Chapter Seven
SEVEN
Greg stepped out of the shower and planted his feet firmly on the soft cushion of a bath mat. Dripping wet, he wiped away the steam from the mirror with one hand. Once again, the image caught him off guard. The man staring back at him with long red hair was still a stranger, but fully naked now. He took a moment to analyze the shape of his form. He wasn’t just big—his eyes fell to between his legs— he was big all over .
“You okay in there?” Faye shouted through the door.
“Oh...kay,” Greg responded, eventually.
“There’s a towel and pajamas for you on the toilet,” she explained, before adding, “Dry off with the towel. Then put your clothes on. Take your time, okay? No rush getting dressed. Just...make sure you get dressed.”
Greg left behind his penis and focused on getting dressed. Doing as Faye had instructed him, he dried himself off. Put on the pajamas she had left him. It was a matching plaid set. He pulled on the underwear and pants. Then he went to work on the shirt, a long-sleeve button-down, when his brain suddenly glitched out. He stared at the buttons, trailing across the material like a path all the way up to his neck, and for the life of him...couldn’t remember what to do with them.
Weird.
He tried to figure it out for himself. He grabbed at the edges, found the slits, attempted to wedge the tiny plastic circles in between them.
Thankfully, his coordination was okay. He was able to walk, cut hard kosher salami, take a shower. But every now and then, similar to the words in his mouth, he got stuck. The impulse was there, along with the sense that this was something simple, something he should remember—it would sit on the edge of his brain, teasing him with possibility—but instead of his brain communicating with his body, he would freeze.
Of everything in the world that should be difficult, he wasn’t sure why it was suddenly buttons that had become the enemy. He stared down at his hands. Maybe it was the size of them in comparison to shiny plastic circles. Perhaps he simply didn’t have the dexterity. Dexterity. That was a big word, too. Either way, he gave up on the buttons. He opened the door and stepped out.
The room had changed. The couch had shifted into a bed. The coffee table had been moved, pressed up against a rack full of hats, scarves, and jewelry. Faye stood over a pullout couch, smoothing sheets.
“Oh,” Faye said, twisting around to greet him. “Your... chest .”
Greg glanced down at himself.
Yes, he did indeed have a chest.
Though he wasn’t sure why she was bothering to point it out.
He wanted to explain what had happened in the bathroom, describe the way his brain had glitched out, but the effort would require more than one-word answers. It required a full story. He had the vocabulary, but not the ability to speak his thoughts and feelings. The frustration he had felt in the hospital reemerged. A heaviness formed in the pit of his stomach, and then, Faye, like always, worked her magic. Without him saying anything, without him needing to utter one single word, she left the bedsheets and came over.
“Here,” Faye said softly, reaching for the collar of his shirt. “Let me help you.”
She ran her hands down the material. In the process, his body sparked. Greg latched onto her eyes. She had beautiful eyes. Earthy, like the tea she had made for him, and the forests that surrounded Woodstock. She was so incredibly comforting.
“You know,” she said, talking while she worked, “it’s normal. All the difficulty you’re having right now. With words. With certain actions. Your memory is just working extra hard to come back to you. Still, I imagine you’re very frustrated.”
Greg nodded ferociously. “Yes.”
She sighed sympathetically as her hands lingered on the second button. “But I want you to know, the doctors told me it should resolve eventually. One day—” her eyes lifted like a smile up towards him “—your words will come back. Your memory, too. And then...we’ll be able to get you home.”
Greg caught on the word. “Home.”
“The place where you belong. The place where people love you.”
Home felt like Faye.
“Faye,” he said, adamant.
“I’m not your home,” she said gently. “I’m just the person you remember. But no need to feel embarrassed about any of this. Believe it or not, I’m adept at helping people with memory problems. My dad went through something similar when he was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. Laces, buttons, zippers—all of it became calculus for him. Not that you have the same disease. Baruch Hashem and Blessed Be. ”
Greg did not remember his own father. But the way Faye talked about hers, it seemed like an important relationship. Perhaps this was why she was so adamant about getting him home. Perhaps, there were people—parents and others—who were waiting for him.
“Home,” he repeated. “Father?”
The question caused her to stop once again. She took her hands off his buttons. “Father,” she said, simply. “A mother, maybe. You could also have a partner. Or a wife. Maybe even children. And those people, who make up your home, are probably worried sick about you right now. They probably are wondering where you are. I’m sure we’ll find them in no time.”
The news made his stomach turn, but he wasn’t sure why. Faye finished buttoning up his shirt. “All done,” she said, before adding, “Would you like to try it for yourself now?”
“Yes.”
She returned her hands to his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. When his chest was once again exposed, she nodded for him to begin. He followed what he had seen her do, smoothing out the shirt, making sure the plastic circles were aligned with the tiny slits, before aiming to close the first one.
Faye stepped back, giving him space to work. And when he had trouble with the first one, she didn’t just jump to intervene. Instead, she waited patiently—without the yoke of judgment attached—for him to figure it out, remember for himself.
“Believe it or not,” Faye said, watching him work, “I also have trouble with buttons.”
Greg got the words out. “You...do?”
“Yep.” She held up her left hand, revealing a large scar down the center. “My wrist was broken when I was seventeen. Unfortunately, it was never able to get set back the right way. Now, my pointer finger doesn’t behave correctly. It does its own thing...with or without my permission.”
She began to wiggle her fingers. One of them did not move with all the rest.
“It’s actually affected my career,” she said, almost to herself. “Ever since my wrist was broken, I’ve never been able to make pieces in quite the right way. Or, at least, the way I see them in my head. A lot of times, they’re lopsided, funny...the lips come out weird and misshapen, or a warp appears where I didn’t have the ability to smooth out a bubble in the clay. But we make do, right? We make the best out of what we are given.”
Curiosity overcame him. He reached for her hand. She jumped a little, unsure what he was reaching for, but then allowed it. Turning her hand over, finding the scar, he ran one finger down the tiny white line. He didn’t like seeing her hurt. It made his own heart ache in ways that were indescribable.
“How?” he asked.
Faye pulled her hand away. “Long story.”
He wanted to hear it, but instead, she pulled her long sleeve over the damage, and flitted away from him completely. Heading back over to the couch, she returned to working on the sheets. Conversation over. Greg stared down at the six buttons he still had left to close.
“It’s okay,” Faye said, glancing back at him. “I’m right here.”
“Here,” he repeated.
“Just a stone’s throw away...if you need any help.”
He needed Faye.
He liked when she was close, when her hands touched his shirt, when her fingertips brushed his skin. He liked the way she made him feel, like his body was on fire. Things made sense when Faye was around. He wished he could tell her that.
“Faye,” Greg said.
She looked up from the bed, both eyebrows raised in his direction.
He focused on the words. “Thank...you.”
Her whole face edged downwards. She swallowed. “You’re most welcome.”
Their eyes caught once again. She pushed a curl behind her ear and looked away.
“Before the accident, believe it or not... I had a full scholarship to a very prestigious art school in Manhattan.”
He didn’t understand.
“I was going to study ceramics at the college level,” she explained. “I had won lots of competitions for my work. Not just competitions for teenagers, but across the country, against artists and professionals. I was interested specifically in modular concepts for functional tableware.”
Her hands trailed over to a vase sitting on the nightstand. She lifted it up, and then broke it into three distinct pieces, turning that vase into three separate drinking glasses. It was, quite frankly, the coolest thing he had ever seen in his entire life. At least, the life he could remember.
“Ma...gic,” he got the word out.
She corrected him. “Mathematics.”
He didn’t agree with her. It seemed to Greg that wherever Faye went, she sprinkled enchantment. Faye snapped two of the drinking glasses back together, and took the third one to the sink in the kitchen behind him, filling it up with water.
“I loved the complexity required to get something just right,” she explained. “All the angles and edges had to be planned and made in alignment, so that a piece could move, or interact with another piece, without them damaging each other. It had to be perfect.”
“Perfect?”
“Without mistake,” she explained, her voice lilting with the memory. “But after the accident, I couldn’t create those perfect pieces anymore. That one disabled finger changed my art irrevocably...and my life.”
Greg frowned. Granted, without a memory, he had no idea what made a piece of art perfect versus merely acceptable. But he couldn’t help but feel she was being way too hard on herself. He had seen Faye’s pottery all over her home and business. Perhaps she was no longer making vases that turned into cups, but she was still enormously talented.
“Ta...ta,” Greg said.
“I’m talking too much?” she said, frowning with her whole mouth.
Finally, he got the word out. “Tal...en...ted.”
It was slow, and difficult, but he was able to express the sentiment clear enough. The corner of her eyes creased downwards. “You think I’m talented?”
He nodded. “Yes. Very.”
The room fell into silence once more. Her eyes caught on his, and in her gaze, he felt stable. Faye was the terra firma beneath his feet.
“Anyway,” she said, stepping away from his bed. “I hope this is okay for now.”
“Oh-kay,” he confirmed.
“I know it’s not the Ritz-Carlton or anything,” she said nervously. “But hopefully, you’ll be comfortable here for the time being. And really, I don’t imagine you’ll be here for more than a few days. I’m sure we’ll figure out who you are...and get you home in no time.”
Greg considered her words. “Okay.”
“Great.” Faye seemed relieved. “Then if there’s nothing else you need, I’ll just let you get some rest.”
With that, Faye disappeared. The door to her bedroom shut behind her...followed by the sound of something clicking into place. Greg turned back to his room, now uncomfortably silent, before glancing down at his pajamas. Three buttons were still left undone.
Quickly, he moved to close them up, and then, crawling into bed, he got under the covers that Faye had so carefully laid out for him. She had done everything possible to make him comfortable. The bed was warm. There was water to drink at his side. His buttons were fastened securely on his shirt. And yet the feeling that something was wrong, that something had been unraveled inside of him, remained.
Faye locked the door to her bedroom and sat down on her bed. A thousand thoughts spun through her mind. She had not meant to share such intimacies with a stranger...with Greg. She had not meant to word-vomit all over him. She had especially not wanted to see his absolutely spectacular chest.
Goddess give her strength.
The man was built like a challah.
She lay back on her bed and took a deep breath. She waved away the heat from her cheeks, and then, grabbing a pillow to spoon for comfort, laughed at herself. She was being ridiculous. There was no reason to feel nervous around Greg. Yes, he was her type. He had an undeniable sweetness about him, excelled at slicing hard kosher salami, and thought she was talented...but he was also unattainably attractive.
And yet, the way he was looking at her...
The feeling that sparked in her body as he took her hand, one finger drifting down the skin on her wrist...
She had to pull away.
Honestly, she wasn’t sure why she was even worried about it. It could never happen. She would never allow it to happen between them. Because one day, his memory would return. Or the people who loved him would come looking for him. And then, just like with Stuart , he’d leave all his crap behind in her apartment...and move on with his life.
Unless, of course, he was a golem.
Faye didn’t know much about golems. The decision to create one had simply been an act of self-care in the wake of an anti-Semitic attack, a way to feel less vulnerable against invisible enemies...also, a dream for something better in her life. Unconditional love. A partner who would function like one of her modular pieces of pottery, allowing her to move independently as needed, then snap back together, without damaging her forever.
The long day had clearly gotten to her.
Rising up, she settled on sleep. Heading to her dresser, she opened her drawer full of pajamas. With Greg down the hall, she debated wearing something modest for bed, sweatpants along with a bra and a T-shirt. But she always got hot at night, and so she settled on something more comfortable. A silk chemise that covered just enough, and a robe that she hung on the back of the door.
She began to change, straightening up her room as she went, her mind wandering back to the question at hand. Greg was not a golem, because golems did not exist. They were creatures of Jewish folklore, totally fictional. And yet, now that she was able to fully give Miranda’s earlier accusation some energy, she had to admit that the synchronicities between Greg and the golem doll she had created were strange.
Curiosity got the best of her. Finding her phone, she opened it to the page for an AI research assistant. She knew it was silly, searching for information on such fantastical beings...but really, what was the harm? It was late. She was stressed out. Might as well have a little fun before heading to bed. She typed in her question. What is a golem?
The AI chatbot began scrolling with text. In Jewish folklore, a golem is an anthropomorphic creature that is created from inanimate materials, such as clay or mud. The golem is usually crafted with a distinct purpose in mind. Historically, golems have been used for labor and manual tasks, defense and guardianship, such as protecting a Jewish community during times of anti-Semitism, as well as aiding in magic rituals. The most famous golem of all was The Golem of Prague, attributed to Rabbi Judah Loew.
She liked all that.
Especially the bit about aiding in magic rituals.
She sat down on the bed and, staring at those words, found her mind wandering. In truth, the idea of Greg being a golem was more than just a little bit titillating. She imagined all the things he could be useful for around Magic Mud Pottery. Practical things like carrying heavy boxes of clay, setting up the back studio for her Magic Mud Mini Warlocks. Emotional things like defending her from night terrors and guarding her store from anti-Semites. And sex. She imagined that having sex with a golem would be mind-blowingly fantastic.
Like a vibrator with a fully functioning tongue and two perfect hands.
She was getting into this Greg being a golem thing.
She typed another question. How do I know what my golem’s purpose is?
The AI responded: A golem’s purpose is determined by its creator. It is important that the creator gives clear direction to the golem in terms of instruction. Otherwise, the golem may become dangerous.
Faye stared down at the last line of text.
Dangerous.
That sounded...foreboding.
What do you mean by dangerous?
The AI did not hesitate: The golem goes berserk.
WHAT?
The AI continued. Without a sense of purpose, the golem becomes distraught, disruptive, and violent. It begins to disobey the commands of its creator, wreaking havoc on the people and communities it was designed to protect. In the most extreme cases, the golem goes on a rampage, killing the creator, often accidentally, by crushing them. In this way, the golem is a cautionary tale about usurping God and the natural order of the universe. Human beings are not permitted to create life from clay.
Faye swallowed.
The actually sounded really freaking bad.
Her heart sped up inside her chest. A new worry formed like some primordial bubble oozing up from the sludge... She completely freaked out. Because she knew it. She totally freaking knew it. Whether Greg was a man or a golem, he was going to hurt her. He was going to leave her. Either by remembering who he was, and returning to his old life...or crushing her to death beneath his massive body. Maybe he would even kill her during sex.
Screw that.
She was not going to die making the O-face.
Rising from her bed, Faye tossed the phone down. Grabbing her robe, she went to storm down the hallway. She was going to demand that Greg—this man, or this golem, it really didn’t matter anymore—leave her apartment. Indeed, she had her hand on the doorknob, and was just about to unlock it and throw it open, when she stopped. Her eyes caught sight of one of those anti-Semitic flyers, lying on the floor of her bedroom beside her laundry hamper. She must have brought a copy upstairs with her last night.
She bent down to pick it up, and the fear that had been dimmed in the wake of Greg’s appearance suddenly returned. Her name was on that flyer. Her picture. Her address. Her eyes fell to the window, and the darkness she found there, the knowledge that there was someone in town who hated her enough to target her directly, was terrifying.
It was like being with her mother all over again.
Faye stepped back from the door. Putting that flyer away in a drawer for safekeeping, she crawled into bed. And then, knowing Greg was at the end of the hall, she turned off the light sitting on her nightstand. The room fell into darkness, and she told herself that she had done the right thing.
She needed to sleep without spells or alcohol. She needed to dream without waking up to real-life nightmares. Whatever dangers were at home with a man the size of a giant, or some supernatural sentinel, paled in comparison to the threats that now lingered outside. As much as Greg needed her...she also needed him.
Greg couldn’t sleep. Instead, he tossed and turned beneath Faye’s covers, before finally giving up, staring up at her white ceiling. The problem wasn’t simply an issue of insomnia. With Faye having disappeared into her bedroom, the house suddenly felt too quiet. Too silent. And with the luxury of space, images without explanation—without memories attached, either—assaulted him.
He saw a cityscape before him, heard the sound of honking horns. He could hear children laughing, recall the feeling of snow landing on his tongue, but the images were nothing more than pictures in his mind, nonsensical. Confusing. They didn’t bring comfort or understanding, only the sense that he had forgotten something integral and important. Perhaps he had forgotten his entire reason for being. But a woman’s voice appeared. Soft and pleasant, it whispered over the images, justice, justice .
Greg sat up in his bed. It was too much. Without Faye to guide him, he felt very lost. He tore off his bedsheets and stomped back down the hall, knocking on her door.
“Yes?” Faye shouted through the wood.
“Can’t.”
“You can’t sleep?”
He grunted an affirmation.
She was quiet for a few moments. “Have you tried closing your eyes?”
He hadn’t tried that.
Greg returned to his bed, closing his eyes. After a few minutes, the silence assaulted him again. That anxious and unsettled feeling returned. Rising from his bed, he made his way down the hall once more. This time, Faye opened the door and stuck her head out.
Through the crack, he could see she had changed. Now, instead of the normal clothes she had on at the hospital and during the day, she was wearing lingerie. Lingerie. He remembered the word. His eyes wandered down to her breasts, where the flimsy silk material did little to cover her ample cleavage.
“Yes?” Faye whispered.
“Still...can’t.”
Her lips edged down to the floor in a frown. Bored. That was word he was looking for. He didn’t like staring up at the ceiling with nothing but strange images and weird voices spinning inside his head. It made him feel...well, he couldn’t remember what the word was, but it felt like a tickle. An uncomfortable tickle. Not at all like the kind of tickle he got when he saw Faye wearing lingerie .
He tried, once again, to explain what was happening inside of him.
“Book,” Greg said.
Faye squinted. “You want to read a book?”
No, he did not want to read a book. He tried again. “Booooooook.”
“Okay,” Faye said, moving to shut the door. “I understand. Let me just put on a robe.”
He gave up. Faye shut the door. When she reappeared, she was wearing a robe, clutching it around her breasts. She slunk past him in the hallway, leading him back towards the living room to the small bookcase situated on the wall beside his bed-not-bed.
“I have them organized by topic,” she explained quietly.
He wasn’t sure why she was whispering. They were the only two people in the house. Well, aside from Hillel. He glanced over his shoulder to see the rat-dog curled up into a swirl beside his pillow. Perhaps she was being quiet for his sake.
“Self-help is on the top,” Faye said, pointing them out. “Spirituality, philosophy, and nonfiction are on the second shelf. And fiction is on the third row. Romance, mainly...but there’s also some thrillers, mysteries...and the rest, everything else scattered about, are board games.”
“Scrabble,” he said, surprising himself.
Faye blinked. “You remember Scrabble?”
“No.”
He didn’t remember. He also had no idea why he had said that word.
It was awful not understanding why certain words and actions came to him, when others seemed lost and forgotten. His cheeks burned hot. His chest ached in an unbearable sort of pain. He was losing hope, too...when his eyes latched onto hers. They were soft. Sympathetic. She understood.
“Anyway,” Faye said gently. “Those are all my books. Feel free to just look through and read whatever interests you, okay?”
Greg wanted to thank her, express his gratitude. But all he got out was a grunt.
Faye didn’t mind. She wished him a good night, and after the slightest touch of his wrist, returned to her bedroom. The door closed behind her. He heard the familiar click of a lock being turned, before the apartment fell back into silence. He turned to her bookshelves, desperate to fill up that void, and reached for a book on the first row.
Self-help. It seemed like a good place to start.