Элисон Скотч: The Song Remains the Same

Hollywood, I thought, a snap of a reminder of how different our worlds are.

Today, in the hospital room, Jamie drops his head an inch, an acknowledgment that Anderson is no longer a feasible get. The master has checked out of the competition.

“I told American Profiles as much. But I convinced them to take a serious look at just you.”

“Why?”

“Why take a look at just you? Or why would I do that?”

“Why to both.”

“The answer to both questions is the same,” he says. “When I pitched them, they told me that one of their producers has an in. Might have old information on your dad. To up the ante of the story, keep things going in case the audience is ready to move on.”

“What kind of information?” A wave of adrenaline couched as a question.

“Unclear,” Jamie says. “They didn’t want to play their hand until they were sure.” He hesitates. “The thing is, Nell, you asked me to find out what I can. So I am. I mean, without Anderson, this story could be dead or at least deadish. Dying. But if there’s a chance to find your dad…” He trails off because he doesn’t have to finish the thought out loud.

I consider it: it seems like an easy swap, a no-brainer.

“So this is what happens when I send an Iowa farm boy out to solve the great mysteries of my life.”

“This is indeed,” he says.

“The chance to maybe get the answers to everything.”

“And who,” he says, “wouldn’t bet the house on chances like that?”

“Sweet Child o’ Mine”

—Guns N’ Roses

T wo days before I am set to head home to my husband, to my old—but new!—life, my mother and Rory converge to ensure that I am okay returning home with Peter, to Peter.

“It’s your choice,” my mother says, all the while intimating her obvious preference. That moving forward mattered here, that forgiveness mattered here. “You are, of course, welcome to move back into my house.” She wraps her palm over mine.

“I’d take her up on that,” Rory says.

“Peter has assured me that he is more than capable,” my mother says, her words running over Rory’s.

“I’m sure he assured you of many things,” Rory retorts, the two of them behaving as if I’m not sitting there listening to their bickering.

“Whatever you’d like, dear,” my mother says, ignoring Rory. “Though certainly, your therapy will be easier to attend in New York, and there’s the whole issue of immersing yourself in your old world, which Dr. Macht says may help your memory.”

Rory pshaw s at this until she realizes she’s done so out loud, and then halfheartedly apologizes. “I wasn’t disrespecting Dr. Macht.”

“You’re still stuck on Peter,” I say.

“Some things are worth sticking to.”

“Exactly!” my mom interjects, either misinterpreting or opting to misinterpret. “Her husband. Her marriage. Let her try to make it stick.” She pauses. “And,” she tuts, “there’s this whole concept of your vision of your makeover. I know that this is integral to that. We all—you, Peter, everyone—deserve a second chance. Darling, don’t forget that I’m sixty-five and still reinventing myself!”

I listen to her, and while the old me might have rolled her eyes and internally retched, the new me tries to take heed. To do the opposite of what I’d have done before. And also, because, at the very least, I trust Dr. Macht. So I tell them that I’m choosing to make my marriage stick. I choose Peter, despite Rory’s misgivings, despite the small but pervasive voice that clangs in my ear, telling me otherwise. My mom tightens her grip on my hand and assures me that I won’t be sorry. Rory chews her gum and says nothing.

And now, the day is here. Time, after all, marches on, with or without my memory, ushering my old life forward with it. Peter flies in to helm my entourage in taking me home.

“You’ll be in excellent hands in New York,” Dr. Macht assures me, hours before my departure. “Besides, you must be itching to get back to it.”

“I am,” I concede, though in fact, I am not. What is there to get back to? Rory and I have agreed that I’ll start back at the gallery—tentatively, a bit of time here and there—when I have the energy, and Peter has offered to sleep on the couch while we work toward forgiveness. He said it exactly like that, and I knew that my mother had gotten to him, too.

My mom is bustling about, tittering and tattering—reminding me of a Road Runner cartoon I’d seen early one morning when I couldn’t sleep, and I wish she’d just be quiet . But I bite my lip and try to be grateful, try to remember that there are many things to be annoyed with, but my annoying mother caring too much probably isn’t one of them. She begins to hum to herself while puttering around the room, oblivious to the melody, until I instinctually join her. Then she pops her head up and says, “Oh!” and then melts a bit and embraces me and says, “We used to do that all the time when you were growing up.”

Despite her whirlwind, however, there isn’t much to pack, but there are instructions to be dictated, charts and forms to transfer, a long list of good-byes and thank-yous to be said, and I say them all genuinely, with mixed emotions. My grief at leaving the calm and predictability of the hospital is a lump in my throat that I try actively to swallow.

The airline has arranged for a private flight, which is sort of cushy and enjoyable, even if the last time I was cloud-bound, I found myself falling from the sky, but since I don’t recall this, it’s all kind of placid, inoffensive. There is an overly kind flight attendant who keeps misting up every time she refills my water glass, and the copilot personally comes out to introduce himself, and my mom clutches my wrist a little too tightly at the warning Dr. Macht had issued—that the flight might elicit some post-traumatic symptoms, that a few slips of memory might find their way in. But when I lean my seat back and close my eyes, my earphones and accompanying music drowning out the engine noise, there is nothing. I try to envision that conversation with Anderson on the doomed plane—him imbibing a few too many vodka tonics, me telling him the story of the way my marriage had gone to shit—but still nothing. It’s only when we hit a pocket of angry air, with Guns N’ Roses screaming in my eardrums from my iPod —“She’s got a smile that it seems to me, reminds me of childhood memories”— that something rises up in me.

Fear. Terror. Not a memory of the downed flight, but something almost as alive. Something else, from way back when, though what it is or what it was, I can’t nail down. It sparks up through my neck, my goose bumps alert like pinpricks, then down to my bowels, and for a good minute, I think I’m going to puke. I slam the headphones down, lower my head toward my lap, my ribs barking, and breathe.

Breathe.

Peter, alarmed, tosses aside his Sports Illustrated and peppers me to ensure that I’m okay, but I’m too busy mentally searching for something concrete, a sliver of a recollection, to answer. Finally, the turbulence passes and so, too, does the horror, the accompanying nausea.

“Did you remember?” he asks.

“Almost,” I say, because it feels like I almost did. “An emotional memory, maybe. My subconscious.”

“That’s a start,” he says, squeezing my hand. I right myself and squeeze it back. He is sturdy, this one. Not perfect. Ginger! But sturdy all the same. A port in this treacherous storm. So maybe my mother was right: that to find your way back to something worth keeping, you have to bob and weave, throw your fists up, and fight. I can do that: throw my fists up, even if my initial instincts— he’s too meaty, the betrayal too large —told me otherwise.