Karma Brown - The Life Lucy Knew

When I first lay down on our bed, I chose the left side. For one, that was where I always slept, and two, there was a small stack of folded T-shirts near the pillow on the right side. Then my head hit the pillow and the scent of Matt (a soap and citrus smell that was distinctly him) wafted into my nose. It took me a few minutes to realize I was on his pillow, on his side of the bed. But...but...the left side of the bed was mine, the right Daniel’s! However, it seemed Matt and I had the opposite arrangement, and I cried as I switched the pillows, though I stayed on the left side.

“I put the T-shirts you left out in the dresser. Hope that’s okay.” Being up half the night meant I had time to not only put Matt’s shirts away but also reorganize my clothes in the other half of the dresser. I also learned Matt rolled his socks and boxers, and kept his side of the closet much tidier than mine. “I didn’t want them to get wrinkled.”

That was an excuse—the T-shirts had zero wrinkle risk, the cotton so soft it seemed a crease would never be able to hold its shape. No, I had put the shirts away because they reminded me of the boyfriend I couldn’t remember who was sleeping on the couch right outside the bedroom door. Out of sight, out of mind.

Matt gave me a look I had a hard time deciphering. “Sorry. I probably should have left them. I thought—” I began.

He waved away the apology. “Totally fine. I, um... Actually, I had left them out for you.” He dog-eared the novel in his hands—folding over the bottom corner of the page—and smiled, but it did little to hide his pained expression. His fingers strummed the book’s cover in a relentless rhythm as he seemed to struggle with what to say next, finally shrugging before landing on, “You like to sleep in my T-shirts.”

“Oh.” A blush crept up my neck as I imagined Matt carefully choosing the shirts in anticipation of my homecoming, placing them just so on my side of the bed.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Matt smiled again, more convincingly this time, and stretched his arms high over his head. His T-shirt rose above his belly button, showcasing a toned stomach, and I averted my eyes. How could I explain it felt like cheating, being here with Matt, glancing at his bare stomach this early in the morning? None of this made any sense. A wave of vertigo hit me and I held tightly on to the back of a chair, hoping Matt wouldn’t notice. Why did I think this was a good idea, coming back here? I should have stayed with my parents.

“I turned the coffee on. Want a cup?” he asked, after what felt like an impossibly long and uncomfortable silence.

“Yes, definitely. But I can get it.”

“No, no, you sit.” He stood quickly, still in nursemaid mode, and I told him to relax.

“It’s just coffee, Matt. I’ve got it.”

“You’re sure? Okay, thanks.” He settled back onto the couch, turning on the television as though to prove everything was just fine. This was a perfectly normal morning for us.

I was relieved to find the mugs, as I remembered, lined up on one of the kitchen shelves. The faint sound of a newscaster’s voice made its way into our galley kitchen, even though Matt kept the volume low so as not to wake my parents. Matt was thoughtful. That I remembered well.

I glanced at the calendar tacked on the fridge while the coffee finished brewing. It was March already—it was still shocking to think I’d spent nearly all of February in a coma. So much time lost. Scanning the days, I saw Matt had a dentist appointment in two weeks and there was a thirtieth birthday party for someone named Jake (Jake from work?) at the end of the month. The rest of the days were blank, except for every Monday and Friday where someone—Matt, I assumed—had written in Lucy: Dr. Kay. Dr. Amanda Kay was the outpatient psychologist who was going to help me deal with the side effects of my head injury, with my “new normal.” I flipped ahead a few months, saw the many standing appointments and sighed wearily.

The coffeemaker beeped and I poured the hot liquid into the mugs, adding cream and a half teaspoon of sugar to both. It was only as I walked back into the living room that it occurred to me I wasn’t sure how Matt took his coffee.

Paralyzed by this realization, I stood still, the mugs clutched in my hands. I must have made Matt plenty of morning coffees over the past two years. But my memory failed to kick in, and when Matt shifted his gaze from the television to my statue-still stance, I gave up and asked, “How do you take your coffee?”

The wince was nearly imperceptible, but I caught it. “However you made it is fine,” he said. His eyes locked on mine as if hoping to convey this was the truth. But while I understood what he was trying to do, should have been grateful for it, the gesture made me angry.

“No, it isn’t fine,” I snapped. “Please tell me.”

He paused. “Black.”

I stared into the coffees, both of which were beige thanks to the pour of cream. “Right.” I turned back toward the kitchen and he was up a second later and following me.

“Honestly, I’m fine with however you made it. Lucy, wait.” He took the mugs with cream and sugar out of my hands and set them on the countertop. “It’s okay,” he said softly, pulling me to his chest. “This is all part of it. It’s okay.”

It should have been comforting, but our closeness felt unnatural. Matt was much taller than me (taller than Daniel) and we didn’t fit together easily. I wondered where I used to put my head when he hugged me—against his sternum, maybe? Because that was about where my cheek rested now. With Daniel it was between his neck and shoulder, right under his chin. “Don’t be upset,” Matt said again.

“I’m not upset.” I pressed my face into the soft fabric of his shirt, overcome by the hints of lemon and cedar and the warmth of him as I tried, unsuccessfully, to hide my crying. I didn’t remember being so emotional before my accident, but this head injury had left me with unruly and unpredictable mood swings. The doctors told me the moodiness would probably get better, but it might not, too. That had been their answer to everything. Your memory might resolve...or it might not. Your headaches will likely improve...but there’s a chance they won’t. Your brain is astonishing, will rewire as needed...but you may be left with a few holes, perhaps long-term. No one wanted to promise anything, which meant I also couldn’t count on anything. I was stuck waiting to see what happened along with everyone else.

I pulled back, stared into the face that was so familiar and yet not at all in this context. “I need to know these things, Matt. If I’m going to... I need to know—” I took a deep breath. “The truth. Even about how you take your coffee. It matters, okay?”

“Okay, Lucy.” He ran a thumb under my eyes before lifting the thin fabric of his shirt with his hand and using it to gently dry my cheeks. I was pretty sure he wanted to kiss me, his gaze lingering on my lips. My heart beat fast and the vertigo was back, making my socked feet unsteady under me, as though I was standing on a floating dock. Do I...want him to kiss me?

“You all right?” he asked, holding me tightly.

“Yes.” I wasn’t, and we both knew it, but he accepted this without argument. A moment later we separated, though I wasn’t sure who took a step back first. We leaned against the countertop, side by side, and Matt reached over for our coffees, handing me mine.

He grimaced after he swallowed his first sip, then laughed. “This is terrible.” I laughed, too, glad for the distraction.

“Here, let’s start over.” I took his mug and set it into the sink, pouring him a new coffee.

He smiled as he took it, leaning back again, though he didn’t drink it right away. He did say black, right? As I was about to clarify, he asked, “Did Daniel take his coffee with cream and sugar?”