. But even if it isn’t, he’s still the same guy, right? Memory is like a sculpture that gets messed up. The rock is still there. You can just chip away and make another sculpture with what remains, and it’ll be just as good. Even better.”

  “But the rock is smaller,” Ariela said.

  “Well, it’s not a perfect metaphor,” Niko replied. “Listen, there was something I needed to tell you. About what you brought up in there. Ben’s parents. They haven’t been together for a few weeks. You may have noticed her reaction to your question.”

  Ariela’s eyes sprang open. “They’re divorcing?”

  “Just chilling for now. Things haven’t been great between them. She’s living in their friend’s garage apartment and he’s staying at a hotel in San Jose.”

  “Oh my god. But they’re . . .”

  “Perfect. I know. Guess things change.” He shrugged. “Well, don’t tell her I told you. She’ll probably tell you soon enough. Just wanted you to know what she’s going through, okay?”

  He turned to go back inside, and Ariela followed, numb, thinking about a house full of humor and music and thoughtful conversation. About a place that always represented comfort and love. About four people she’d begun to think of as family.

  About the world spinning aimlessly in space.

  March 12

  Anchorman was funny. He laughed a lot. So he filled in that line. Dr. Larsen was going to come soon. He would be very happy to see a new word.

  Ben got out of bed and stood. He felt dizzy, so he grabbed hold of his walker. He pushed it forward and began to walk. The walker scraped against the floor and made a creaky noise.

  “Ben, where are we going?” Nurse Harold came into the room. He had very thick glasses that made his eyes always look surprised. He was also going bald. He was always asking questions, too, even when the answer was obvious. Like now. He was going walking.

  “Walking,” Ben said.

  “I’ll help you,” Nurse Harold said. “Where would you like to go?”

  Only one place he could be going. He went there a lot. There wasn’t much choice. It was bed, bathroom, bed, bathroom. But Harold always wanted him to talk. He was always trying to get Ben to do that.

  Ben focused on Harold’s face. His features were bubbling in and out. “To the. Home. I need unlock. White what ashnur.”

  Harold nodded. “You have to make pee pee. Very good, Ben. Let’s go.”

  He let Harold help him. He needed Harold’s help. He kept trying to walk to the bathroom by himself, but it was too hard. Soon he would be able to in the night when Harold wasn’t working and then just leave it there. And when Harold came back he would tell him to look! And Harold would say, Did somebody help you? Then Harold would flush the toilet and say that the night people were so lazy. But Ben would tell him, I did it myself! But that was not happening today. Ben was weak. He hated feeling weak. Maybe Harold knew when he would be better. Ben turned to ask him. “I hate feeling. Better. When is bathroom.”

  Nurse Harold smiled. “Almost there.”

  Ben felt angry. Sometimes Harold understood, but sometimes he was just like the others. The people answered questions Ben didn’t ask, they nodded and pretended to understand. They did things Ben told them not to do. They asked Ben to repeat himself. Ben would say the exact same thing, the exact same way—and they’d act like he said something different. Sometimes they’d get his meaning. Sometimes they’d laugh, like he told a joke. Sometimes they’d keep asking him until they got bored. All this, even though he never changed a word.

  He reached the bathroom and stood over the toilet, fumbling with the folds of his robe.

  “Uh-uh-uh, not yet, soldier.” Nurse Harold began turning him around slowly. “You have to sit. Come on now, don’t let go. Keep it in. Turn around and sit.”

  Ben did as he was told, and Harold kept talking. “The Mets swept a doubleheader today, three to one and twelve to ten. Not exactly a pitcher’s duel, that last one.”

  Harold loved baseball. He kept Ben’s TV tuned to it. The images all moved around so fast. Just when you focused on one guy, you’d see someone else. It made Ben feel dizzy. He had to close his eyes. He’d say turn it off, but most of the time no one listened.

  Harold was starting to lift him back up, but Ben wasn’t finished. So he said so: “I’m navigating.”

  “Excuse me?” Harold asked.

  He couldn’t understand I’m not finished? “At the back of the water.”

  “Okay, so let’s get you to bed, then. Upsy daisy!”

  Ben repeated himself once more, louder. Sometimes he thought Harold was doing this on purpose. “I’m in the form of it!”

  “What? I don’t understand you, Ben!” Harold said.

  I understand everything YOU say. “I crab it. Green. And go away!”

  He wasn’t letting go.

  Ben pulled his arm away. Harold’s hand sprang back and yanked out an IV needle from Ben’s arm. Blood spattered on Harold’s uniform and a bit of it got on Ben’s face and into his mouth. It tasted funny, like something familiar, but he didn’t know what.

  Now he was finishing.

  Harold was yelling at him. Harold was taking the bandage off Ben’s arm and putting in a new needle. Dr. Larsen had entered and was now standing in the doorway, asking questions. His voice was soft. Harold’s answers were loud.

  Ben stopped listening because he had to concentrate. He heard Harold say, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you have to make such a mess?”

  Ben answered the truth. That he did tell him. And the whole point was not to make a mess. “Ardy.”

  In moments, he was feeling much better. Harold helped him finish up, then escorted him back to the bed, where Ben could give his memory book to the doctor.

  And sleep.

  May 23

  “Sorry, the answer is no,” Ariela said. “Finals are not going well. In fact, they are sucking.”

  Jared twirled a forkful of pasta and nodded. “That sucks.”

  “Thank you, that shines an interesting new light on what I just said.” The band at the Village Inn was Wu Kitchen that night, and Suzanne was vocalist. The group was awesome, but Ariela was having trouble concentrating. She sipped her Blue Moon, noticed the slightly hurt and confused expression on Jared’s face, and came to the realization she had just said something incredibly snotty. Mustering what she hoped was a reasonably impish smile, she kicked him under the table. “Hey . . . I’m joking.”

  “Sorry, I’m brain-dead after a week of statistics and linear algebra,” Jared said.

  “At least you’re done,” Ariela replied. “I’m still pissed at the econ final today. I only stayed up all night drilling on the theories, and it was all quant stuff. I hate macro. Anyway, two down, two to go.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  Ariela nodded. “Yup. Tomorrow’s Music History. Can you list all the influences on Gabriel Faurè? And what do you know about Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf?”

  Jared laughed. “Is that a real guy?”

  “Yes, but we’re not studying him. I just like to say the name.” Lucy the waitress was passing by so Ariela called out for two more Blue Moons.

  “I’m okay,” Jared said.

  “No, you’re not,” Ariela replied. “We’re going drink for drink. Equals. To avoid at all costs the scenario of wasted-college-girl-pathetically-leaving-herself-open-for-another-Take-Back-the-Night-story. In fact, my friend Elyse is on the school Beer-and-Sex Committee and is sitting at the next table so she will watch over us like the Angel Gabriel and be our witness—right, Elyse?”

  No one at the next table replied, but that wasn’t the point anyway. Ariela wasn’t sure what the point was, except that the year was co
ming to a close and she was heading back to New York for a summer internship at a dance company, her grades having plunged into the toilet this semester, and sitting across from her at the moment was wonderful, sweet Jared Combs, whom she wouldn’t see again until the fall. All year he’d been finding time to hang out with her on campus. He’d gone to a concert or two with her, cheered for her at a so-called Baby Drama class production that wasn’t very good, been there to soothe her ruffled feathers at least a dozen times for two dozen reasons, been her chauffeur into Mount Morris a dozen more, and all the while somehow swinging a 3.8 at the Naz without any apparent effort.

  She owed him.

  “Seriously, what time is your music final?” Jared asked.

  Sometimes, however, he could be a mother hen.

  Ariela took a deep breath to gather patience. “Not till eleven, Mom, so I’m good. After the next song, I’m out of here.”

  The next song was new and fresh, and it brought them both to their feet. She watched Jared as she danced, the way he eyed her. They’d been playing this game all semester. He’d been amazingly cool, not pushy, not too sexual, seemingly okay with things the way they were. He gave her freedom and space, and she adored him for it.

  The number ended with a segue into a ballad. She felt Jared pulling her away from the bar, toward the door, and she pulled back. She protested about the beer left undrunk and the unpaid tab, but he insisted he had taken care of everything. Within moments she felt the rush of a late spring breeze and the overwhelming quiet of night. The tables outside were full of couples in muffled conversation, but Jared rushed her out too fast for her to recognize faces.

  They stumbled up Center Path, laughing at something, she wasn’t sure what. Her stomach was beginning to hurt from the laughter but Jared wouldn’t let her sit on the benches. By the time they arrived at the dorm, she was having a hard time staying upright. Jared walked her into the building and then her room, and in the semidarkness set her down on the bed.

  She felt better prone. Her lights were out, so his face was softly lit from the streetlight outside.

  Have you always looked this good?

  She wasn’t sure for a moment if she’d actually said those words or thought them. “I thought them,” she finally decided aloud.

  Jared’s smile made her ache. “Say what?” he asked.

  “Okay,” she said. “You may. I say you may.”

  He laughed. “Ah, it’s Dr. Seuss night. What, I pray, do you say I may?”

  “Ow, the meter is all wrong,” Ariela said. “Chris would kill you.”

  “Chris who? Is that your boyfriend?”

  It wasn’t until that moment, after two semesters-ful of companionship with this guy, after he’d become friends with her friends and a fixture on campus, that she realized their cozy relationship had been propped up by fraud.

  The lie had begun from the first time they’d met. She could have mentioned Ben but didn’t, and somehow that choice had locked her in, forced her to construct a half-persona and call it whole.

  He knew something was up. He wasn’t stupid. She was wearing an engagement ring, for god’s sake. But for all their time together, he knew so little about her. He had no idea what she was going back to, the working and waiting, the progress reports and plane trips, the anxiety and guilt. Still, he never, ever questioned or mistrusted her. Never made her feel like anything but beautiful and smart and witty and fun. He never pried. Until now.

  “No. Chris is not my boyfriend.” She reached up and cupped both hands behind his head, pulling him closer. “My boyfriend he is not.”

  She smelled the sweetness of the fabric of his shirt, the thickness of his breath. She let her mouth go slack and anticipated the weight of him, the comfort of his body in the lonely night.

  “Ariela,” he said, his voice landing with soft grace on each syllable.

  She hummed a half-reply, but he took her hands in his and pushed them away. Her body rolled slightly with the mattress as he stood. “I have to go,” he said. “I’m leaving the wastebasket by your bed if you need it, but I hope you don’t.”

  What was he saying? “Wait,” she said.

  “I’ll call you in the morning to make sure you’re up for the final, okay?”

  “But—but wait—”

  “Hey, it’s okay. Sleep well, Ariela. Good luck.”

  Before she could answer, he was gone.

  The prick. Who did he think he was?

  She inhaled deeply to yell at him, but at the top of the breath, the impulse left her.

  May 25

  FROM: Dr. Claes Larsen

  TO: Ms. J. Bright

  Subject: Fw: Progress Report, Benjamin Bright

  Hello, Ms. Bright! Once again, Benjamin has shown remarkable resilience and an extraordinary capacity to learn. He is speaking more clearly, his thoughts attaching often to appropriate vocabulary, resulting in effective expression, which fluctuates in proportion to the amount of his physical rest, and also to fatigue of extended vocalizing. He makes himself understood about 50% of the time now, which, given the length of his stay, puts him easily in the top quintile of patients I have ever seen. We are working him hard, and he is a hard worker!

  I know his memory remains your biggest concern, and in that regard I also have positive news. Ben remembers staff almost all the time now, and even correctly identified his nurse, Harold Yu, spontaneously by name (without prodding!) after Mr. Yu’s absence of four days. We have begun tailoring his therapy to stimulate and strengthen long-term memory. He identifies photographs of family and repeats personal historical data we have trained him to remember. However, those memories appear to have a “shelf life” if not refreshed regularly. And attempts to prompt him to spontaneously recall teacher and family names, personal anecdotes, favorite entertainments, etc., have yielded somewhat tenuous results.

  In summary, I would categorize his progress as excellent regarding large-motor skills, task completion, short-term concentration and memory, small-motor skills, temper control, and verbal communication. The lag in long-term memory is not unusual, but we would like to bring that category closer in line with the others.

  I hope this message gives you as much hope and excitement about your son as we have. I anticipate we’ll be able to release Ben within the year, and we will all miss him. He lifts our spirits and restores our faith in the work we do together. One extraordinary young man!

  Best regards to your family,

  Dr. Claes Larson

  As Mrs. Bright read aloud the letter over dinner in her family kitchen, her voice grew thick and she brushed away a tear. Niko felt a little weepy, too.

  From an iPhone resting on the table, Ariela’s voice piped up scratchily. “I’m a mess. Someone is going to have to scrape me off the floor. I wish I could be there with you.”

  “We’ll save you some champagne,” Niko called out. “Actually, no we won’t.”

  “I spoke to him on the phone,” Mrs. Bright said. “He called me ‘Mom.’”

  “He said, ‘I want to come home,’” Niko added.

  Ariela was squealing. Chris had risen from the table and was examining the rail that had been built into the kitchen wall. While the Brights had been in California, he had boarded at his school, and they’d enrolled him in the summer session because he’d freaked out when getting on a plane to California and had to be taken off. So he hadn’t seen Ben, and he hadn’t seen much of the reconstructed house.

  “Take this off,” he said.

  “It’s for Ben, dude,” Niko said. “He’s going to need it to get around.”

  “Take this off!” Chris shouted. He stood there, staring at the rail, his face growing redder by the second.

  “Ariela, I have to go,” Mrs. Bright said, shutting the phone. She turned to face Chris squarely. “Chris, honey, please look at me.”

  “No! No no no no no! It’s not right! Take this off!” He began pulling at the rail, then pounding
it.

  “Chris, stop it!” Mrs. Bright leapt from her chair. She threw her arms around her son and pulled him away from the wall.

  Chris let out a strangled-sounding scream. He flailed his arms and stumbled, catching his foot on the table leg.

  Niko ran toward them, trying to pry Chris away, but he and Mrs. Bright fell backward, into a granite counter. Her head hit with a dull thud and she dropped to the floor.

  “For god’s sake, Chris, what are you doing?” Niko grabbed Chris’s sweatshirt and yanked it upward, inside out and over his head. Chris’s arms shot up, temporarily immobilized, his vision blocked.

  His shrieking was unearthly loud, even muffled by the fabric. Niko shoved him away from Mrs. Bright and spun him out of the kitchen. Chris thudded heavily on the living-room floor.

  He wouldn’t have much time. Chris was capable of violence if he got too riled up and wasn’t taking his meds properly. Niko rushed to Ben’s mother, who was slumped unconscious on the kitchen floor. “Hey . . . hey,” he said, gently shaking her. “Are you okay?”

  Her eyes fluttered open and she winced. “Yeah. Fine.” She reached around to touch the back of her head. “That’s going to be a big bruise.”

  Without waiting another moment, she rose from the floor and went into the living room.

  Chris was lying on the carpet. His hands were still over his head, the underside of his sweatshirt rising over his fleshy, naked torso like a peeled banana. He was breathing steadily and hard now, muttering to himself.

  Mrs. Bright sat at his side. “Christopher Ian Bright, pull your shirt down and talk to me.”

  Chris fell silent. He began mumbling again but didn’t comply. Niko sensed the confinement was comforting to him.

  Mrs. Bright exhaled and shook her head. “Thank you so much, Niko,” she said softly.

  Thank you? Niko was still shaking. Chris could have killed her. “If you want, I can live here to help out, until . . .”