Karma Brown - The Life Lucy Knew

Does, I almost said. But I swallowed the word back. Lie, I thought. Say you don’t know, can’t remember how Daniel takes his coffee, or anything else about your life with him. Don’t hurt Matt more than he’s already been hurt.

But I didn’t want to lie about something I knew for sure; because that list was shorter than the list of things I didn’t know.

I turned to look at him, but his eyes stayed downcast. “Yes.”

He nodded, staring straight ahead. “I need to go in for a meeting, so I’m going to shower,” he said, pushing off the counter’s edge. “Thanks again for this.” Matt held up the mug, but then rather than taking it with him, he set it in the sink, untouched beside the first mug.

“Sure,” I murmured a few seconds later, too late because he’d already left the room. I stayed in the kitchen because I wasn’t sure where else to go, thinking about Daniel and missing him enough there was a physical ache in my chest. I wondered where he was this morning—drinking his coffee with cream and sugar, completely unaware I believed he was my husband.

6

“Where’s Matt?” Mom asked as she emerged from the guest room, fastening one earring and then the other. She had a Ziploc of tea bags tucked under her arm.

“Getting ready for work.” I busied myself with stirring more sugar into a second cup of coffee, nodded toward the Ziploc bag now in her hands. “I have tea, you know.” But then I stopped stirring. Did I have tea? I had no idea actually.

“Oh, it’s fine. This is always in my purse,” she said. “How are you this morning, Lucy love?”

“Good. Better.” Except I made coffee the way Daniel takes it and I forgot I liked sleeping in Matt’s T-shirts and there’s no way I’m fooling anyone, especially myself.

“Good!” Mom handed me the tea and took two bobby pins out of her pocket, putting them in her mouth and pulling and twisting a front section of her long, silver-blond hair before fastening it with the pins. “Dad has a meeting with the Realtor this morning, so it’s you and me, kiddo. I thought we could have a girls’ day.”

“A Realtor?” I asked, my voice ratcheting up. “Why? Are you and dad selling the house?” While I hadn’t lived at home in nearly a decade, that house safely held my history and the thought of them selling it made me anxious.

Mom waved her hand around, her bangle bracelets jangling. “Of course not,” she said. “Just keeping our options open. So, what do you think about meeting Alexis for a late lunch?”

“Sure. Maybe,” I replied, though my plan was to stay put here at home until my memory fixed itself. “I’m a bit tired, though.”

Concern flitted across her face and she frowned. “Of course you are, sweetie. This has been quite a...um, transition.”

Dad came out of the bedroom, fastening the Rolex watch he wore daily that Mom had gifted him for his fiftieth birthday. Now nearing sixty, Dad looked a decade younger and still taught political science at the University of Toronto. He hated being asked when he planned to retire, like many of my parents’ friends had, because he claimed to have no intention of ever quitting teaching. “Those kids keep me young,” he would say, referring to his university students. “Retiring is the fast track to the grave.”

“I’m going to spend the day at the house,” he said to Mom and me. “Fix that leaky faucet in the master bathroom and touch up the paint in the front hall before tonight’s class.” Those certainly sounded like tasks one did to get a house ready to sell...

“Good. Yes,” Mom said. “I’ll stay here with Lucy.”

“You don’t have to, Mom. Stop fretting, okay? You’re wrinkling with all that frowning.”

Mom ran her fingers across her forehead as if trying to smooth the worry away, then smiled and patted my cheek. “Sweetheart, I am your mother and it’s my job to worry. And these things?” She pressed a finger to the space between her eyebrows and rubbed vigorously. “These are my well-earned love lines.”

“Barbara, have you eaten anything yet?” Dad asked, glancing at Mom’s insulin pump monitor clipped to the front of her leggings.

“I’m fine, Hugh,” Mom replied, annoyance coloring her tone. Dad held up a hand in surrender and I caught his eye, both of us thinking Mom’s blood sugar was probably low. She got snappy when it dropped.

But Mom recovered quickly, her smile bright and irritation seemingly gone as she took the tea back from me. “I’m going to put the kettle on and call Alexis, find out about lunch. Sound good?”

“Maybe breakfast first, Mom?”

“Oh, not you, too,” she muttered good-naturedly. “Fine. Breakfast. I’ll make my famous pancakes and bacon.” Then she saw the look on my face, which was probably a confusing mix of longing and disgust. “Oh, right, you’re not eating bacon.”

Along with the strangeness of forgetting Matt my boyfriend and remembering Daniel my husband, I also woke from the coma believing I was a vegetarian, among other small and apparently out-of-character changes. So even though bacon sounded appealing, a louder voice inside my head shouted I did not eat animals. Even ones disguised as delicious, crispy breakfast food.

“Okay, how about oatmeal? Does Matt like steel-cut?”

Another thing I had no idea about. I shrugged, feeling all at once useless like I had earlier with the coffee fiasco.

“I’m sure he does,” she said, her tone soothing. “Back in a jiffy.”

I sat beside Dad on the couch and he set a hand on my knee, patting it a couple of times. “So how are you feeling this morning, kiddo?” His graying, bushy eyebrows rose with the question. The skin on his arms seemed darker than normal, especially for the time of year. He and Mom weren’t the snowbird types—they liked the cold, and Dad often said shoveling kept his core and arms as strong as when he was thirty years younger.

“Good. Better.” My now-standard response. I gestured to his arms, bared from the biceps down because of his short-sleeved golf shirt. “Hey, why are you so tanned?”

He looked at his arms, holding them out. “Am I?”

“Your arms are for sure,” I said. “Were you guys away somewhere?”

“No,” he replied. “Lots of walking outside lately. Plenty of good vitamin D sunshine this winter.”

I nodded and was about to ask the obvious—how one’s arms got tanned in minus-twenty-degree weather when coats were a requirement—when a pot clanged loudly from the kitchen, followed by a long string of curse words. “Mom okay today?”

“She’s fine,” he said. “You know how she gets when her sugar drops.” But then he looked pained, realizing his blunder.

“I know,” I said, nudging him with my shoulder. “I remember, Dad.”

He smiled, relieved. “She’ll be better after that oatmeal.”

“So, Mom says you’re meeting a Realtor this morning. What about?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. “Nothing for you to worry about, pumpkin.”

Telling someone not to worry about something was a great way to ensure she would do just that. “Dad, what’s going on?”

“Your mother and I are considering a few changes.”

“What sort of changes?” I asked.

Dad patted at my knee again. “There’s a house a few streets over your mother has had her eye on. So we thought we’d see what we could get for our place. The market is excellent right now. Quite excellent.”

“That’s it? You might move a few streets over? Why don’t you repaint the house or update the kitchen instead?”

Dad slapped his palms against his thighs as he stood. “All good ideas, sweet pea,” he replied. “I’d best get going. Tell your mom I’ll call her after the meeting.” He leaned over to kiss my cheek, told me not to bother getting up.