Dear Vivian

Dear Vivian,

You are the only one I remember.

Everyone who has come to visit me since ‘The Accident’ (as they all call it) has meant nothing to me. I take one look at them and I know they aren’t you. They all have these big, sympathetic eyes that look at me like I’m some lost puppy. It’s odd. 

Vivian, I remember you so clearly; your straight red hair, your slender fingers, your sharp tongue. I can remember every little aspect of you, up to the way you smirk at me when I say something stupid, and I can’t recall even a moment I might have spent with all these other people. And yet, you haven’t come to see me. But it doesn’t bother me. I’m sure you’ll come to see me soon, Vivian. I’ll wait. 

Yours,

Ben

Dear Vivian,

I waited a week for you to write back, but then decided you might’ve not gotten my first letter and I should just go ahead and send another one. 

You still haven’t visited. It’s fine, really! I don’t mind. I have all these ‘Get Well Soon’ cards and flowers and teddy bears to keep me company, after all.

And the hospital people are nice enough. They chat with me when they do check-ups. And, of course, they brought me paper and envelopes, even stamps, so that I could write to you. So it’s fine that you aren’t coming to see me. Really.

A funny thing happened the other day, Vivian. A man and woman came to see me. The woman was middle aged and short. She had curly hair, a bit like mine. She sat down next to my bed and asked me how I felt. I said, “Alright, thank you for asking.” Then I introduced myself, politely, and asked her what her name was. “I’m sure I know you from somewhere.” I said, because everyone who has come to visit me before claimed I must know them. I smiled at her, and she suddenly started to cry. 

I felt funny, sitting with a grown woman I had made cry. Of course I did, Vivian. But the oddest thing was that I felt this sort of pull in the back of my brain, watching her shoulders shake and her curly hair bounce around. It’s like when you can only remember a single word from a song, and the rest is just… gone. 

The man shook his head sadly, and they both left. I felt as though I had somehow messed up, Vivian. Did I do something wrong? Maybe you’d know.

Please write back this time.

Yours,

Ben

P.S. I miss you. Just a little bit.

Dear Vivian, 

I’ve been lying to you. I miss you. A lot. And I really wish you would come see me. Or just write back. It’s not that I’m lonely in general, more like I’m lonely for you. Not anybody else. I’m lonely for your bright gray eyes and weird laugh, the one that sounds like a dolphin. I’m lonely for the ways you pronounce your Os and Us, sort of off-key. And the way you trill all of your high notes when you sing, but can’t even reach any of the low notes. 

See, I remember everything! Only, I can’t remember anything I might have done to make you not want to visit me. What did I do, Vivian? How did I hurt you? Whatever it was, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Just, please come see me. Please write back.

Yours,

Ben

Dear Vivian,

Maybe I overreacted. I’m sure you’re just busy, or off on vacation, and haven’t even gotten my letters. Either way, I won’t worry.

A few things have happened since I last wrote. A few puzzling things. 

First, I saw my wounds for the first time today. They’re bigger and uglier than I had anticipated. One is a cut on my cheek, and it runs all the way down to my chin. Another is on top of my head, and there is yet another, near my neck.

When I finally asked a nurse what had happened, all she said was that there had been ‘An Accident’. She looked so awkward afterwards, so I didn’t pry. Oh, and there’s a very big lump over my eyebrow. I never noticed it before, but now that they’ve taken off the bandages, I feel it all the time. It hurts when I touch it, so I do my best to avoid it.

Second, when the nurse who has been supplying me with paper and such came in yesterday, she asked me who I was writing to. 

I told her, Vivian. I hope you don’t mind. She’s the reason we’re communicating, after all. Well, the reason I’m communicating.

But that’s beside the point. The point is: when I told her, she gave me a sad, sad look. Even sadder and more sympathetic than anyone else’s. “Oh, Ben,” she said. It’s strange, because that’s something you always say to me, only you say it with a smile on your face when I do something funny. It’s sort of a mock-condescending phrase, one that makes me laugh every time.

But the nurse was doing anything but laughing. “Has she written back yet?” she asked gently. But she was shaking her head like she already knew the answer. 

“No,” I said, staring at her quizzically. 

She shook her head some more, then left. I can’t figure it out, Vivian. She acted like my writing to you was something terrible.

Well, it’s not.

I don’t think it is, at least. 

You tell me.

Yours,

Ben

Dear Vivian,

I’m scared.

Yesterday, the worst thing happened. I almost forgot about you. I was lying in bed, and I suddenly had this sense that something wasn’t right. Then I felt like I was slipping. Or something I had was slipping. 

It was you, Vivian. You were slipping away from me. I only realized in time to grab you, all my memories of you. This isn’t happening, I thought over and over again. 

I almost forgot about you.

Vivian, please write back. Then I swear I’ll never forget you. Never.

I can’t. If you leave, too, if I can’t think about your red hair and gray eyes, I’ll have lost everything. Please, Vivian, don’t let me forget you.

Please.

Yours,

Ben

Dear Vivian.

It’s been another week, and they say they’ll let me go home soon. Only, I don't know what ‘home’ is anymore. I don’t know who inhabits my home, or where it is, or how long I’ve had it. The thing is, Vivian, lately thinking about you has been my home. That’s all I’m familiar with right now. That, and hospital Jell-o.

I’m beginning to remember more now, Vivian. About you and I. Everything up to a car ride. It’s late at night, I’m driving, you and I are talking and laughing. We laugh a lot together, don’t we?

But halfway through the car ride, the memory comes to a halt. The rest is going to be slow to come, I think. Everything else has been easy to recollect, but not this. I’ll tell you when the rest comes to me. 

I miss you more every day, Vivian.

Must be a very long vacation you’re on.

I hope.

I miss you.

Yours,

Ben

Dear Vivian,

I go home tomorrow. The nurses are excited for me, but they still won’t tell me what ‘The Accident’ is. They get nervous when I mention it, and give me that sad look that seems to be reserved just for me whenever I mention your name. 

Vivian, I’m worried. Why won’t they tell me? Why is everyone around me so sad? Why won’t you write back? It’s been over a month. Have you moved? If so, why haven’t you come and talked with me in person?

Vivian, where are you? Sometimes I get a terrible feeling that you’re very, very far away. So far away that you’ll never write back. So far away that I’ll never see you again.

And I can’t remember anything more about that night in the car. It’s that thing again, Vivian. The pull in the back of my brain. The one word of the song that I remember.

The rest is gone.

Are you gone, too, Vivian?

Yours,

Ben

Dear Vivian,

A nurse has finally agreed to tell me what ‘The Accident’ is. Tonight. First, she told me I have to eat my supper.

Those nurses…

I’ll tell you what she says, Vivian. Every word, even though you probably already know.

Vivian, whatever has happened, whatever the reason for your not writing me back is, whatever ‘The Accident’ is, we’ll be alright, okay? We’ll be alright, Vivian. You and I.

I’ll see you again soon, Vivian. I will, no matter what. Right?

You and I, Vivian.

I’ll see you again.

Love,

Ben