Don't Forget Me

Bernie comes out of the kitchen and puts the plate down in front of me. An itch swells up on my skin.

“I don’t want tomatoes.”

“You love tomatoes.”

“Don’t tell me what I love or don’t love.”

“Fine, I’ll take them.” Bernie moves the tomato slices onto his plate and starts to eat. He periodically looks out the window. He’s usually so chatty. I don’t feel like talking right now though, so that’s good. I pick at my eggs.

“What are you doing today,” I say to my plate of quickly cooling food.

Bernie keeps looking out the window, chewing slowly.

“I think I’d like to go to the market today. I like walking through the market.” I say.

“The market isn’t open on Thursdays.” Bernie says, his voice as dry as my toast.

“Oh, well I’d like to stay in.”

“We’re going to see Dr. Wellington in an hour.” He looks at me with eyes that make me want to throw my fork at him.

“Let’s reschedule. I’m tired today.”

“We’re going.”

I play with my food as Bernie gets up and rinses his plate at the sink. The sound of the water from the tap is so loud.

“I’m going to go lie down.” I say to Bernie.

“Can you bring me your plate if you’re done with it, please?”

I take the plate, move up beside him and put it on the counter. I didn’t think it would break. Shards of ceramic flow across the counter and into the sink.

“What are you thinking!” his words spray like gasoline.

“Don’t yell at me! I just put it down, those plates were about to break anyway, you should have replaced them long ago like I wanted!” I don’t remember ever wanting to change the plates. I liked them. But they were old and needed to be changed anyways. Everything needs to be changed eventually.

Bernie’s hands flop down to his sides.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you. Just…go upstairs. Go and get ready, we’re leaving at ten.”

“I don’t need to go, I’m fine.”

“We’re going.”

“You’re not hearing me, I’m not going. I know myself better than you do. Besides, I’m only 54. I’m just tired all the time, that’s why I forget things.” Something seizes my gut and I blink, and my heart begins to race. Who even is this man, in my kitchen? He’s not my Barry.

Bernie. Barry works at the market. I think I’ll go there later.  

“Go upstairs.” He starts picking up broken shards, his back to me.

I go upstairs and go to the bathroom and lock the door. I splash water on my face. It doesn’t quell the hot stones in my chest.

“Fuck, fuck!” I say, surprising myself. I don't usually curse.

I open my makeup drawer and toss the small bottles and mirrors and powders around. I can’t find my foundation. I look through the medicine cabinet, under the sink, everywhere. I’m about to open the door when I catch a glimpse of the small glass bottle in the trash. I can’t believe Barry would throw out my new bottle.

My hands shake as I apply my makeup, the thoughts of Bernie coming home with that pamphlet from the pharmacy. How dare he! He should know better. I’m fine, I’ve always been forgetful, even when I was a little girl. He never listens to me. It’s his fault anyways.

I finish doing my makeup, making sure to slam the cupboard doors. I go to the bedroom and get dressed. When I look in my bedroom mirror, I scream. A figure is wearing my clothes and has my birthmark and my hair, but the face is smooth and featureless, like the face of a display mannequin covered in wrinkly skin. 

“What? What is it?” Bernie says, stomping his way in. I couldn’t tell if he was worried or angry. I look back at the mirror and see my own face looking back at me.

“I’m fine.”

“Why are you screaming.” I don’t like his accusatory tone.

“I just scared myself, it’s fine.”

Bernie lifts his arm. He’s holding something.

“I found these in the dryer.” He jingled a set of car keys. I shrug my shoulders.

“They must have fallen in.” I say. He squirms and sighs. What's wrong with him?

“What’s gotten into you today?” I ask him. I check myself in the mirror. “Is work stressing you out again?”

“I’m retired, Annabelle. I retired three years ago.”

“Oh, well then, ok.” I pass by him, placing my hand on his shoulder and smiling. “Maybe go out in the garden? That always makes me feel a bit better.” I say to him.

I go downstairs and take out a frying pan and start cooking some eggs. I throw in a couple of tomato slices.

“Annabelle…” I turn towards the voice. The man’s face is pale and sad. “Annabelle, it’s time to go.”

“Oh, ok.” I go get my purse and put on my shoes. We get in the car and drive. It’s a beautiful spring day. I see children on their bikes and people walking on the sidewalk. I don’t recognize the street we’re on, but it’s nice. There’s a woman waiting for the bus. Her skin is ebony, and her dress is green with sparkles on it. I can’t quite make out her face. It’s probably because the dress is so nice.

We pull into a parking lot. In front of us is a large brick building.

“Did the market move into this building?” I ask. I look at Bernie and he reminds of a balloon that's about the burst, his knuckles white as he crinkles the leather of the steering wheel in his grip.

“Come on, let’s go in.” he says. I follow him and I’m made to wait in a stale room until a man in a white coat walks in. Oh, it’s Doctor Wellington. He asks me some questions. He shows me some pictures of black film with a strange blot in the center and says that it’s my brain. He writes a prescription for drugs called Brexpiprazole and Donepezil and hands us some literature. Bernie takes my hand and starts to cry. I wish he wouldn’t, it’s embarrassing.

We go back to the car and he turns it on but we don’t go anywhere.

“I don’t like him,” I say. “I think we should get a second opinion.”

Bernie looks up at me, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“He’s the third doctor we’ve seen, Annabelle. Please.” He takes my hand in his.

“Don’t forget me.” He says.

For a moment I see him, the young Bernie who had swooned me at a local gala, who had never failed to make me laugh with his antics. I think of the taste of his kiss and the soft touch of his fingers on my legs. I think of our wedding and of the miscarriage and the big fight, but I can't put my finger on what it was about, or who was there, or...

I blink and I look at the hand holding mine, then at the faceless man holding it, but he doesn't scare me. I’m fine, I’m just hungry. I didn’t have breakfast.

I’m fine. I’m just forgetful. I’ve always been forgetful.

“Can we go get something to eat? I’m starving.” I say, looking out the window. I feel a hand slipping out of mine and we start to move, and I look at the passing trees and their happy leaves and I think about just how beautiful things are, as they are, as I am.

I’m fine. I’m just forgetful. I’ve always been forgetful.