Seven times seven is...

Are you coming tonight? 

I look toward Jen. She’s facing the dresser, wrapped in a towel. Tangerine stripes hug her tight. Our eyes meet in the mirror. 

“Of course I’m coming!” I say. 

Her mirror-eyes stay locked on mine. They are especially stunning this afternoon: blue-green gems made brighter by sunlight and white decor. But her pretty eyes seem angry, now. I study them longer. 

Ronnie, my therapist, says to create multiple stories at times like this. 

Story 1: Jen is angry. She asked a fair question, I gave a dismissive answer. Of course. As though I had not canceled dinner plans twice last week. 

Story 2: Jen is… 

Come on, think. 

Jen is… concerned. She trusts that I will go to this dinner, for her; but she fears that I will be a quiet, uncomfortable presence the whole time. 

Story 3: Jen is… Jen is… 

At least three stories, Ronnie says. 

Jen is… not thinking about me at all. Her mind is still on the beach, splashing in water. Or it’s over by the closet, sorting through dresses. Or it’s back in the city, supervising Angela, who is watching our puppy. 

Just as I finish my therapy practice, Jen’s mirror-eyes move on. She reaches for a brush. 

“Are you mad?” I ask. Now that I’ve tried out the stories, I want to know the truth.

She runs the brush through her hair. 

“No, Nick, I’m not mad. I’m happy that you’re coming.” 

Story 4: She is happy. 

Story 5: She is lying. 

Story 6: She is tired. 

Story 7: I am tired. 

Story 8: I am crazy. 

Story 9: I am fine. 

I am fine, I repeat. I am sitting on a soft, white bed. I am breathing, in and out. I am sore, good sore, from a long swim. 

I look at Jen, standing at the mirror, brushing her hair. 

I am fine. I am not alone. And I am going to dinner.  

I get up, tug my towel tight at my waist, and walk toward the dresser. I stand behind Jen. I wrap my arms around her, like the tangerine stripes. I kiss her cheek. I see her mirror-smile, and I smile back. 

I walk toward the bathroom. I think of the shirts I packed, and of Angela and the dog, and of my next therapy session, when I’ll tell Ronnie all about how I practiced my stories.

***  

I linger in the shower. I watch the glass fog up. I feel the sharp, hot water against my shoulders. My mind vacates, for real, for a little while. I relish this.

Soon enough, I start to think guilty thoughts: about wasting water, about climate change. I think: is this a rational guilt? An ethical guilt? I’m just one person. This is just one shower. Just one afternoon. And yet, if everyone thought this way … or didn’t think this way … 

But I'm exhausted, and I’m not strong enough to resist the shower’s good feeling. Instead, I yield. I press my hands against the foggy, mint-green glass. I let my head fall forward. I stand there for another minute, maybe two, feeling nothing but the hot water on my back. 

Eventually, I will myself to yank the nozzle to the right. I step out. I set an intention: to keep this good feeling with me, for as long as I can. Maybe even all the way through dinner. 

I do pretty well with my intention, getting dressed. Admittedly, a lot of things are working in my favor. I barely ate on the beach, so my stomach feels flat. My slim-fit charcoal chinos zip easily. I’ve packed my favorite dress shirt, and I ironed it earlier, so it’s smooth and crisp. As I button it before the mirror, I notice how the teal color brightens my eyes. I’m tan, too, from all the sun; and my hair has picked up streaks of red, a welcome upgrade from its usual, everyman brown.

I reach for my phone and pull up my Spotify. I tap the volume icon and select speaker. I find my pregame playlist, a reliable favorite. I choose shuffle, trusting the gods to get it right. The intro to Sean Paul’s “Temperature” plays, and Jen looks to me, smiling. 

“Music! Good idea.” 

She is more surprised than I want her to be. Or at least, that’s my first story. But I let that story go, and I don’t even bother to generate another one. I’m too busy shifting my hips and admiring my tan and setting a new intention: that I will be charming, all dinner long.

***

We descend the staircase at 6:45, as instructed. The stairs are open; thin black wires suspend cylindrical, mahogany-colored railings from the ceiling. The railings sway, slightly, but constantly. It’s an obnoxious and impractical structure; the kind that only the wealthy would tolerate in their homes. Jen clings to my upper arm on the way down. 

My shoes are by the door. We had to leave all our shoes there when we arrived the night before. It was my first exchange with Vera, our host, Jen’s boss:

“No shoes in the house,” she had said, with a strained grin and searing eyes. “You understand.” 

“Of course,” I had said, immediately slipping my brown Oxfords off, careful not to step past the mat. And I did understand: any spot of dirt would be an affront to this white fortress.

As I replay the memory, I notice that I am being ungenerous, even cavalier. I remind myself of my intention: charming.

Vera is waiting by the door, phone in hand, scrolling. I seize the opportunity:

“Vera, we’ve had such a wonderful day. And we can’t wait for dinner. Thank you again for having us.” Charming.

Vera looks up. Her thin lips offer a warm, condescending smile. “It’s really my pleasure.” She glances back to her phone. “We should get going though. They don’t hold reservations long at this restaurant. Given the demand.” 

“Of course,” Jen says. 

I kneel down and reach for my Oxfords. Someone has moved them since yesterday; lined them up perfectly against the floor-to-ceiling window. I take both shoes in my left hand, clasping them near their heels. Then, as I stand up: 

THWACK!

An awful sound. Foreign, loud, close. 

“Nick?” That’s Jen. 

“Oh dear.” That’s… Vera?

Oh God. Oh shit. I’ve hit my head. 

Seven times seven is … forty-nine. 

Seven times seven is … forty-nine. 

Thank God. There it is, right away, as it should be. My math fact. 

I think back to third grade, to that morning recess, when I hit my head against the flagpole during a game of TV tag. A big THWACK, like this one. But I was fine. I didn’t black out; I didn’t even fall over. Still, I was nervous. Nervous that the collision would turn me stupid.

That’s where the test began: seven times seven is? If I could remember that math fact, I thought, it would mean that my intellect had survived. It would mean that I could still multiply; that I could still remember things. Most importantly, it would mean that my mind was still as it had been.

I remember that morning, so vividly: the peeling white paint on the flagpole, my throbbing head in my hands, and the whispers: seven times seven is... forty-nine. 

I remember it, perhaps, because of all the times since. Any bump, however slight, awakens it: seven times seven is…?. 

“Nick, are you okay?” Jen reaches for my chin and turns my head to face her, then pushes my hair back. 

I feel my heart more than my head. It’s thumping. And my breath is short, catching itself. But I am fine. I must be, because I remembered: seven times seven is forty-nine.  I take a few more breaths, careful not to recite my math fact out loud. 

“Yeah, yes. I’m good. I’m good. I’m totally fine.” I look up. I see the white beam, an intimidating stretch made of something heavy, slicing the glass window-wall in two. I am surprised to have missed it. 

“Are you sure you're okay?” says Vera. “I’m terribly sorry. Not the best spot for guests’ shoes, I guess…” 

“No, I’m good, just a bump, really. I am fine.” 

Seven times seven is … forty-nine. 

Seven times seven is … forty-nine. 

I move to the mat and kneel down again, first on my left knee, then on my right. I tie each of my Oxfords, a bit tighter than usual. 

Vera and Jen are at the car by the time I finish. I step outside and close the door. I go to check the lock, but I hear whirring and clicking and realize that it’s computerized. All set. 

Vera’s driver opens the passenger door for her; Jen is already in the backseat. He closes the door and walks over to his side, gravel crunching under his black shoes. Vera’s window opens. She turns to face me: “Nick? All set?” 

I realize I haven’t moved from the slate stoop. “Yes! Yes, I’m good. Sorry.” 

I jog to the car, just a few steps away. I try to catch my reflection in the window, but it’s too dark and distorted to make any sense of it. No bumps or blood or sun-kissed tans or bright blue eyes in sight. 

I open the door, hoist myself onto the cool leather seat, buckle my belt, smile at Jen, look out the window. The engine revs. 

Seven times seven is … forty-nine. 

*** 

We are in traffic now, a few blocks from downtown. “Beach traffic,” Vera reminds us, disdainfully. 

I’m stuck back at the house, at the white beam, at the THWACK. I’ve multiplied seven by seven, a lot. I’ve even done seven by seven by seven (three-hundred-forty-three), to be safe. But something feels off. But I’m just fixating, perseverating. Probably. 

Jen and Vera are chatting about work things: Q3 and layoffs and a conceited consultant named Dan. 

Seven times seven is… I can’t multiply anymore. I mean, I can multiply, but I don’t want to. It’s not working. I’m still worried, still stuck, not free of it. 

I think of my therapy practice. Story 1: I bumped my head, like people do, and it’s fine. Story 2: I bumped my head, and it seems fine, but it’s not. It’s not fine. 

Be specific. 

It’s not fine, and… I have a concussion. That’s what I’m afraid of: a concussion. 

A concussion? No. That story doesn’t make sense. Don’t you have to lose consciousness to have a concussion? 

I reach for my phone, swipe up, open Chrome. My thumb flies across the keypad. This is a great test. This will work: Can you get a concussion without losing consciousness? 

Google will say no, and I will be fine, and I can start charming again…

Shit. SHIT. You CAN. You CAN get a concussion without losing consciousness. 

I keep reading. A variety of impacts… can form within minutes or can take up to days… usually heal themselves with rest… in some cases, can develop serious… should seek medical attention… symptoms include headache, dilated pupils, nausea, a “foggy” feeling… 

Is that what I - do I have a foggy feeling? Is that what this is? 

No, no. You can’t multiply when you’re foggy. You can’t remember third grade when you’re foggy. 

I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. 

…Should seek medical attention

…Should seek medical attention. 

To be safe. I’m sure it’s nothing, but to hear a doctor say it, that would be good. That would work…

NO. What am I thinking? Tell Vera I need to go to the ER? Ruin dinner? Jen would never…. 

I’m fine. I’m fine.  Seven times seven is forty-nine. 

“Nick?” 

That’s Jen. 

“Nick, are you okay?” 

Vera turns over her shoulder. I see spots, black with thin, purple-orange borders. I hear buzzing. 

“I’m fine,” I say. “I, uh… I…” 

The buzzing gets louder. I close my eyes. My breathing is short and sharp. Slow down, I think. Just slow down. I visualize a square against the spotty backdrop. I hear Ronnie’s voice. In, 2, 3, 4…. Hold, 2, 3, 4…. Out, 2, 3, 4… Hold, 2, 3, 4. 

“…psychs himself out sometimes… episodes…” That’s Jen. 

“…it was a pretty bad whack…maybe we should…” That’s Vera. 

And me? What about me? 

Tell them, hospital. Don’t risk it. Not worth it. 

Tell them, dinner. Don’t yield. Fight back. It has you where it wants you. 

Jen’s hand, on my knee. She sighs - I think. 

“Nick. What should we do?”