Remind Me Again What Happened Read online

  “Found one!” Sophie laughed, and I was transported back to our kitchen, and Sophie, now wearing Charlie’s apron and standing next to me, looking quite pleased with herself. “What a flattering shade of yellow, don’t you think?”

  “You wear it well, Sophie.” I smiled at her, but I couldn’t shake the image of Charlie and Rachel from my mind. I must have hurt his feelings even back then, not eating his decadent breakfasts. I opened the refrigerator to see if we had any maple syrup or extra eggs in the fridge. Maybe tomorrow morning, I could surprise him with a postbirthday brunch.

  Sophie was opening another drawer, and as I returned to the present again, I saw her grabbing a stack of measuring cups and laying them out on the counter. There—she had known exactly where they were without having to look. Unless, of course, she had opened the drawer earlier in her search for the apron. I am, it turns out, an absolute failure at detective work. Even when I’ve drawn out my master plan, my brain gets the better of me. I wonder about these sudden flashes of memory, these vivid daydreams that erupt unexpectedly. Was I always like this? Scatterbrained and so easily distracted?

  Well, whether or not Sophie had known where the measuring cups were, it was obvious that she was comfortable in this kitchen. But perhaps this was just Sophie—comfortable in her freckled skin in every possible surroundings, taking up so very little space and smiling those helpful, reassuring smiles. I had to admit that she brought a brightness into our wintery house, and for that I was grateful. Did it even matter to me if she had been sleeping with Charlie?

  “You look like you want to ask me a question.” Sophie was gazing at me, lemon in her hand, with a slightly confused expression, and I realized I must have been staring at her for some time.

  “I’m so sorry, Sophie.” I put my hand on her shoulder and then immediately took it away as I saw my dingy fingers against her lovely blouse. “I have this tendency to get stuck in a thought these days without realizing it. I was just remembering an old kitchen Charlie and Rachel and I used to share. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, really. You just looked like you wanted to ask me something.” She put her hand over mine and put the lemon back on the counter. She smiled and waited.

  I looked her directly in the eye. Could she really be this friendly? This helpful? This trusting and open? It seemed impossible. There was no coating of guilt in any expression, no carefulness in her approach to me. She didn’t treat me like a sick person, and for that I wanted to hug her. “I was just wondering if you’d ever been here before. You look so familiar in this house or maybe it’s that this house seems so familiar to you, and to be honest, it’s hard for me to remember if I’ve ever seen you in this kitchen before. I have to admit that most of my life lately feels like déjà vu.”

  Sophie squeezed my wrist. “It must be so strange, Claire. Not quite remembering things. I actually have a terrible memory myself. My mom gets so frustrated with me when she wants to reminisce about a moment from my childhood and there’s nothing there for me, just a blank. Or if not a blank, just the thinnest of images and a sort of feeling. My brother is much better at remembering than I am. He also knows baseball statistics like a computerized robot and can tell you each of the members of Congress, state by state. I feel rather humiliated when I’m around him, especially when I see what a relief it is to my mother that he can really go there with her, you know? Anyway, I can’t imagine how hard it must be—all that you’ve been through recently.”

  I don’t know why Sophie’s hand on my wrist created such a stirring in me. Her hand was so cool and so light and so unfamiliar. Her easy kindness made me want to cry, and I think it was the first time I’ve wanted to cry since Charlie brought me home. Mostly I’ve been feeling so much anger and frustration and confusion that, yes, I’ve wanted to throw things or pack up my bags and run away in the middle of the night like a teenager, but I don’t think I’ve come close to crying. I’ve got too much to prove to myself and Rachel and Charlie—that I’m strong and that we’ll all get through this bad stretch.

  The kitchen—my kitchen—smelled of Sophie’s presence and lemons, and I felt so unsure of myself standing there, a stranger in this house that is supposed to be my home, and here was Sophie, looking so at home and trying to comfort me, and I wanted to ask her what it felt like to be at home, in her body, in her brain, in a living room or kitchen, or in a neighborhood, or in a family.

  I lifted Sophie’s hand from my wrist, and without really thinking about it, I kissed the inside of her palm, which made her blush. She turned back to zesting her lemons and I worried that I had upset her, but she just continued on with our conversation. “I’ve been here twice before. Once, you were supposed to be here, home from an assignment, but your flight had been delayed or canceled, so we had to have the dinner party without you. This was maybe a year and a half ago. And then there was last year’s office Christmas party, which Charlie ended up hosting after Nancy came down with a bad flu. So, yes, twice. I’ve been here twice before.”

  I watched Sophie. It would be impossible for me to tell if she was lying. I have no ability to read people anymore, a skill I think I must have possessed at some point, after so many years of searching out stories and talking to so many strangers. “So Charlie organized a party for me that I never showed up to? How awful of me.” My lumpy samosas were almost finished and I turned on the oven, listening to the pilot light clank and shudder. It was an old stove, and Charlie had shown me over and over again how to make sure the pilot lights caught and to listen to the clicks—one, two, three—that indicated the gas had come on.

  “Oh, not at all! I don’t think it was your fault. Something happened with your flight. A missed connection in London, maybe.”

  “Of course that’s what Charlie would have told you.”

  Sophie interrupted her measuring to glance up at me. “I don’t think you would have deliberately missed the party.”

  “Of course not.” Now I was trying to reassure her. “Maybe I didn’t even know about the party and delayed my return or something like that. I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose, though.” I don’t know why I felt so certain that I had disappointed Charlie, thwarted his welcome-home party for me, but it somehow seemed likely. There must be too many reasons to count for Charlie’s anger with me, his perpetual coldness. I must have hurt him quite badly and I must have been careless with my travel plans and embarrassed him in front of his friends, who must already have been wondering about me, where I disappeared to, why I never came home to be with Charlie in his life.

  “I’m sure,” Sophie said after a while.

  I was probably exasperating this poor girl with all my mental wanderings. There was so much I wanted to ask her: Did Charlie ever talk about me when I was away? Was he angry with me before I got sick? Did he confide in you, did he invite you over for wine and a chat, did you put your soft, slightly cool hand against his face and listen to him? Did he say that he missed me or that he didn’t feel like he knew me anymore or that he worried that I’d never return home? Did he show you photographs of the old brownstone in Brookline, of our wedding, of his family, who he no longer talks to? Did he run his fingers over your freckles and down the side of your neck and tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear? Did he bring you upstairs or did you lie down on the rug in front of the fireplace and did you make him feel wanted? Did you leave your scarf or your smell of mint or an eyelash that made him feel less alone? Did Rachel know about you? But instead, I just said, “Please don’t mind me, Sophie. I can’t keep a thought straight in my head these days. I’m sure you’re right about the party and I’m sorry I missed it and missed the chance to meet you sooner.”

  Sophie smiled at me again with a look of relief. It is not so hard for me to make an effort, to be charming in my way. And it was surprisingly easy to make Sophie feel welcomed. “Thanks for inviting me over to help, Claire. It’s nice being here with you.”

  And so she zested and I chopped dill an
d we filled the kitchen with sweet and warm smells and spent the afternoon together waiting for Charlie’s return.

  Charlie

  When Rachel and I walked in the door, there was a sort of forced, hushed silence, and for a moment I was sure that Claire had had another fall, that she was sprawled and bleeding on the kitchen floor or in the upstairs bathroom or in the garage, or that she had managed to contact a neighbor and they had rushed her off to the ER and the house was still holding on to the tumult of sudden panic and then quick departure. I had turned off my phone while Rachel and I ate lunch and had forgotten to turn it back on again, and when I reached for it, preparing myself for ugly news, there was a sudden cry of “Surprise!” and out popped Claire, her face flushed and grinning, and behind her, Sophie in my Colman’s apron, Nancy, Emile, Henry, and Mr. and Mrs. Culver.

  And then I felt Rachel pat me on the back and push me forward as she moved toward the gathering. She grinned at me, sheepish and knowing, and winked. She knew I hated surprises, and she was feeling quite proud of herself at keeping me fooled all afternoon long. Claire came up to hug me and she smelled like cinnamon and my deodorant. She was wearing an old sweater of mine. Perhaps she had forgotten to change after whatever cooking endeavor she had been up to, because the sweater didn’t match the rest of her outfit, which she had obviously put some effort into: a green blouse, which Rachel had picked out for her, peeking out of my collar, and a corduroy skirt that flounced about at her knees. She had put on some makeup, lip gloss and mascara, and had pulled her short bangs off her face with a hair pin. Her hair had just started to grow back into some semblance of a style. I felt suddenly quite protective of her, and a bit embarrassed for her mismatched outfit. She looked tired but happy, and I pulled her into me because I realized I was looking a bit baffled and silly.

  I kissed Claire awkwardly as she whispered, “Happy birthday,” into my ear. As she pulled away, she smiled and pointed at the small gathering. “Rachel and Sophie and I had it all planned out. We managed to surprise you—I wasn’t sure it’d be possible. You always know everything that’s going on long before the rest of us.” She tugged at my hand and brought me into the small crowd. Sophie handed me a glass of wine, and Emile gave me a half hug and patted me on the back. Nancy kissed me on the cheek, and the Culvers murmured their greetings, looking slightly out of place but good natured about the whole thing.

  “Sophie and I have been cooking and baking all your favorites this afternoon, so I hope you’re still a bit hungry after your lunch with Rach. Rach—can you put some music on? I have some CDs laid out on the table over there, some of Charlie’s favorites, but also some, well, more listener-friendly selections too.”

  Claire’s speech was hurried and her manner a bit too bright and artificial, and I wondered if she had been drinking—Sophie didn’t know that she wasn’t supposed to—but before I could ask her, she had left for the kitchen, and Henry was guiding me to the couch, explaining that it looked like a slow weekend for local news, so I should just sit down and relax and let him pour me a real drink.

  Sophie appeared at my left, her mouth already stained purple, and I imagined that she and Claire had shared some wine. What were they doing here together all afternoon anyway? I did want to ask her about the wine, but I noticed that she had taken off her shoes, and there was something so strange about seeing her feet on my living room floor, her painted toes pressing down onto the rug that Claire had sent me from Mysore during her first months away. The rug was perfect for this room, and when it had arrived, unexpectedly, on a Wednesday, a day I had happened to stay home sick, I had felt reassured that Claire was thinking about this house even though she was so far away, and she was thinking about it with such precise memory that the green threads matched the couch perfectly, and the amber weaving reflected the color of the walls so well that it was almost as if Claire could be in two places at once. She had felt closer to me when that rug arrived than she had in quite some time, and for a while I let that rug comfort me as some sort of sign that Claire would be coming home eventually, at the very least to admire her masterly selection of the most perfect rug for our living room.

  Rachel came up behind me and tousled my hair, and I wondered how long I had been staring at Sophie’s toes. Sophie hadn’t seemed to notice; she was being her typically polite and engaged self, listening to Mr. Culver explain the best ways to insulate windows during the winter months. It wasn’t enough to have storm windows; you also needed sealant and some plastic coverings; he could recommend a few things. If Sophie had a pen, he’d write it all down for her. Sophie is a kind girl; I’ve never seen her grow impatient with anyone.

  Rachel leaned against the arm of the couch. “Surprise, Charlie.” She winked and rested her hand on my shoulder. “It was Claire’s idea. She even came up with the plan for how to get you out of the house and Sophie over here to help her with the prep work.”

  I raised my glass to Rachel’s and clinked it lightly. “Sly like foxes, the three of you.”

  She was wearing a mischievous smile. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” Rachel winked again. “You haven’t even seen the feast these two have in store for you.”

  I clinked Rachel’s glass a second time; I was feeling a bit drunk already. The afternoon had already been filled with too much wine and it was barely five o’clock.

  Rachel was watching Claire through the kitchen’s pie window. Her expression grew a bit cloudy for a moment. “I didn’t know you still had that Colman’s apron. I wondered if you packed mine too when you moved up here; I haven’t seen it in years.”

  “I don’t remember the last time I wore mine. I’m not even sure what drawer Claire could have pulled it out of. Do you think she’s been drinking, Rach? She seems a bit overexcited, flushed, something.”

  “The apron couldn’t have been that hidden if Claire found it today. It makes me think about that horrendous meal we tried to cook for Claire when she turned in her thesis—you insisted on making a potpie, remember? Your mother had supposedly given you the recipe when you left for university. And I decided to make my mother’s recipe for stuffed cabbage. Were we trying to torture her? I think we ended up taking her out to the Indian restaurant on the corner because nothing we made was even edible. Do you remember?”

  “What an absolute disaster! I had forgotten about that potpie fiasco. The crust hadn’t even risen—it was like a soggy, gray lump of paste. My mother’s culinary legacy. Dear God.”

  I realized that Sophie had turned to Rachel and me, a pleading look in her eye. She seemed to need some rescuing, so I asked Mr. Culver how the UVM hockey team was faring this season, and at the same time Sophie asked how Rachel and I had come to be friends.

  I felt Rachel shift on the edge of the couch and tap her ring against her glass. A sure sign of her being uncomfortable.

  She shrugged her shoulders and half laughed. “Well, actually, we dated for a little while during undergrad at University of East Anglia. I was doing an abroad program in England and we were in a modernist poetry seminar together and he became my tour guide to all the local pubs, and then I lured him to America for his grad degree and we’ve had him ever since.”

  It was a strange way for Rachel to explain our history, I thought. It would have been quite easy for her just to say that we had all been flatmates during journalism school. Rachel hardly ever mentioned those distant moments from England. Typically, when anyone asked how we had all come to know one another, we had gotten into the habit of marking the start of our friendship as when we all moved into Rachel’s parents’ home.

  Sophie asked something about England and whether the food was really as awful as everyone said it was and whether the heath and cliffs were really so romantically tragic, and my attention was pulled back to Mr. Culver, who was explaining that they had a promising freshman forward from Montpelier, but they didn’t stand a chance against Cornell.

  Sophie and Rachel had begun whispering in slightly conspiratorial tones, Sophie now sittin
g close to Rach on the couch, and I wondered if maybe I should stroll around a bit and let them have their gossip. I hadn’t seen Claire since she had slipped away into the kitchen, which had been quite some time ago. I suppose I was still concerned that she had had a bit to drink, and if she had, there was no telling how her body would react.

  Rachel

  I felt a little bad for Charlie. He seemed uncomfortable at his own party, just as I had suspected he would be. Claire was right; Sophie was lovely—friendly and funny and very much comfortable in her own skin. But I don’t think she and Charlie were having an affair. Not that kind people don’t have affairs, but I couldn’t imagine either one pushing the other across some line. I think Sophie looked up to Charlie, and Charlie was most likely content to bask in her appreciation and play the mentor.

  To be honest, I wasn’t entirely comfortable either. I’m not used to parties anymore, and I felt like I was constantly putting my foot in my mouth. I don’t know when exactly this happened to me, but my default mode is sarcasm with a little irony thrown in. I can often feel the kinder, more patient and generous person still dwelling inside me, but then I open my mouth, and the uglier version erupts. I spend too much time by myself.