The Memory Room

Who is this?

The Memory Room

Who is this?
Does she ring a bell?
Look into her eyes.
Listen quietly while you look.
Do not turn.
Do not blink.
Look deeper.
Look constant.
"But who is this?"
I think you know her.
I think you still know her.
Look. Look deeper.
Please! It's me. Your wife.
***
It's been pouring rain for days. She wonders Will it ever stop? as she watches from the window.
The glass fogs up with her sobs. It's all just a mess, she thinks, as she dresses for the day. I can't even wear mascara anymore. Not in this weather, and certainly not in this mood. She thinks mascara is the finishing touch. It makes her feel ready, gives her a sense of detail—and if she needs anything right now, it's detail—but that's not possible in this storm. The detail will run, blur, track. It will tell too much about her, too much that she isn't ready to share, not just yet anyway.
She grabs a jacket and heads for the door. Checking her purse for the ticket. Yes, it is there. She has it. She is ready. She grabs the suitcase, the keys, and she locks the door. Remember, Cait, always lock the door! She mutters to herself.
Her flight is uneventful, routine. It's only a weekend. Just one more. As the plane lands she considers the tasks at hand. So simple, so basic. Get the car, head to the hotel. Get the ticket. Not plural this time, she realizes. This is doable.
Just retrace the steps and you will at least see him, find him. That's what all this is about, after all. Just find him. One more time.
The drive is easy. She has a photographic memory so recalling the exact route is simple, almost frighteningly so. She gets there quickly, but her racing mind slows the time. What will he think? Will he remember her here? It would be best if she could just find him . . . looking for her.
The Hilton is nice. Not extraordinary or luxurious but comfortable and fitting for what she needs this weekend. She checks in, finds her room and decides to rest.
There is time enough to find him. Her eyes close.
Her dreams are always the same sad ruminations, and the tears run through the entirety of her sleep. The dream usually starts at the ranch. Their ranch. Always full of spring, bright sunshine, music, laughter. His face comforting her and his smile sinking deep into her whole body entering into her eyes and filling every waiting part of her with joyful playful contentment. Then the dream becomes colder. As if a cloudy smoky something has covered the sun. And seeing his smile is more difficult. Where is he? Her sleeping mind sees his form like a shadow, but she can't see the detail anymore. She needs detail. Her sobbing interrupts as usual, and she wakes abruptly. She has lost him again.
She looks at her watch and she thinks It's just the right time.
Upon finding the ticket she begins to shake. Just a tremble, but it's noticeably uncomfortable to her. I just have to go. I have to see, I have to know for certain. And with that she finds her outfit and changes her crumpled clothes for something smarter. She looks in the mirror with satisfaction. She considers makeup, but decides not to, thinking He can make me blush, he can brighten my eyes. Her hands are shaking too much anyway.
She grabs the purse, grabs the ticket, and says aloud, "Come on, Cait. It's time to find out!"
She arrives and the doorman takes her ticket. She is immediately overcome by the number of other people. She thinks I will never find him in this crowd. She passes through a doorway and enters the darkest room she has ever been in. Somehow, though, she can tell there are fewer people in here. "God," she mutters, "how will I ever see him? Could someone turn the light on? This is just impossible."
The faintest light begins to appear in the corner. She leans into a wall, bracing herself.
His voice bathes her ears with the warmest Hello.
God, she thinks, that's him. That's his voice.
The little light starts to brighten . . . then another, and another. The room is still too dim but she can see more, a little bit more . . . maybe even his form, dark and shadowy.
Another soft Hello sounds out. "Welcome."
Now the little lights begin to flicker, turning this dark room into a glowing lit space. The lights continue to flicker—on and off, on and off—here and there. It feels ominous. There is a movement to the lights but it seems random. All at once the room darkens completely. She hears people moving. There are not many of them in here, but the noise indicates they are all leaving.
There is a silence.
The dim light brightens where his "hello" sounded. She watches. It intensifies until his face is completely visible across the room.
His smile. God.
His eyes lighten.
I've found him.
The light shifts until only their two faces can be seen.
"Details, details, details," she says as she walks up to his face. The little light has followed her every step and every word. She pulls his face gently to hers and whispers, "Who am I?" The lights turn to yellow embers with every syllable.
He tells her, "You are my wife."
"Yes," she says, gently kissing him on the forehead. "Yes." Her eyes prickle.
They sit face to face. Husband and wife.
She asks quietly, "How is your memory now? Let's see. Can you tell me about our ranch?"
He says, "My memory is complete as long as I am in this room. The ranch was named the Lazy J and we had a horse that would eat your shirts if they were hanging out on the line—but only your shirts!"
She laughs and kisses him gently on his mouth and his neck. She slows down and whispers, "Do we have children?"
He answers without hesitation. "Robert, Michael, Theresa, and James."
"How old are they?"
He does not miss a beat. "Twenty-two, twenty, sixteen and twelve".
She laughs. Her tears are both joyful and despairing.
She begins to stroke his arms. She is kissing his face through every question and every answer. She notices that the lights dim with each touch. "Do you remember the joke: Why did the lady stop eating pistachios?"
"Because she had to decide between her teeth and pistachios."
They both laugh.
Her laugh becomes tearful, hysterical. "Jesus, how can this be possible? How can this be happening?"
She desperately wants to know if he will talk about the other. The private part of their life.
She asks him. "Steve . . . do you miss anything at all? Being in here, in this room where the lights have no switches? Where they brighten with words and dim with touch? Do you recall? Does it make you think of anything? Do you . . . remember?"
He stands up and holds her as the lights dim and he holds her as the lights go out. He remembers.
There is a knock at the door.
Please, no. Not yet.
The time allotted on the ticket wasn't enough. Not nearly not ever.
The doorman comes in and escorts Cait to the door.
"Please can I get another ticket for tomorrow?" she begs.
He shakes his head.
***
She finds the car and heads back to the hotel. It's hard for her not to cry.
She refreshes with a shower, finds a hotel robe and lies on the bed in the fetal position, exhausted, just exhausted. She thinks Why is this so difficult? And where will I find him next? Will I even find him? Will I even look for him again?
There is a hard knock at the door. She wipes the fresh tears away and peeks through the spyhole. She opens the door. "John! What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me?"
John says, "I need to talk to you. I want to help you. You seem to be on a fool's errand here, Cait. Please let me in."
"Not a fool's errand, John," she says. "I found him. He remembered me too. He remembered everyone. He was happy to see me. We joked, we laughed, we talked . . . we loved. It was remarkable—but they made me leave. They told me he would be moved again tomorrow, to another memory.
"The doorman said I could find him waiting again if I thought hard enough about it. John, this is killing me."
John frowns and nibbles at the skin around his fingernail. "Robert told me where to find you and I came as fast as I could. When was the last time you ate anything?"
Cait looks guilty. "Yesterday morning."
"Get dressed and let's go to dinner."
"John," she says, "it's real. I saw him and he remembered me—at least for a while, until the lights came back on."
"Let's talk about it after dinner. I want to show you something and then we can talk about all this in depth."
She dresses quickly and puts on a touch of makeup.
They head to downtown Austin and John pulls into a little restaurant called Vincent's. It is dark and elegant. The waiters are wearing black and white with bow ties. John and Cait follow the hostess to the table. He holds the chair for her and waits for her to sit.
The waiter brings them a bottle of merlot.
John looks into her eyes and says, "Everything has been called in for our dinner so we won't be interrupted. Cait—you know my intentions are all about you. Your kids included. We've known each other for ten years and I love you and . . . you know I love you, don't you?"
She nods.
"You know your husband is not alive in the true sense of the word, Cait, don't you? He may be institutionalized and perhaps they might move him but he is not somewhere where you can find him. He can't find you either. There is no room where he comes alive and remembers you or the kids or tells jokes. That just is not happening, Cait. Can't you see?"
She takes a slow mouthful of wine. "Then please explain this, John." She brings out her phone and shows him the pictures she took. There is a video of Steve answering the pistachio joke.
John turns pale.
The waiter brings the salads to the table, breaking the shocked silence that has been created by the camera. The evidence.
John stutters for a minute. "I don't know what to say. But I will wait for a resolution, Cait. I love you." He collects arugula leaves with his fork, then continues. "I will help you locate the next memory. I admit I will do whatever you want, however you want. Whenever you want. Wherever you want."
His declarations match her mood so perfectly that she is even able to laugh. "Thank you," she says. "I love you too, John."
She watches his lips as he eats. "John, do you know why I came here? To Austin, I mean?"
He shakes his head.
"I was reading in a magazine about a country concert that was here. Steve and I went to the Broken Spoke on our last trip here, so I was just . . . reminiscing, I guess. Anyway, the magazine fell open on an article about this New Center for the Disabled downtown. It said people had been seen visiting in droves and coming out distraught, crying—the police had been called more than once because people are trying to break back in through the front door. They're screaming out names and crying—no, wailing—these names like they're demented. I had to see it for myself, John . . . It was him. It was. And now I wonder—where else could he be? How do I find the next memory?"
"Where did you two go before Austin?" he asks.
"Las Vegas. We stayed at the Flamingo. Do you think . . . Let's find a local paper for Vegas and see what happens." Her eyes sparkle.
"Cait, can we talk about our future instead of your past?"
Her guilt is piqued, and she finds herself disarmed. She blushes. They have definitely shared some very meaningful time together over the years, building a love that is mutual and constant. They are very good together, so good that their feelings often spill over and explode. But discussing this now just seems so wrong.
So she begins. "John, what we have is very important to me and to who I am. You've helped me get through everything, to be strong, to think more clearly. My God, John, our relationship has been like medicine for me. I love you desperately, I love you! But seeing him, hearing him . . . I feel so guilty."
John quietly asks, "What are you trying to say, Cait?"
She dabs the corners of her eyes with her napkin.
He continues, "Let's just slow down any further discussion right now and find our way to Vegas. Let's see how this all happens—together. How a relationship bound by places of mutual memory and time restrictions actually works out for you. What do you think? Maybe things will happen a little bit differently with me by your side."
They finish the last of the wine and drive back to the hotel in silence.
***
Cait is happy to share the hotel room with John; she knows he will provide the consolation she needs. She stirs in her sleep and he gently pulls her into his chest as closely as he possibly can. She calms down immediately, as though she is being held safe by her guardian. That seems to be what John has become. He is protective, reassuring, consoling. Alive and living. He exists in the light.
They wake up and shower together. Before they head to SoCo for breakfast and some city sights, they casually browse some Las Vegas informational websites page by page.
John finds it first. He reads aloud. "Hidden on the Strip is a unique housing project, a center for the disabled." He looks up at her before continuing. She smiles, vindicated. "Quite a stir is filtering around town regarding the care in this facility. People are coming from all over the world, visiting for a few hours and then it appears they are forced out by guardsmen . . . police have been called as patrons are trying to break down the front door . . ." He pauses. "This is impossible, Cait. You know that, right? It's just impossible."
John raises his head. His blue eyes are begging for her agreement, but they find none. "The very idea is beyond comprehension. But I know you won't take no for an answer—in which case we'll have to find out together," he says.
John taps at his phone, books a flight for two to Las Vegas. "We have to be at the airport at six."
"Thank you. Thank you for believing me."
"I can't say that I believe you yet. But I promise I will fight for you. And, Cait—I do not lose, and hopefully you know that by now." His blue eyes flicker with determination.
She smiles.
"Alright, we have some time to kill," he says, relaxing. "Let's shop a little bit, cross the bridge and wander on Congress Avenue. We can talk and plan the next couple of days. Going home is out of the question now."