The Reminders by Val Emmich
For Jill, my one
It takes strength to remember, it takes another kind of strength to forget, it takes a hero to do both.
—James Baldwin
I’d give you anything I’ve got for a little peace of mind.
—John Lennon
Come Together
1
Dad forgot me.
I’m waiting with my guitar on the hard steps and there’s an ant by my sneaker. She’s just a tiny thing, but I’d rather be that, a tiny thing that no one notices, than a real girl who everyone sees but isn’t worth remembering.
Miss Caroline is waiting with me. The man in the car is ready to take her home, but she can’t leave until I do. “I’ll try your father again.”
She only has to press her phone once because she’s already called Dad and left him a message. After a quiet minute she pulls the phone away from her ear and makes her voice extra-sweet. “Don’t worry, Joan. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
She’s acting so nice, which only embarrasses me more. The one good part about this whole thing is that today was my last Young Performers class and as soon as Dad picks me up, I’ll never have to face Miss Caroline again.
“What time is it?” I say.
“Almost five,” Miss Caroline says.
Class ended at 4:30. Dad and I are usually in the car by 4:40. “I’m sorry.”
“Forget about it, Joan.”
But I can’t forget about it. That’s the whole problem. I can’t forget anything.
This isn’t just about Dad not coming to pick me up today. It’s about Dad and me seeing a red bird in a tree in 2011 and then me asking him if he remembers the other red bird we saw two years before that on Wednesday, April 29, 2009. He has to think about it for a while and then he says, “Yes,” but the way he says it, I know he doesn’t remember the other red bird at all and I don’t feel as close to him as I want to feel.
And it’s about Mom saying, “It never fails,” and me doing a quick count of all the times she’s said “It never fails” in the past six months (twenty-seven). Then I ask Mom to guess what the number is and I give her a hint that the number is less than fifty but more than ten, but instead of playing my game, Mom says, “What do you want from me, Joan?” and walks away.
And it’s about people telling stories about things that have happened to all of us and them making faces when I mention how they got a certain part of the story wrong. Then Dad has to explain to me that for most people, memories are like fairy tales, which means they’re simpler and funnier and happier and more exciting than how life really is. I don’t understand how people can pretend something happened differently than it actually did, but Dad says they don’t even realize they’re pretending.
Miss Caroline walks down the steps to speak to the man in the car. They talk quietly and then the man turns off his engine, which is good for the environment, and leans his seat all the way back like Grandpa does when it’s nap time.
Miss Caroline comes up the steps and says, “What are you drawing?”
I shut my journal. “Nothing.” I don’t mind if my future husband shows everyone my drawings after I die, like Yoko did for John, but right now my drawings are private.
John Lennon is Dad’s favorite musician and mine too. Dad wanted my first name to be Lennon but Mom vetoed that, which is something a wife can do, says Mom. So Dad put Lennon in the middle and that makes me Joan Lennon Sully. The middle is a good spot for important names. John Lennon’s middle name was Winston, after Winston Churchill, who is a person that everyone remembers.
People have all kinds of reasons for why they don’t remember. They blame it on their batteries dying, or their ears not hearing right, or just being too busy, or too old, or too tired. But really it’s because they don’t have enough room inside their boxes.
When I was turning five, Mom bought me a box for all my art. She was fed up with me leaving my drawings and projects around the house. She told me to choose which pieces were most important because there wasn’t enough room in the box to keep everything. That’s how it is with people’s brains. There’s only enough room for the most important memories and the rest gets thrown away. When I’m the thing that gets thrown away, because I’m not important enough, it’s hard not to get the blues like John Lennon on The White Album when he sings, I’m lonely and I wanna die. Especially when I would never throw anyone else away, because my brain never runs out of room. I just want it to be fair.
I wish I could always be important and never forgotten like John Lennon and Winston Churchill, but I know I can’t. I learned a few years ago that I’m not safe in anyone’s box, not even my own grandmother’s.
Saturday, February 13, 2010: Grandma’s new home.
“Grandma, it’s me, Joan.”
She looks confused. “I’m Joan.”
“I know, Grandma. I’m Joan too. I got my name from you.”
Dad pulls me aside. “She’s just tired, honey.”
“She doesn’t remember me.”
“Yes, she does. Of course she does. She just…”
“Grandma. It’s me.”
She tries. She really tries. But I’m not there.
Grandma Joan had to throw me out of her brainbox so she could have enough room for the lyrics to all her favorite songs. She remembered those until the day she died (Saturday, October 8, 2011).
I’ve tried to help people remember by leaving them notes and giving them hints. I even paid attention to the news when it said blueberries make brains stronger and I asked Mom to buy a huge carton and I made my family eat them all, but it was just a waste of time. If Grandma Joan was able to forget me, that means anyone can. Even Dad.
“What time is it now?” I ask, strumming my guitar.
“Five after five.”
A car is coming fast, but it passes by. I play a minor chord because I’m not in the mood for a happy sound.
Miss Caroline looks up at the clouds in the sunny sky and says, “It’s been so long since we’ve had rain.”
“Actually, it rained on June twentieth, which was a Thursday, and that was less than three weeks ago.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
She seems impressed. “Did you always have such an amazing memory?”
“No,” I say. “I got it when I fell on my head in Home Depot.”
Miss Caroline laughs, but I’m telling the truth. My friend Wyatt knows all about comic books and the Internet and he told me that falling on my head in Home Depot is what gave me my highly superior autobiographical memory and falling on my head again in Home Depot would make me lose it. That’s why I haven’t gone back to that store after all these years.