My Mortal Memory

I’ve never met Elisabeth Baker, yet I couldn’t help but stare at her cursive handwriting and hesitate at the frail, shaky letters scraping the tea-stained paper. She sounded sure of my acquaintance in the summer of ‘69. 

Liz—a moniker I supposedly gave her—wrote scandalous things; midnight excursions to an abandoned mine, diving in a moonlit lake, and shared cigs at the Apollo 11 Parade in New York. Unfortunately, her memories were as foreign to me as the twenty-first century. And I should know, I’ve lived in California since 1873. 

I turned over the torn envelope, admiring her ability to pen such vivid imaginations and smiling at the inked drawing of a curly cat in the left-hand corner. Liz had invited me to her 76th birthday in Santa Rosa. It was a sixty-minute drive from San Francisco, but she’d sent me a CD with all “our” favorite songs to make the time scurry by.

I was tempted, really. But immortal 25-year-olds can’t visit past… friends? Lovers? Especially at such a large gathering. There were too many variables. Too many loose ends. I never went to New York, and I hated the tobacco taste of cigarettes.

So why was her CD on repeat as I turned my Honda Civic onto La Verne Avenue?

It was crazy, going against my own code. But I had to know who she was and why she described me as a fun-loving nerd when I was miles away playing darts with my twin, James.

I knocked, shifting my weight on the rubber WELCOME!!! mat. No one answered. I knocked twice more before an elderly woman opened the door. She was closer to 90 with a turkey neck and crow's feet, but I bowed slightly as I introduced myself.

“I’m…”

“Adam Preston?” she asked, eyeing me down like a stepped-on cockroach, “I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

“And you must be Liz—I mean, Elizabeth?” 

“Hah!” The woman snorted, “You flatter me.”

I didn’t like where this was going.

“I’m Shirley Baker,” the woman said, “Elizabeth’s mother.”

I took out a small present from my pocket. “I can’t stay long,” I lied, “Could you maybe give her this?”

It wasn’t anything too spectacular, just a silver bracelet from my Antique Shop.

Shirley smirked and turned towards the stairs, “Elizabeth! Adam’s here,”

Fast footsteps followed. Too light to be a granny. I bit the inside of my cheek as a 20-something Elizabeth tossed back auburn curls and waved shyly from behind her mother. 

“I didn’t think you’d show,” she said.

Gosh darn. “Me neither,” I stammered. How’d I miss that she was immortal, too?

Or forget that face.

The house smelled of mint and lemon polish. I sat at the kitchen counter, surprised that no one else was there for her 76th. Liz must have noticed because she just shrugged at the empty house and said she never married. She kept a low profile because of her… er, problem.

“I see,” I said and tapped my fingers against the granite counter. “The kitchen is… nice?”

Her brow furrowed, “Nice? You helped lay the tiles, remember?”

I laughed—she didn’t. 

"Oh,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck, “That wasn’t a joke, was it?”

“No,” She frowned as she poured us Ceylon tea. “No, that wasn’t.” 

She added a dollop of cream to my cup and took the sugar bowl—“None for me thanks,” I said, “I had to cut back—”

“Because you got diabetes,” she said and put a teaspoon in her cup. “In January of ‘71, right? We went to the hospital together…”

I sipped my tea, wincing as the hot liquid scalded my insides. I was cooked. 

“No way this is real,” I said, pushing my cup away from me. “How… What hospital? This hospital? How do you even know me?”

She bit her lip and swirled her cup, the milky liquid growing like a black hole between her manicured hands. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I think you got me confused with someone else. My brother, maybe,”

“Adam,” she said slowly, “James passed before you got diagnosed… You do remember that, right?”

I didn’t.

My breathing raced, and my palms got slick with sweat. “James died? But I just saw him.” This had to be a nightmare. 

Elizabeth scooted closer, taking my hand. “When did you see him?”

“I-It was last Christmas—” 

Where was I? This wasn’t my apartment. And why was this woman grasping my hand? I pulled away. That must have been a dumb thing to do because the colour drained out of the young woman’s face. “Adam, are you… alright?”

I tried to smile at my name, but it didn’t reach my eyes. Swallowing, I—why was my tongue burnt? I usually let my tea cool before drinking.

The woman pursed her lips and stood. “We need to get you to a hospital,”

“Oh, no.” I said, “I’m fine, really. Thank you, miss…?”

“Elizabeth,” she said, and dabbed away a… tear? “But you can call me Liz,”

Somehow, she persuaded me to get into her Mini Cooper and drive down to the community hospital. We waited a while. I got nervous, something was off, but I didn’t know what. Every one of her slight movements caught my eye---her fingers fidgeting with a faded pamphlet, a sharp inhale as she read, and the quick blink back of tears. 

Gosh, you would think she knew me forever the way she smiled. 

***

I have Alzheimer's Disease. Never thought it was possible for an immortal.

I clenched my jaw as I packed up my apartment of eight years. Eight was a dangerous number. I should have moved out after five. But I guess I forgot my life code. Along with other things. 

I glanced at Liz wrapping a China vase in newspaper. “So, what—what are we?”

She explained how immortals had a rare, mutated gene that de-escalated aging. I nodded. Liz hadn’t picked up on my insinuation.

“I mean, how do I know you?” Darn, I hated having to spell it out. “What are we?” to each other I wanted to add, but was too afraid that Liz would chuckle and punch my shoulder, or something.

“I guess we’re just…” she shrugged and bit her lip, “We’re just friends, now.”

My smile wavered and I picked up a broom, cleaning up. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

I have lived a thousand lives, and yet I lost Elizabeth Baker to a shrinking mind.

What else have I lost? 

***

The attic was the last place we had to clear. Liz let down the chipped ladder and we climbed into a surprisingly dust-free and well-lit room. A single cardboard box sat on a rocking chair and we both laughed. 

“One box?” she asked and hunkered to pick it up, “You really like to live—” She froze, her cheeks flushed. “Oh.”

“What?” I asked and stepped closer. A yellowed piece of paper was taped to the side.

My love that I will never forget—E.B.

Curious, I opened it. My eyes widened at the letters wrapped in twine. They were stacked and labelled by month and year, starting back in August 1969. The time of the Apollo 11 Parade. I guess I really had been in New York.

Liz’s eyes lighted at some faded newspaper clippings. She half-smiled as she pointed out her neat handwriting next to an article about the Apollo 11 Astronauts. 

“I sent that,” she said. “After we met at the museum. Obviously, we were at the parade, but…”

“‘It reminded me of you,’” I quoted her note in the margin. Groaning, I covered my face. “We were such nerds!”

“Still are,” she winked and closed the cardboard box.

We hauled it down the ladder and into her Mini Cooper. I shut the trunk and time slowed for a moment. Sunlight pulled the red from her dark hair and her delicate perfume of lavender and iris permeated the air. 

I’m glad she reached out, even though I’ve forgotten to write back—even though I’d forgotten us.

“So,” she said as we climbed in the car, “You ready for Santa Rosa, roommate?”

“As long as you’ll be my memory,” I said, slipping our CD into the player and cranking the volume.

“For the rest of eternity,” she promised.