Remember Tomorrow

My sister wanted me to start dating again. It’s all she ever talked about when she called me, though I rarely answered. I was busy enough trying to keep everything together, going over the Wall, making it all make sense. She didn’t understand my obsession—or my condition, as she called it—though she claimed to have seen it before. Wasn’t Mom the same way at the end, the way she collected all those magazines and kept them meticulously in order by issue and date, in floor-to-ceiling stacks in her bedroom? Remember how she couldn’t even open the door?

I always agreed and said yes, she was just like that, but to be honest I couldn’t remember. And that’s what scared me. I couldn’t remember a thing about her. Not the magazines, or her bedroom, her house, her face, her voice; I didn’t even remember that I had a mother some days. I knew I must have, and if I really tried, I could sort of remember going to the store with her, holding her hand, but it wasn’t her hand I was holding. Just the disembodied hand of a dream, a crutch for a memory that never was, one of so many that had danced out of my mind before they became part of the Wall.

I kept Zoe right in the center, a series of photographs that crisscrossed our lives: one from childhood, when she was wearing some kind of witch’s costume in the backyard. I couldn’t imagine why she would do that, though a few kids were wearing costumes in the background, so maybe it was a birthday party? Others were from high school, college, even last year, when we went to that one place…the one with the…you see, now I’ve forgotten. Another memory that didn’t make it onto the Wall in time.

I knew she was coming over on Tuesday, so I got up extra early to rehearse everything on the Wall I needed for our conversation. I found her husband (bad photograph, probably too old by now), the directions to her house (traced on the map), receipts from the last two times we ate out (veggie wraps and tacos), and her birthday three months from Tuesday (circled on the calendar). She didn’t like it when I had one of my lapses, since she could see me go blank and try to change the conversation to something I did remember. That’s when the whole dating business began. After I lost Freddy (that’s what she said, Freddy had no clue) she thinks I just retreated into a shell of home, work, and bad movies (how can my sister not like Amelie?). I needed to get out and see the world, she insisted; try to remember why I was on Planet Earth in the first place.

But the truth was, if it wasn’t up on the Wall, it didn’t exist and I couldn’t find it no matter how many years I spent looking. I tried to tell her that once, but she didn’t like the Wall, much less when I brought it up in conversation. And she told me definitely not to mention it on a first date. “Wait until you’re married a few years, expecting your second kid, then mention the Wall if you have to. But never let him see it.”

I had almost forgotten she was coming over when I heard her voice at the door: “Helen? I’ve got coffee—open up!” She had a key, so I don’t know why she didn’t just enter; I think she was scared she would see me doing something she couldn’t ignore, like painting Satanic messages on the ceiling in a Pee-Wee Herman mask (I kept a picture of him, too, for some reason). I took one last look at her on the Wall, in every age and attitude, before unlocking the door. 

It was always a shock to see her, since I almost expected to greet the five-year old in my favorite photo. Obviously, she had aged a lot since then, though I think most people would still call her the ‘pretty one.’ She had long curly hair, somewhere between blond and light brown (again, unlike the photos) with broad cheeks and the smallest freckles. She worked hard at staying young, and if I didn’t know her better, I would call it a job well done. But when I looked into her eyes, I could still see the little girl I remembered, always crying because she had failed a test or because no one liked her.

“I’m not selling encyclopedias! Scoot,” she said, waving two hands full of coffees. “I got your favorite.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said, moving aside.

“You look good, girl,” she said, giving me a quick kiss. “If I didn’t know what a head case you were, I might fuck you myself.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said, taking the cup. “But you should save those lines for your husband.”

I could see her eyes dart to the Wall with that familiar expression—different application of the word ‘fuck.’

 “So let me guess, you’ve got someone you want me to meet,” I prompted.

“Not just someone: maybe the one,” she said, switching gears. “He’s straight-up gorgeous. But like super kind, he really listens to you. The whole time you’re talking, his eyes are up here, never down here, or here. Anyway, I’ve told him all about you. He’s definitely interested.”

I took a sip of my ‘favorite’ drink to hide my annoyance. Jesus Christ, I liked this? I couldn’t even explain what it tasted like, but rotten pumpkins with rancid cinnamon and a dash of clotted caramel came close. I’m sure tons of fake-coffee drinks that tasted better than this! If only I remembered which ones…

“No thanks, I’m pretty full-up this week,” I said, plopping down on the couch.

“Full-up?” she said, stifling a laugh. “Doing what? Putting up more reminders on your wall? Is there a square inch left? Or will you be moving into the hallway next?”

She said this in a different pitch of voice, clearly imitating someone she thought I should recognize (presumably our mother). Even so, her point landed: Zoe never understood why I needed to remember so much. Why not simply let it go, she liked to ask me. Who cares if you forget how to get to the grocery store or that Italian place? Use your phone! No one remembers shit anymore, so why should you be any different?

Because I am, we both are. I knew people no longer remembered their friends’ phone numbers, or how to read a map, or use an encyclopedia. But that was different; they were just out of practice. They could get it all back with a little hard work. Not me. Once I forgot, it was gone. And not just here, in my head, but out there, too. Whenever I forgot my mom, she disappeared. I know Zoe said she had died, but it was never clear how she had, or exactly when. She was just always referred to in the past tense. That’s how I know I did it. I killed them both, along with most of my childhood friends, and everyone I had kissed, snuggled, or casually slept with. If I didn’t put it on the Wall and commit it to memory, like I was cramming for a history exam, it didn’t stick around long enough to remember. I was a serial killer of past lives with over a thousand deaths on my conscience. Thank God I couldn’t remember each one.

“So look, just meet him, okay? Just one date. He’s really nice, and handsome, and…honestly, I think you’ll hit it off,” she insisted, sitting beside me. “Please?”

I scrunched up my face, trying to suggest that I would think about it, but really, really didn’t want to. I mean, what if I liked him and wanted to see him again? Then I would have to find some way to sneak him onto the Wall, and he would become another exam question to commit to memory every morning. Or worse, if I hated his guts, then I would forget him altogether and so much for Mr. First Date. His friends would all wonder what happened to him; eventually they would contact the police, put his face all over supermarkets and telephone poles. And even then I wouldn’t remember.

“Look, maybe I can help you take the first step. I know how hard it can be,” she said, getting up slowly, methodically. “Let’s say I help you take down just one of these things? You can even help me choose which one. And then, maybe tomorrow, we can try another?”

I was barely paying attention, so I shook my head noncommittally, which she could interpret however she liked. But when I heard the rip of scotch tape I leapt to my feet in a white-hot panic.

“Hey, goddamnit! Leave that alone!” I said, reaching for the photo.

“What?” she said, with a panicked laugh. “It’s just a picture of me at some Halloween party. What the hell do you need this on your wall for? I’m right here: you can see me, can’t you?”

“I need that,” I said, snatching it away from her. “Just leave it alone.”

I ran to the cabinet to get more scotch tape, all the while hearing the word she just used: Halloween. I had no memory of what it referred to, not even a little tickle at the back of my mind. Just blank.

“Helen, listen to me,” she said, catching me on the way back to the Wall. “You don’t need this. I know you think you do, I get that. But it’s not saving lives. I mean, if you have to try so hard, maybe you’re doing it wrong? Maybe what you think is forgetting is your mind’s ways of healing? Of making you well?”

“Healing? Are you fucking kidding me? Healthy to forget your own family? To let them die?” I said, pushing her off.

She let me go, and I ran back to the wall, taping my five-year-old sister back in place, right beside her fifteen-year-old self pretending to smoke a cigarette. My whole body throbbed with relief. I could see her now; she was right where she should be. I would never send her away.

I knew she didn’t understand, maybe she couldn’t even if she wanted to, but that wasn’t important. Her heart was in the right place. She loved me, and wanted me here, just like I wanted her up there, safe on the wall. So I gave a weak nod and said okay, I would do it. One time, one date. She laughed and took me in her arms, telling me how proud she was, and how if I didn’t get laid in a week, she would slap the next picture on the Wall herself.

After a few awkward, introductory texts I agreed to meet ‘Benjamin’ the following night around 6:30 at a trendy Mediterranean/Turkish place. I circled the address on the map and could see all the streets that led to it, as it was just across the street from the local post office. After that I filed it away, almost wondering if the time between night and day would obliterate all trace of the date, our texts, his alleged existence.

Zoe called me right after work, reminding me what not to say, how to dress, when I should arrive (not early, but definitely not too late), when to laugh, when to just smile, and how much I should eat (as little as possible, and no dessert). I half-heartedly followed her instructions, showing up just a few minutes late in a simple black maxi dress and sandals. As soon I stepped inside, I began scanning the tables, wondering if he was already there, if would know a ‘Benjamin’ by sight if I saw one.

My heart dropped when I saw a man lock eyes with me, and give a little smile of approval. But he quickly returned to his meal when a woman returned from the bathroom and sat beside him, cutting me a nasty look (thank God). Otherwise, there was no one sitting alone, no one waiting for me. With any luck he had had second thoughts and stood me up, which would give me something to lord over Zoe for months, if not the rest of our sisterly existence.

The host approached me and asked if I wanted to be seated, but I begged off, said I had the wrong place, thanks anyway. As I turned to leave, I ran into someone, elbowing him right in the stomach, watching him yelp and double over.

“Oh shit! I’m so sorry!” I said, kneeling down to catch him.

“No, really…fine,” he said, clutching his chest. “Just surprised me.”

He looked up at me, all scraggly black hair and hang-dog looks, coffee-brown eyes, week-old stubble. I couldn’t remember if I had a type, or what my previous boyfriends (or Freddy) had looked like, but this had to be a close approximation. And yeah, he was a Benjamin all over. 

“Helen, right?” he said, shaking it off.

“Oh, yes…Benjamin? Or is it Ben?”

“Ben, yes, whatever’s easier. Sorry we had to meet like this. I was waiting outside, in case…I mean, your sister said you might back out,” he said, with a chuckle.

“How considerate,” I grimaced. “I guess she set the bar pretty low.” 

“Not at all, I’ve been thinking about this all day. And it was definitely worth the wait,” he said, brushing his hair aside. “Should we sit down?”

The host ushered us to a small table just beside the window, where we could watch people cross the street and cars try—and fail—to parallel park. We ordered the house wine and I tried to convince myself that I might actually enjoy this, since sharing dinner with a handsome man beat a couch-side cup of Ramen. We traded the usual breaking-the-ice factoids, none of which raised any red flags, and if anything, made me wonder how much he had been coached (he liked cats and Jane Austen—really?).

“I have to admit, I’ve never been here before. Or even to a place like this. I’m not sure what to order,” he said, scratching his head dramatically.

“I think I’ve been here before, maybe a few times,” I said, flipping open the menu. “That’s right, I think last time I got the Hunkar Begendi. It’s amazing, just lamb and smoked eggplant in tomato sauce. Oh, are you vegetarian?”

“I tried once, but it didn’t take. I try to eat responsibly, but when I’m hungry, it all goes out the window.”

“Then don’t be ethical on my account. Let’s make a pact to eat whatever we like and split the cost and the calories,” I said.

“Deal,” he agreed.

I broke pretty much every rule Zoe laid out for me, particularly in eating messy food (Swordfish kebab), accepting food from his fork (Hunkar Begendi), talking with my mouth full (twice), about egghead subjects (museum reparations), after ordering dessert (chocolate baklava). I just felt comfortable with him right away, and since I probably wouldn’t see him again, why the hell not? I could see he felt the same, and more importantly, that he wanted me to like him. Normally, I wasn’t good about reading people, or seeing if someone was attracted to me or not. This time, though, I got it all, even though he never said anything too obvious or cheesy. He just listened, paid attention, asked the right questions, said the right words.

By the end of the meal I was stuffed and giddy, though I stopped at the first glass of Merlot. Naturally we fought over the bill, though I always intended to let him pay, since a free meal was what brought me out of hiding in the first place. Afterwards, we stood outside in the dramatic cool-down of sunset, though it was still light, still warm. I didn’t know what to do or say next, since I had never planned to make it this far. It was up to him to figure it out, since I was just a visitor in his world, and wouldn’t even remember this conversation tomorrow. Though part of me began laying wagers that I actually would.

We decided to go back to my apartment to watch bad movies, since we apparently had the same love/hate relationship with Shanghai Surprise (I loved Madonna, he hated Sean Penn). Once there, we shared whatever off-brand Pinot Grigio I had at the time, and talked well into midnight while Shanghai Surprise played and ended. The whole time, he never made a move on me, even though we were sitting as close as could be, and even closer, as the night went on. We just talked and laughed and felt drunk on each other’s conversation, on ideas that seemed so personal that we had never heard them in a stranger’s voice. At one point I almost accused him of having an earpiece with Zoe’s minute-by-minute instructions, until I realized that even Zoe didn’t know or care about half of this shit. So unless he broke into the apartment and found my long-lost, and longer-abandoned diary, I would have to accept that he was as real as I was. Even if he didn’t exist in the morning.

We didn’t sleep together in the carnal sense, though we did sleep together: right there, sprawled out on the couch, clothes on and everything. I don’t know how or when it happened, but we got a bit tipsy, and I might have suggested he was in no condition to drive home, and he said he would stay on the couch, and I said I would get him a blanket, but by that time we were both half-asleep. He was facing in one direction, and me the other, though otherwise we were wound tight like a pretzel in love-knots. It was the best sleep of my life, or what little of my life I could still remember.

When I woke up, well before he did, I panicked. How embarrassing to fall asleep with my legs splayed over him, my dress hiked up like a floozy. I danced off the couch and paced the room, examining him from a distance, like a half-squashed roach that I was too scared to touch, but had to be tossed out the window. Why was he still here? Shouldn’t he have slipped out at three in the morning after realizing his mistake? But there he was, curled up and snoring contently, as if he had no intention of leaving at all. Should I wake him? Make him breakfast? Apologize? I had virtually no experience with this kind of encounter, or if I had, it never made it to the Wall in time.

But did I actually want him to go out of my life and the world forever? Couldn’t we squeeze in one more date, one more late-night movie, and this time, at least end with a kiss? All I had to do is squirrel away some memory of him to keep on the Wall, a stray napkin, even a receipt. But he had paid for the meal himself, and as I looked through the room, I found nothing that carried his stamp. That’s when I hit on the perfect solution: I found a pad of paper I kept at my desk along with a snapped-in-half charcoal pencil. I knelt beside him and sketched his face, quickly at first, then with increasing detail, going over every line and shape. It all came back to me, the dim memories of drawing classes in college, my old sketchbook, an art show where I got second place.

Once I finished, I found an out-of-the-way spot where I taped him up. I wouldn’t even see it myself right away, but as I slowly went over every piece and rehearsed their names, I would see him. And I would remember it all.

A moment later I heard him stirring, and we greeted each other awkwardly, but without regret. I offered to make him breakfast but he demurred, said he should probably get going, and hoped he didn’t ruin my couch. We shared a brief, but satisfying hug and he dashed off, promising to write me tomorrow. I wasn’t sure if he meant it, but said sure, that would be nice. Nice. Zoe would never approve.

I didn’t know what to think about this: was he “the one”? After a single date? Quite clearly, he seemed to really see me, like no one else did. But I barely knew him. I wasn’t even sure if I could know anyone with my “condition” (maybe Zoe was right)? So I tried to put him out of my mind, leaving it up to the Wall to decide. If I saw him tomorrow morning and thought, yes, that’s the man I’ve been looking for, then so be it. But if I just looked at him and strained to remember why I hung him up in the first place…

At some point I fell asleep, or what passed for sleep in my addled state, because when I opened my eyes, the room was bathed in light. Which was strange, since my poorly-placed windows never seemed to catch the light directly. Even stranger, I knew exactly what I wanted to do and why I wanted to do it: to see his picture on the Wall. I remembered. But I tried to pretend I didn’t, as if that mattered somehow, as if it would mean so much more if I saw it and said, yes, that’s him, I remember it all!

When I reached the Wall, it was the first picture I saw, even though I had obviously tried to hide it. I knelt down to it, marveling at how well I had captured the likeness, as if I had been drawing it my entire life. The thought gave me chills. This wasn’t the first time, was it? I suddenly remembered sketching his face over and over again, studying it, seeing it from every angle. I was always trying to find it, not just in a picture, but in every picture, everywhere I looked. I took a step back and looked at the Wall, which no longer looked like a random collage of pictures and maps and postcards. Why had I placed them in exactly this order, pushing certain colors together, emphasizing specific shapes? I didn’t see it at the time, but now that I knew what to look for, it’s all I could see.

His face. The entire Wall was a portrait of his face. Each small image melted together to make the whites of his eyes, the shadows on his cheeks, the curve of his nose. It was too deliberate to be an accident, too perfectly a work of art. If I had moved a single picture this way or that, the mosaic would crumble. Of course he looked familiar, I had been staring at him all this time, just waiting for him to come to life. It almost made sense: if the Wall could erase people from the world, it could breathe them into existence, too. Or was I merely resurrecting him, someone I had once loved from my past, who stubbornly refused to die?

There was a knock at the door. It was Zoe, it had to be. She had to come running to see what happened with her date, which I knew now was a set-up. Maybe he was Freddy all along. How could I know? But she would—and did, and was playing games with my life. Trying to discredit the Wall like she always did. We had to have it out face-to-face, once and for all, even if it was the last time we ever would.

I swung open the door and before I could say “Zoe!” I saw his face. The same face that had been staring at me from the Wall with an identical expression. It looked the way Zoe always sounded, compassionate, but sad, as if I was banging my head against the wall for no good reason. I almost fell backwards, terrified, since he knew everything she did; they were both in on it.

“I’m sorry it has to be like this,” he said, almost sheepishly. “But it was the only way to reach you.”

“What’s going on here? What have you done to me?” I asked, backing away.

“I’m not here to hurt you. In fact, I’m here to save you, if I can. That’s why you called me.”

“Bullshit. We just met. You don’t know a goddamned thing about me.”

“I know everything about you,” he said, with a gentle shrug. “I always have. That’s why you built all these walls between us. You were trying your damnedest to forget.”

“Forget? I built the Wall to remember?” I said, with a laugh. “I can’t remember anything or anyone! Not even…”

I was too scared to say the rest. That some mornings, I almost didn’t remember Zoe, or even myself. That I didn’t know why any of it even mattered. It reminded me of being a kid and trying to cram multiplication tables at the dining room table (you see—I remembered that!). I used to cry in frustration and think, “what is this for? When am I ever going to need this? We have computers and calculators for a reason!” Why did we need to keep all these memories of people and places that just made us miss everything that was no longer a part of us and made us want to run away and hide and find some piece of the world they couldn’t take away? What if I just wanted to let go and not hurt anymore? What’s so wrong with forgetting?

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” he said, reaching out to me. “A memory isn’t your life; it’s not you, it’s not your home. But I can take you back.”

“This is my home,” I said, though I didn’t feel it.

“Yes, it once looked like this. Just like I did, a memory you once held dear. You tried to pull it all together, to wrap it up tight around you for as long as you could. But it’s not enough. Not when what you really want is just on the other side of this wall.”

I let his arm take my hand, pull me closer to him. I hated him and wanted to punch his stupid face and jump out the window. But I also wanted him to hold me; I wanted to drop my head against his chest more than anything I’ve ever wanted. Because I knew exactly what it would feel like. And I knew it would never hurt again.

“How long have I been doing this?” I asked him.

“A long time. I get a little closer each time, but you never leave this room. It’s safe here. But part of you wants out. That’s why you called me,” he said, holding me close.

“I called you? But how? I don’t even know who you are. Not Benjamin, but…who? Freddy?”

“I’m the one thing you do remember, even if the memory isn’t real. That’s why you have to let go.”

“I’m so scared of forgetting,” I said, feeling myself go limp against him. “It’s all I have.”

“No, it’s just the beginning. There’s so much more I can show you. How about a second date? Wherever you like, I’m game.”

I knew he was joking, that we wouldn’t go anywhere together, much less have a second date. He meant something else, something I could almost see but was too scared to look at. So why did I invite him in, over and over again, when I knew he would leave me alone if I asked?

“Can Zoe come with us?” I asked, almost sobbing. “Like a double date?”

“I think she would like that. Take my hand, we’ll go together. I know the way.”

I took his hand and felt him leading me away, to the door, away from the room. With a sudden impulse I pulled away. I ran to the wall, leaning against it, feeling it anchor me to the room, to my past. He looked back at me, the way he must have looked so many times, for as long as we had met in this room.

“One more day. Just one more. Then I’ll be ready,” I said, hopefully.

“If you think it will help,” he said, nodding.

“I do. I’m not ready. But I’m close, I can feel it.”

“Should I come back tomorrow? In the morning?”

“Yes, yes, in the morning.”

“And you’ll remember?”

“I remember everything now,” I said, wiping away tears. “And I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cause problems.”

“I just want you to be happy,” he said, and gestured to the wall. “We all do.”

All the pictures returned: the maps, the postcards, the pictures of Zoe in childhood. I ran over to it and kissed the one of her with a cigarette, smiling, laughing. I still couldn’t remember where we had taken this picture, or why she was smoking. But I could see how happy she was, how young, how full of confidence in the life to come. And that’s all I wanted to remember.