I Remember

This thing that had been eating holes in my head for years had finally managed to make me lose my mind. It didn’t matter that it had happened years ago. It didn’t matter that she and I didn’t talk anymore; that if I saw her on the street, I wouldn’t even recognize her.

The guilt took my mind in the form of sleepless nights where I would stare at the ceiling, letting myself be consumed by an overwhelming sense of dread and regret that seemed to follow me everywhere. Every time something reminded me of her, or what I did, I would stop in my tracks, breathless, my heart pounding and my hands shaking uncontrollably. People would stare at me, an otherwise ordinary adult, trembling at the sight of a chocolate croissant that reminded me of that one time when we went to the cafe together and she ate one, spilling flaky crust across the table as she laughed. 

Every night, the same sense of dread, and every day, the same flashbacks seemingly out of nowhere caused by the most mundane events. The smell of her cucumber deodorant at the drugstore. The flash of blond hair my eyes would track as it bobbed away in the street. A woman standing on her tiptoes just like she did, waiting for the crosswalk. Complete agony physically seized me and paralyzed me constantly and uncontrollably.

My colleagues picked up on my quirk, laughing at me for jolting at such innocuous things. They joked that I hadn’t felt the touch of a woman in years, and they weren’t wrong. Every woman I tried to date crossed their legs in that certain way, or snapped gum while they talked, or wore the same brand of heels that she always did to fancy events. They all melted into her, and she was my greatest fear. Had I seen her face to face, I probably would have had a heart attack and died on the spot. 

I decided that the only way for my pain to be alleviated was to apologize to her. Then I would no longer feel sick to my stomach all the time because of these intrusive thoughts. I was practically useless in my daily life. But I needed advice, so I asked Jennifer, a woman who I’d talked to once or twice in the office for the best way to approach this.

“So you think about her every day, constantly, and it gives you lots of anxiety?”

“Yes and no. Everything reminds me of her, you know? And that’s what causes my freeze-ups. It’s not an obsession thing, I’m not trying to think of her.”

“But you still are thinking of her, I- I don’t even know what to say, honestly. This is just really weird. It was ten years ago?”

“Yeah, it was ten years ago but it feels like it was yesterday. Wouldn’t you think she would appreciate an apology? Especially since she never got one from me?”

“I mean, I hate to break it to you, but she probably doesn’t even remember. Why do you want to apologize so badly?”

“I want to apologize because I hurt her. That’s what I’ve wanted all these years, to just say, Rita, I’m sorry I hurt you. I really am.”

“And this will make her feel better, how? It sounds like maybe you’re doing it just to make yourself feel better, not actually apologize. You wouldn’t be so obsessed with it otherwise.”

When Jennifer said that I was simply seeking to apologize to make myself feel better, that sent a jolt down my spine. She was right. Rita probably didn’t even remember what I looked like, that I didn’t apologize, that I’d groveled all these years for my actions.

Had I, through my self-punitive thoughts and countless sleepless nights, atoned for what I’d done? Had I, in a way, redeemed myself through my guilty abstinence, my lack of functionality, my obsessive pining? She was a God to me, dictating each and every action of my life, demanding fear and loyalty, constant gifts of prayer and sacrifice. In my mind, she was a hundred feet tall and a thousand times more beautiful than anything I could imagine. She was the image of perfection, of redemption, of forgivingness and morality. Had I prayed to my god in the flesh, my illusion would have fallen, and it would have been nothing but a bad memory. Thus my desperation to meet her, to see her human qualities only grew, and she consumed my thoughts entirely.

When I woke up I thought of her face, as I walked to work I saw her in the passing people, when I grabbed lunch I saw her favorite foods, when I ate dinner I thought of her across from me, when I lied awake at night she smiled at me, her image burned behind my eyelids all night, even as I slept. Cucumber deodorant, chocolate croissants, blond hair, and fancy heels danced in my visions and out of the corners of my eyes. Her presence was practically physical.

I wanted to alleviate myself, but not for selfish reasons. I scoured facebook to find her, but no profiles matched her name. I googled her, I searched every social media, combing through pages and pages of people of the same name. When this yielded nothing, I decided to fly to my hometown and knock on her old address. I was completely desperate and obsessed. My eyes were bloodshot and bagged, my skin dull and pale, my mouth cracked and bitten to shreds.

In a manic haze, I flew across the clouds, across the country to say two words to a woman I hadn’t seen in ten years. I had no idea if she would even want to talk to me, if she would even want to see me, if it was appropriate for her to see me in such a state. But I was completely convinced that I simply had to see her, to catch a single glimpse and utter those two sacred words. 

My rationalization was that she had driven me to be better, to never hurt anyone else. To worship nobody but her, and keep my sins and repent for them. I had never been religious, but her presence in my life provided me with a strict moral code.

The drive there was the longest and least real time had ever felt to me. Anxiety shot through my veins, heart, and stomach, making me pull over twice to throw up water since I had not been able to eat for the past couple of days.

Bringing my hand to knock on her door was equally agonizing. I was quaking and I thought that I would faint, but my fist struck the wood three times. Her mother opened the door and opened her eyes wide in recognition.

“Do you mind if I come in?”

--

The house smelled the same way that I remembered it. Coffee grounds wafted from the kitchen to the living room, which smelled like mothballs, must, and cats. I almost expected the cat that I had known when she lived there to walk out any second and stare at me with its glaring yellow eyes. But the cat had died a few years ago, her mother informed me, and they had been fostering kittens since.

“It’s nice to see you want to check in with her after all of these years.”

“It’d be nice to see her. We fell out of touch after- well, you know.”

“After her hospitalization?”

“Yeah, after her hospitalization.”

“I’ll ask her if she wants to see you. I’ll be right back.”

Every fibre of my being instantly electrified. Goosebumps spread over every area on my body that had skin on it. My throat closed entirely, and I stopped breathing. My vision shook violently, and my heart beat so hard it hurt. After a few seconds, I stopped shaking and slowly drew in a weak breath. When I opened my eyes, she was in front of me.

“Hi, Rita. Remember me?” My voice sounded like it came from a different room.

“Hello, nice to meet you!” She chirped.

Her mother shook her head.

“She says that to everyone, even to me. It’s just her way of greeting people.”

Rita wore a lopsided smile. She sat in a wheelchair.

“I didn’t know that she was so injured.”

“I mean, the doctors didn’t either until she woke up. They said it was a miracle she survived at all, and a miracle that she even became conscious. We thought that she would be in a coma forever. And then we thought that she wouldn’t ever be able to talk. But look at her now. She’s making great progress.”

All I’d heard was that she survived. And then I’d flown across the country and never spoken to her again. All this time, I could have helped her. I could have at least stayed until she opened her eyes, until she spoke.

And then she said my name. My entire body tensed so hard that it briefly launched me out of my seat.

“So you do remember me?”

“We’re friends!”

“Yes, we’re friends.”

She smiled at me.

When her mother left the room, I leaned in very closely to her face. Before I could even say anything, she spoke.

“I remember.”

I looked at her face, and it was focused. Her eyes struggled to remain on mine. Her smile was gone.

“I remember.”

“I do too,” I whispered. I was paralyzed.

“Rita, I’m so sorry. Do you forgive me?”

The time it took for her to move her lips to answer was an eternity.

“We’re friends.”

“Is that a yes?”

“We’re friends.”

Her mother was standing behind us at this point.

“What does she mean?”

“She means that you’re friends. I don’t need to translate for you.”

As I stood up, already feeling a difference in my physical stature, I caught a whiff of chocolate croissant and cucumber deodorant.