Chapter 24
When I leave my appointment, there’s a line of cabs parked outside the hospital, but I walk past them, straight down to Cambridge Street.
A cold gust hits me on the corner. I hug my coat closed and turn right, letting my feet choose the direction, toward Carmen Park, past the brown awnings of the Union Oyster House and the wooden statue of a British soldier on the corner of Creek Square, while my mind replays Janine’s words over and over in my head.
There might not be a way back to the way you were before.
It feels like my heart is splintering apart. All these weeks I’ve been chasing the old me, trying to pin her down, when really, she was already gone. My brain is broken, I’m broken, and no amount of hard work or items checked off a list will change that.
I turn onto Hanover Street and walk past the rows of vendors at Haymarket until the neighborhood begins to narrow in a way that’s become familiar. Voices spill out of restaurants, laughter and conversation over the clinking of glasses and silverware.
I walk another block before I see the neon sign for Modern Pastry just ahead. It’s still fairly early, so it’s not lit up, but their sandwich board is set up on the sidewalk, advertising cannoli and biscotti.
Today was a bad day. Maybe the worst one since the accident. And the only person I want to talk to about it is Ben. I want to call him and let all the fears and frustrations spill out, because right now it feels like they’re taking up too much space inside me.
But I stop myself before I reach for my phone.
After his text last night, I’m terrified of what he might say, how he might break my heart even more by reminding me what I already know: He doesn’t do relationships.
So I just peer into the window of the bakery, watching a group of tourists place their cannoli order.
After they leave, I go in and order a lobster tail from the older woman behind the counter. She barely takes a break in her conversation with her coworker as she places the pastry in a small white box and ties it up neatly with twine.
I take my lobster tail and continue down Hanover Street, past the signs to Italian cities thousands of miles away, past the playground at St. Leonard’s, then turn left at the statue of Paul Revere, walking past Old North Church to Copp’s Hill Terrace.
The leaves on the trees are now an explosion of yellows and red, and someone has put a couple of jack-o-lanterns along the wall looking over the harbor.
I find the same bench where Ben and I sat, empty as if it was waiting for me, and land heavily on its wood-slatted seat.
The autumn sun gleams off the water ahead, and for a few minutes, I watch the boats glide back and forth from the river.
Then I look down at the pastry box on my lap.
Yes, today was a bad day. And despite how much I want to call Ben, he can’t fix it any more than the universe can. I have to figure it out on my own.
But first, I need to wallow.
The wind picks up, sending my hair up and out in every direction, as I carefully untie the box’s red-and-white string, then lift the lid.
A lone lobster tail sits in the center. There’s a dusting of powdered sugar across the top, a hint of its cream filling peeking out from its golden pastry.
A promise that, while it might not make things better, it could help. Just a smidge.
So I pick it up and shove as much of it as I can into my mouth.
I make it back to my building just as the sun dips below the roofline, sending muted streaks of pink and yellow across the sky.
The tip of my nose is cold, and I can still taste powdered sugar at the corners of my mouth.
I’m sure it’s visible, too, but I don’t care.
All I can think about is getting into my pajamas, making myself a cup of tea, and continuing my wallow in silence.
Except there is no silence. As I ascend the stairs, “Dancing Queen” starts blaring from the second floor.
I don’t know if it’s sadness or frustration or sheer rage at the universe. But I don’t keep going upstairs. I turn onto the second floor and march down the hall to the apartment directly below mine.
My knock isn’t polite this time, and to his credit, my nemesis—Brian, if I recall his name correctly—opens the door as if he’s expecting me, wearing spandex pants and an oversized T-shirt.
His smirk disappears when he sees my face.
Or maybe it’s my hair. I have no idea what state it’s in, I haven’t looked in a mirror for hours.
“No ABBA,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I’m not listening to ABBA,” he replies flatly.
I squeeze my eyes shut, like it might keep the tears at bay. “I know you’re rehearsing for a tour of Mamma Mia!, and that’s really impressive, but I’m having a really bad day.”
“Yeah? Join the club,” he says. “You promised to take my headshots a month ago. I ended up having to have one of the understudies take them on his phone behind the theater and they look like mugshots.”
My eyes snap open as something stirs awake in the back of my mind. Not a memory, but the shadow of a memory. A moment of recognition.
“I said I would take your headshots?”
Brian rolls his eyes. “For the record, don’t volunteer to do something for someone if you’re just going to ghost them when it comes time to deliver.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
His eyes narrow on me. “What, you want me to beg?”
“No, I just…” My words falter as I try to grab more of the memory, but it slips back into the corner of my mind.
“You just, what?”
“I don’t remember, okay?” I blurt out, throwing my arms out at my sides.
“I don’t remember anything! I fell and hit my head and now the past year is just gone.
I don’t know what I’m doing here or why I stayed in Boston all this time, or why my grandmother told me to trust the universe and fate, because it’s all bullshit.
But I can’t even get mad at her, because she’s dead!
It’s just me, on my own, with a missing year’s worth of memories that, it turns out, I might never get back.
So all I ask is one night without ABBA. Just one. Okay?”
He stares at me, stunned. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I say with a nod.
Then I turn around and head back into the stairwell, my steps echoing against the cement walls until I reach the third floor.
I ignore Ben’s door, which is easier since I know he’s not home yet.
He has a class on Fridays. Suddenly, I’m so mad that I know that, how that fact is taking up space in my brain when so many other things aren’t, that my rage is renewed all over again.
I unlock my door, then slam it shut behind me.
My coat and bag are abandoned on the floor as I walk to my bed and land face-first into my duvet.
“Dancing Queen” is still playing downstairs, but after a moment, it abruptly stops. I listen to the silence, bracing myself. Then, ever so faintly, I hear the opening chords of “Gypsy” by Fleetwood Mac float up from the floorboards.
Had I told Brian that this was my grandmother’s favorite song? I don’t know. And for the first time in weeks, I don’t try to remember. I close my eyes and listen, pretending it’s a bit of magic, her magic, and for a moment, I let myself believe.