Remembering and Forgetting
by Anne Earney
The first thing I saw when I woke up was Chris' face. "Chris," I said. I knew it wasn't really
his face, but that's what I saw, through sleep-crusted eyes still blurry from the alcohol I
drank the night before. His name slipped through my lips like a ghost.
"What did you say?" Michael's head appeared over the edge of the bed, his face a wrinkled
topographical map. He must have passed out on the floor, or fallen off the bed.
"Christ," I said. "As in, 'Christ, I'm hung-over.'" I didn't look to see if he believed me.
The clock on my nightstand said 2:34 pm. I wanted sleep all day but I had to be at work at
4:00. I felt like shit and I ached for Chris. Christ, I missed Chris.
Michael pulled himself off the floor, jerking the mattress. A wave of nausea and meanness
washed over me. "Watch what the fuck you're doing." I glared at him, daring him to mess
with me.
When he didn't move or speak, I stared past him to the sickly-pale wall of my bedroom.
"Chris," he said.
"Whatever." He'd never believe me that I was over Chris. Sometimes I wanted to be over
him, but most of the time I just didn't want to be alone.
I closed my eyes, and I could picture Chris' face again. I heard Michael in the bathroom. He
came out and got dressed. I lay there considering getting up for some water, or to use the
bathroom, or to take something for my headache. Michael paused at the door. "Do you
remember where you parked your car last night?"
I shrugged.
"If you want to know later, call me."
He left.
I half-closed my eyes in an effort to blur the lines of the room back into Chris' face. "Chris," I
said to the nothingness in front of me, and fell back asleep.
* * *
The phone woke me up. "Cindy?"
"Michael?"
"No, this is Jim at work. We were wondering if you're coming in. It's starting to get busy."
"Shit." The clock said 4:45. "Shit. I'll be right in."
"Are you feeling all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm on my way."
I hung up the phone and went to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet while the shower warmed
up. Depression weighed down on me. Late for work, hung-over, no Chris. Even Michael
was gone.
I stepped under the hot water. "This is it," I said as I washed the grime from my skin. I
started to see a future with less pain. Michael would have to go, but so would Chris.
My car sat in the driveway where I usually parked. Michael must have been drunker than I
was last night, or he might have moved it for me, but that would have been too nice. He'd
have rather I wandered around looking for it and was late to work.
By the time I did get to work, I felt better. I called Michael from the payphone in the lobby. "I
can't see you anymore," I said.
It was his turn for silence.
"I need to be alone, I think, to work through what happened."
I don't think he was surprised.
I told him to call me sometime, maybe after a week had gone by. He said he didn't think that
was a good idea, and I didn't argue. Neither of us felt like fighting.
I went home sober and alone that night. In the morning, I took out all my pictures of Chris,
including the ones of car, after the accident, and his funeral. I spent all day on the floor with
the pictures, crying, laughing, and remembering.
I knew I couldn't forget Chris. I would see his face for the rest of my life.
My favorite picture shows us at the zoo. We asked a tourist to take it. Chris has a
stuffed-animal monkey wrapped around his neck, and he's laughing so hard his face has
turned red.
* * *
His mother called me the day of the accident. I went to the hospital, even though he'd been
pronounced dead at the scene. I kept looking at the corners, waiting for him to come around
one, laughing. I imagined myself telling him it was a bad joke, a horrible, mean joke, and I'd
never forgive him for it. But I would, and we'd laugh, and he'd kiss the tip of my nose. We
were two little kids playing in the world, before the accident.
After the funeral, I went to a bar by myself. I got drunk and told Michael, whom I'd just met,
all about Chris. I took Michael home with me that night.
I wasn't like that, before or after. Later, I would refer to the Michael time as the drinking time.
And even later still, I would forget about it, and only remember Chris.