Healing with Memories

“Sir, would you like sugar or milk with that?”

 A simple question, I should know the answer to this one. 

But I don’t. 

I can’t remember if I like sugar or milk with my coffee. The barista gives me a quizzical look as I realize the lapse of time between my response to hers has been rather long for something so mundane. So, I guess. 

“Both, please.” I hope I’m right.

I step out of the que and sit on one of the brown bar stools by the open window while I wait. I look around the quaint coffee shop as my mind wanders back to the happenings of earlier this month. 

I recall the intense grogginess of waking up in the hospital and the strangeness of having no clue of where I was let alone who I was. “You’re up!” The petite woman sitting by my side with salt and pepper hair, but with a face that appeared youthful exclaimed. The exuberance and joy in her voice was so ecstatic that I had no problem recognizing whose it was. “Theresé. Is that you?” I croaked. She nodded her head as the tears fell unabashedly down her face. I think we were both relieved that I recognized her, my dear wife.

The doctors came in shortly after. I was given brief details of my condition, that I had sustained a serious concussion and had been hospitalized for approximately three months. Theresé had been by my side the whole time in the hospital. When they reviewed my memory, I was frightened by how little I could recollect. The basics were a difficulty like simple arithmetic or writing my own signature.

As for personal information the only things I could clearly remember was that my name was Stan Brown, I was 62 years old, had a wife Theresé and that we lived in Cincinnati. That was it. The doctors reassured me that with therapy, the right meds and time it would all more or less come back. So, fast forward a couple of weeks and a lengthy discharge, Theresé and I walked out of the hospital on a bright summer’s day heading to what I would hopefully remember as home. 

I had asked her to tell me about how we met, our dating experience and our marriage as she drove. It felt strange to have to ask for details about something so monumental in my own life. She happily obliged and my wife hadn’t stopped chatting and smiling the whole drive.

 “I want us to stop by a local coffee store on the way, Okay?” She said as she turned onto a busy side road. The conversation ceased as she tried to navigate parking. “That’s the one drawback to this place. There’s almost no place to park. How about I drop you off and you’ll get us a table?” She reasoned.  I agreed and went to get her a pumpkin muffin as requested and a coffee for myself. I bring myself back to the present and survey the clientele. 

There are a handful of students at tables sitting down studiously in front of their laptops, but most of the customers seem to be busy people with not much time to sit and enjoy their drink. Men and women in business attire come in, order with confidence and leave with their beverage in tow. Busy mothers’ storm in with children and leave in a whirlwind of muffin crumbs and spills of milk and lattes.

When I spy a young couple walking into the shop, my heart constricts so badly I think it may burst. The tall man of perhaps 25 or so walks with such self-assurance, his sandy hair complementing his piercing blue eyes. The young lady, probably no more than 18, has the same shade of hair, but her eyes are more of warmer taupe. Her gait is rather timid, but the young man holds her hand steadily. They are walking towards me with smiles on their faces and they both gesture a warm wave. 

I know them. That I am sure. But of what relation I can’t recall. 

The Doctors had told me to expect this. To not be alarmed, when I meet people from my past. Who were these people?  I had to figure this out.

The young man stretched out his hand to shake mine and in a deep, almost choked up voice said, 

“Hi. I’m Brad and this is Alicia. We’ve missed you…Dad.” 

Well, that didn’t take long to figure out. It also explained why my heart contracted so badly. Of course, a father would miss his children after so much time. That must be the emotion I’m feeling. 

I shook his hand tightly and pulled him into a hug. Brad held onto me tightly. When we released, I saw Alicia’s eyes were full and that she held her arms tightly to the side, unsure. How could I not recognize she had the same shade of eyes as my own? I reached out to hold her hand; she held it and gave it a tight squeeze. “It’s good to see you, Dad.” She whispered. I held her hand tightly, overcome with emotion. I couldn’t speak.

These were my children and though I couldn’t recognize them, I felt such a strong connection and a fierce love towards them. Could I possibly express to them these feelings? Would I be able to ever recall the memories we shared? What is our relationship like? Are we close or are we distant? And the most painful of all questions, how could it be that a father doesn’t recognize his own children? 

“Stan!” The barista’s nasal voice broke through my reverie.

I smiled warmly, “I’ll go get that. Thankfully, I do remember my name.” Alicia gave a wan smile and went to take a seat next to where Brad had gotten a table. When I came back to them Therese was there with a scowl as I caught the tail end of the conversation. 

“You weren’t suppose to come until I made sure Dad was ready. It could be too much for him!” 

I put my hand on her shoulder and gestured for her to sit as I reassured her, “It’s fine. I’m ok, Therese. Yes, it may have been a shocker, but I’m expecting everything to be. I’m thrilled to see them as strange as all this is.” 

Alicia and Brad’s faces both brightened as they began to each tell me what they were up to in their lives as well as basic details that any father would know about their own children. 

Eventually, I took the steaming coffee cup up to my lips.

Turns out I was wrong. 

I could hardly swallow the mouthful. My grimace must have given it away as Therese’ chuckled.  

“I forgot to mention that you drink your coffee black. To quote you, darling, anything in a coffee that isn’t a coffee bean is rubbish.” 

We all shared a family moment of laughter. 

Laughter, with people you love, yet hardly know. How lovely and strange.

The months of recovering my memory were long and arduous, but the strangest part of my recovery was that I did not want to hear, discuss or recollect anything past my immediate family—namely my wife and children. When my wife would gently try to steer my memory to times of when I was a young boy or about my parents I would feel an inner sense of anxiety that would make me want to scream. She offered to drive me to my childhood neighborhood, but I stubbornly refused. I would end the conversation abruptly whenever anything broached past the present. I did not want to know anything about my past. I could not explain why this was so, but Therese and the kids reassured me it was all just about giving me time to heal. 

One afternoon I was in the den perusing my stamp collections, apparently I was and am an avid collector, when I heard the door knock.

“I’ll get it, “ Alicia called out. I heard murmurings at the door and then Therese’s footsteps to the doorway. The murmurings exchanged to loud sharp whispers.  My interest piqued as I strained my ears to hear. 

“I understand you want to see him, but he won’t be able to handle it!” Therese’s words came out in hushed urgency.  Unable to handle my curiosity, I came out to the hall to see who it was. 

I shouldn’t have done it.

In one full fell swoop the memories came crashing in on me that I had subconsciously tried so hard to keep at bay. I, a grown man, got so scared that I ran. 

I ran out of the house though I could hear them shouting for me to stop. I couldn’t stop; I needed to escape. 

I came to a park and collapsed on a secluded bench. 

I put my head between my hands and started sobbing. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t stop the memories.  

I could feel my shoulders heaving with each sob and I could just imagine what a spectacle I made. But I didn’t care. 

“Timmy.” I sobbed. “Timmy.” 

Timmy--my bright, reckless, fun-loving, warm little brother.

 Timmy--my best friend, my confidant, my buddy.

Timmy--the one whom I swore to protect twice when Dad was dying of lung cancer when we were teens and when Mom had her heart attack later on in life. 

Timmy--the one who I failed to protect as promised. 

I could still smell his heavy scent of cologne, hear his contagious and boisterous laugh, and feel his warm bear hugs. We had gone out to drink and I was too tired to drive so I handed him the keys though I knew he was a heavier drinker than I. 

 Then all I saw was the cars bright lights and the loud honk of the horn before everything went black. 

“I’m a murderer.” I moaned. 

“No, you’re not.” I felt a woman’s hand pressed against my back as she said those words. 

“How could you talk to me? How could you? I---I—I killed Timmy.” I broke down again. I just wanted to die right then and there. 

She held my hand tightly in hers, “Stan, look at me.”

I held my head up slowly. I could barely look at her. But there she was sitting next to me-- Timmy’s wife, Kate. Her bleach blonde hair swept past her shoulders and framed her freckled wrinkled face. Her brown eyes had a twinge of sadness in them that I was solely responsible for.  But she smiled and it seemed to reach those same forlorn eyes. 

“Stan, you gave Timmy so much. You aren’t responsible for what happened. If there was any forgiveness to give, you have mine. But we all have our time, Stan. This was Timmy’s.” Kate continued as she began to weep, “I shouldn’t have come unannounced, but it was so hard to keep away when I knew you must be holding on to him so badly. Maybe it was selfish of me because I just want you to know that though the kids and I miss him terribly we don’t blame you, Stan.”

I don’t know how long we sat there and wept. Time means nothing when you’re mourning. I had lost so much and was just beginning to scratch the surface of what it all meant. Healing with the memories would be more painful than if I could never remember. 

Finally, after what felt like a minute and eternity all wrapped into a moment of time, we got up from the bench and linking arms headed back to my home. As I inhaled a sharp breath of fresh air I knew that my healing had only just begun.