age maybe, give or take a few years, and easy to talk to, whether or not this is part of her job requirement. She makes a note in her file while I spin her name into a made-up melody— Liv, Liv, how do I live? Livie, Livie, what you gonna give me?
She sets her pen down. “It’s nice to see, even though we’ve just met, that you still have humor despite what has happened. Joy is important.”
“I don’t know that I would characterize myself as joyful.”
“So how would you characterize yourself, then?”
I recline in my armchair and consider it.
“Well, I don’t know. But joyful isn’t the first thing that comes tomind.” I think of my question to Samantha from weeks ago— what made me happy? Who knew? Who knows?
“So how about we make it a goal?” she says. “To figure out how you would define yourself. Who you are now.”
“You mean, who I was before.”
“No,” she says simply. “Well, yes. That’s part of the goal, too.” She unscrews the top of her water bottle and sips. “But they may not necessarily be the same. That’s important to know. Scary, too. But important.”
“But the stuff from before—I mean, my life. Will I remember that? Get that back, regardless of who I am now?” The idea of my brain being a whitewash forever is too terrifying to digest.
“Well, not to sound like your mother, but she’s right that having a memory at all is a wonderful step,” Liv says, placing the lid back on her water bottle, setting it on the floor by the leg of the couch. “It’s a breakthrough. It’s your brain trying to reconnect the wires.”
“But it might have connected wires that aren’t even there. Neither she nor Rory remembers anything like that!”
“Could be,” she says, “though I doubt it. You said it felt real, like a déjà vu. You shouldn’t second-guess yourself if it was that tangible. Perhaps it was pulling together pieces from disparate memories, but it was something. Don’t underestimate that.”
“I would say, given my life right now, that I don’t underestimate much.”
The phone rings, interrupting us, and the machine clicks on. Another reporter leaves a message.
“Sorry for that,” I say. “We get a call every few hours. I don’t know what part of ‘no comment’ they don’t get. Remind me the next time I’m in a plane crash and lose my memory to unlist my number.”
She laughs, then chews her pen for a moment. “So some logistics.We’ll do this twice a week. Sometimes you’ll feel like talking, sometimes you won’t. Sometimes we’ll use different methods: guided meditation, free association…we’ll see what works and what doesn’t. Which is something for you to think about, too—what’s drawing out these ephemeral feelings? What work can you do on your own?” She smiles. “But you won’t be on your own. Even if you feel like you are, I’ll be here to help.”
“I wouldn’t mind a little help.”
“But I don’t want to give you the impression that this is going to be easy.”
“I’ve never had that impression,” I say. “Nothing about this gives me that impression at all.”
9
A full week after I’ve landed back in New York, Rory opens the gallery—which has been booming thanks to public curiosity—for a reunion, a welcome-back party. I don’t bother asking welcome back to what, though the thought has certainly crossed my mind. WELCOME BACK TO…NOTHING ! No, that banner wouldn’t be celebratory enough at all. I dot concealer under my eyes, flush my eyelids with a hint of brownish shadow that I’ve found in the vanity, and spike my lashes with mascara. I stare into the mirror and imagine it—the gallery, the pulse of the crowd, the huddle of troops who are rushing to rally for me. Maybe this is where the fabulous me was hidden. Maybe this was my element, the thing I did best, maybe this is where I cast off the dourness of that People photo and flitted about the art world, my deals, my acumen, as a spotlight. Yes ,
She sets her pen down. “It’s nice to see, even though we’ve just met, that you still have humor despite what has happened. Joy is important.”
“I don’t know that I would characterize myself as joyful.”
“So how would you characterize yourself, then?”
I recline in my armchair and consider it.
“Well, I don’t know. But joyful isn’t the first thing that comes tomind.” I think of my question to Samantha from weeks ago— what made me happy? Who knew? Who knows?
“So how about we make it a goal?” she says. “To figure out how you would define yourself. Who you are now.”
“You mean, who I was before.”
“No,” she says simply. “Well, yes. That’s part of the goal, too.” She unscrews the top of her water bottle and sips. “But they may not necessarily be the same. That’s important to know. Scary, too. But important.”
“But the stuff from before—I mean, my life. Will I remember that? Get that back, regardless of who I am now?” The idea of my brain being a whitewash forever is too terrifying to digest.
“Well, not to sound like your mother, but she’s right that having a memory at all is a wonderful step,” Liv says, placing the lid back on her water bottle, setting it on the floor by the leg of the couch. “It’s a breakthrough. It’s your brain trying to reconnect the wires.”
“But it might have connected wires that aren’t even there. Neither she nor Rory remembers anything like that!”
“Could be,” she says, “though I doubt it. You said it felt real, like a déjà vu. You shouldn’t second-guess yourself if it was that tangible. Perhaps it was pulling together pieces from disparate memories, but it was something. Don’t underestimate that.”
“I would say, given my life right now, that I don’t underestimate much.”
The phone rings, interrupting us, and the machine clicks on. Another reporter leaves a message.
“Sorry for that,” I say. “We get a call every few hours. I don’t know what part of ‘no comment’ they don’t get. Remind me the next time I’m in a plane crash and lose my memory to unlist my number.”
She laughs, then chews her pen for a moment. “So some logistics.We’ll do this twice a week. Sometimes you’ll feel like talking, sometimes you won’t. Sometimes we’ll use different methods: guided meditation, free association…we’ll see what works and what doesn’t. Which is something for you to think about, too—what’s drawing out these ephemeral feelings? What work can you do on your own?” She smiles. “But you won’t be on your own. Even if you feel like you are, I’ll be here to help.”
“I wouldn’t mind a little help.”
“But I don’t want to give you the impression that this is going to be easy.”
“I’ve never had that impression,” I say. “Nothing about this gives me that impression at all.”
9
A full week after I’ve landed back in New York, Rory opens the gallery—which has been booming thanks to public curiosity—for a reunion, a welcome-back party. I don’t bother asking welcome back to what, though the thought has certainly crossed my mind. WELCOME BACK TO…NOTHING ! No, that banner wouldn’t be celebratory enough at all. I dot concealer under my eyes, flush my eyelids with a hint of brownish shadow that I’ve found in the vanity, and spike my lashes with mascara. I stare into the mirror and imagine it—the gallery, the pulse of the crowd, the huddle of troops who are rushing to rally for me. Maybe this is where the fabulous me was hidden. Maybe this was my element, the thing I did best, maybe this is where I cast off the dourness of that People photo and flitted about the art world, my deals, my acumen, as a spotlight. Yes ,
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