Forgetting Frank Joseph

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A woman in baby blue scrubs with yellow smiley faces on them opens the door. She looks down at the clipboard she’s holding. “Mr. Joseph?” She looks back up and scans the faces of everyone in the waiting room. “Mr. Joseph?” You look around. Besides you, there’s a young woman loudly chewing a piece of gum while she stares at her phone and an elderly gentleman who sits serenely with his hands in his lap. He catches your look and says, in a wheezing barely-there voice, “Not me.” You look up at the nurse to find her staring at you. “Mr. Joseph? The doctor is ready for you now.” [[Stand up and follow her through the door.|2]] [[That’s not my name.|3]]

A thin woman with a short bob of brown hair sits at a mahogany desk. She turns with a smile as you walk into her office. “Frank,” she says. “It’s good to see you again. Please, take a seat.” There are two stiff-looking armchairs in front of her desk, facing her. You choose the one on the left and immediately sink down into the comfortable cushioning. “Well now,” you say. “This seat is a lot more comfortable than it looks.” Her smile broadens. “How are you doing today, Frank?” [[Who are you?|4]]

“You’re not Mr. Joseph?” the nurse asks. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you now. The young woman snaps her gum, staring up at you. All of a sudden, you’re aware of how hard the plastic seat underneath you is. You shift your legs, and the plastic lets out an embarrassingly loud groan. “No,” you repeat, “that’s not my name.” “What’s your name, sugar?” the nurse asks kindly. You—you can’t remember. How did you get here? The receptionist peeks her head around the plexiglass separating her from the waiting room. “That’s him, Laura. The one in the blue button-down.” The nurse—Laura—comes to stand in front of you. “Why don’t you come on back with me to see the doctor now, sugar?” [[Stand up and follow her through the door.|2]]

The woman leans back and tents her fingers. “I’m Doctor Judy,” she says. “Do you remember me?” “No,” you say. “How could I remember you, if I’ve never met you before?” Doctor Judy picks up a pen and writes something on a piece of paper. The piece of paper is sitting on top of a manila file folder labeled JOSEPH, FRANK. “Frank,” Doctor Judy says, “I’m concerned that you’re losing bigger and bigger chunks lately. Have you been taking your meds every night, like we discussed?” [[I don’t remember.|5]] [[I have these weird marks on my arm.|6]]

“It’s important that you take your meds, Frank. Why don’t you take them right now, while we talk?” She holds out two oblong white pills and a paper cup filled with water. [[Take the pills.|7 -- wake up]] [[What are these for?|8]]

“I have these weird marks on my arm,” you say. You’ve only just now noticed them. You hold your arm out for inspection: there’s a series of marks on your arm, like a tally, maybe. Four straight vertical lines and then a horizontal line through them. Doctor Judy nods. “Do you remember what those marks mean, Frank? They mean that you took your medicine five times this week.” You stare at your arm, then back up at the doctor. “It’s important that you take your meds, Frank. Why don’t you take them right now, while we talk?” She holds out two oblong white pills and a paper cup filled with water. [[Take the pills.|7 -- wake up]] [[What are these for?|8]]

The sound of birds chirping wakes you from a dreamless sleep. You open your eyes to see the sun slanting in through your window to land on the foot of your bed, which explains why your feet are so warm. You yawn and stretch before sitting up. The other side of the bed is empty. Used to be, Martha would throw an arm over you in the morning, beg you not to get up yet. “Five more minutes,” she would mumble, without opening her eyes. You slide your feet into your worn gray slippers and shuffle your way to the bathroom. Nothing like a long, steady piss to start the day. When that’s done, you flush without putting the seat down, wash your hands, and shuffle toward the kitchen and your first cup of coffee. [[Read the newspaper.|9]] [[Watch TV.|10]]

“What are these for?” you ask. You know better than to just take mystery pills that someone offers you, even if she is supposedly a doctor. Hell, you just met this woman. “I’m not even sick. I feel fine.” Doctor Judy gives you a look suspiciously bordering on pity. “You are sick, Frank. You just can’t remember. The pills help you remember.” You aren’t sure. You don’t remember being sick. But isn’t that her point? Maybe you just can’t remember. You try to remember something, anything. Your name is Frank Joseph. You must be old, based on the wrinkles and age spots on your hands. But you can’t remember. [[Take the pills.|7 -- wake up]]

You skim the newspaper while drinking your coffee. Article after article is depressing; this town sure is going down the shitter. Muggings, robberies, two little girls raped on their way home from preschool. Disgusting. Obama’s giving his last State of the Union address next week, and the newspaper has devoted an entire section to guessing what topics he’ll cover. Around noon, you head on down to Deb’s, the diner on the corner of Main and 5th. It’s the usual crowd in there, and you nod to everyone politely as you take your seat at the bar. “Afternoon, Frank,” Deb says. “The usual?” “The usual,” you confirm. She plops a lukewarm glass of water in front of you before moving toward the kitchen. [[Watch TV.|11]] [[Chat.|12]]

You flip through TV channels while drinking your coffee. At this time of day, your only options are the news or Home Improvement reruns. You settle for the news, as always, and as usual it’s depressing; this town sure is going down the shitter. Muggings, robberies, two little girls raped on their way home from preschool. Disgusting. Obama’s giving his last State of the Union address next week, and they spend a good 25 minutes on guessing what topics he’ll cover. Around noon, you head on down to Deb’s, the diner on the corner of Main and 5th. It’s the usual crowd in there, and you nod to everyone politely as you take your seat at the bar. “Afternoon, Frank,” Deb says. “The usual?” “The usual,” you confirm. She plops a lukewarm glass of water in front of you before moving toward the kitchen. [[Watch TV.|11]] [[Chat.|12]]

The TV above the bar grabs your attention while you wait for your food. They’ve got the news on, as usual, with the volume too low for you to hear. Luckily, they’ve got captions popping up at the bottom of the screen. Some pundit someone-or-other is talking animatedly, his face shiny with sweat. IF WE’RE TALKING ABOUT WMD’S, STEVE, the caption reads, WE CAN’T AVOID DISCUSSING NORTH KOREA’S THERMONUCLEAR WEAPONS TEST, WHICH— Deb’s head appears before you, blocking the screen, as she sets a plate down in front of you. “Get you a cup of coffee, too?” she asks. [[No thanks.|12a]]

The seat to the left of you is empty, but to the right is a thin man with round glasses. You’ve chatted with him once or twice before. “Afternoon, Joe,” you say. “Frank,” he says with a nod. “Keeping up with this North Korea business?” You shake your head. “What’s happened now?” He sips his coffee pensively before responding. “Turns out they’re testing some thermonuclear bomb or some such. Seems like bad news, you ask me. We oughta put a leash on them now, before it’s too late.” Deb comes back and sets a plate down in front of you. “Get you a cup of coffee, too?” she asks. [[No thanks.|12a]]

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“I’m sorry,” you say, taking a gulp of water to wash down your food. “Do I know you?” He stares at you. “Marty. Marty Frauzer? I just saw you a couple days ago.” “Just saw me?” “Listen, Frank,” he says. He’s practically whispering now—it’s clear he doesn’t want to be overheard. “Everything happened as you said it would. What do I do now? Do I pay the ransom?” “I’m sorry,” you say again. It’s clear that this man thinks he knows you, but you’re positive you’ve never seen him before. “Remind me again how we know each other?” You’re not sure why, but your heart is racing. You’re expecting the man to start shouting, his face turns so red. But he masters himself visibly, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths. “You’re right,” he says. [[You are?|13a]]

By the time you get home, you’ve mostly forgotten about the man at the diner. It isn’t until you’re rattling around the fridge looking for a snack that you spot a post-it note that makes the hair on your arms stand on end. Wednesday, 9 am, it reads, Marty. It’s your own handwriting, but you have no memory of writing it. On the back of the note is an address just a few blocks away. The note, bafflingly, was hidden underneath the carton of eggs. You grab the note and sit at your small kitchen table, tapping the corner of it tic-tic-tic on the wood while you think. The meds. It has to be the meds Doctor Judy prescribed. They’re making you forget things. You’ll have to tell her about it the next time you see her. Meanwhile, probably best that you don’t take tonight’s dosage, to be safe. Wednesday at 9 am. That gives you two days to try to remember who in the world this Marty is. [[Make dinner.|16]] [[Call Christina.|17]]

It’s unusually warm for this time of year, and you take a slow stroll around the block a few times just to enjoy the warm breeze. The tenants of your neighborhood are about as run-down around the edges as the little houses they live in. There’s Mrs. Cooper, on her knees in the dirt, forever weeding her tiny garden, her hair always a big frizz of white. There’s Old Bill, who always jokes that the day you don’t see him sitting out on his porch, you’ll know he’s finally keeled over. The man is ancient, at least a couple decades older than you, and you’re no spring chicken. There’s Miss Lucy, who brought you a casserole after Martha died and yet still insists on being called Miss Lucy. By the time you get home, you’ve completely forgotten about the man at the diner. It isn’t until you’re rattling around the fridge looking for a snack that you spot a post-it note that makes the hair on your arms stand on end. Wednesday, 9 am, it reads, Marty. It’s your own handwriting, but you have no memory of writing it. On the back of the note is an address just a few blocks away. The note, bafflingly, was hidden underneath the carton of eggs. You grab the note and sit at your small kitchen table, tapping the corner of it tic-tic-tic on the wood while you think. The meds. It has to be the meds Doctor Judy prescribed. They’re making you forget things. You’ll have to tell her about it the next time you see her. Meanwhile, probably best that you don’t take tonight’s dosage, to be safe. Wednesday at 9 am. That gives you two days to try to remember who in the world this Marty is. [[Make dinner.|16]] [[Call Christina.|17]]

You’ve never been much of a cook, but since Martha passed you’ve gotten pretty good at making simple meals for yourself. You keep a weekly meal plan on the fridge for yourself, and you’ve got BAKED ZITI penciled in for today. You panic for a moment—did you remember to buy cheese?—but it looks like you’ve got all the ingredients already. You’re feeling ambitious, so you make the sauce from scratch following Martha’s old recipe, written on a notecard in her neat handwriting. The notecard has a couple of small grease stains on it. If Martha was here, she’d say, “That’s how you know it’s a good recipe.” But she’s not, and you work in silence, tasting after each step like she used to do. The dish is assembled and in the oven, and you’ve just settled yourself on the couch, when the phone rings. You shuffle back to the kitchen and pick up the cordless telephone from the counter where it’s always been. [[Hello?|16a]]

You realize that you haven’t spoken to Christina yet today. You can never keep track of her schedule, but you figure you might as well try her, and if she’s busy she just won’t pick up. You head over to the old cordless telephone on the counter, but when you pick up and hear the dial tone, you realize you can’t remember Christina’s phone number. Oh right, you remember—you’ve got it saved in your cell phone. Now where did you leave that thing? You pat your pockets, scan the counter, and finally spot your cell phone on the kitchen table, underneath a stack of mail. Christina picks up on the second ring. “Hi, Dad.” “Hi sweetie.” [[How was your day?|18]] [[How are the kids?|19]]

“How was your day?” She sighs. “Busy. I had a meeting with the Board, and that ended up going two hours long, which delayed everything else…” She sighs again. “Sounds like a Monday to me,” you say. She huffs a laugh. “No kidding. What did you do today?” “Oh, just the usual.” “Deb’s?” [[I’m a creature of habit.|19a]]

“How are the kids?” “Oh, they’re fine. Andrew’s been meeting with that SAT tutor I told you about. Manages to find time to grumble about it every single day, even though they only meet once a week.” You don’t remember her telling you about an SAT tutor, but you grunt an acknowledgment anyway. “What about you?” she asks. “What did you do today?” “Oh, just the usual.” “Deb’s?” [[I’m a creature of habit.|19a]]

You turn as you hear the door opening. A man with short gray hair in a black tux comes toward you with a smile. “How you feelin’, champ?” “Good,” you say. “Nervous.” You fiddle with your cufflinks. He claps you on the shoulder. “You’ll do great. You have the easy job. Just stand there and smile. Nobody’s gonna be looking at you, anyway. They’ll all be looking at her.” You clear your throat and nod. Avoid eye contact. His hand, still on your shoulder, squeezes. “She’s nervous, too. Now, come on. I’ve got to get back to her, and you’ve got to get on in there and take your place.” “Yes, sir.” “And Frank—[[smile|21 - DREAM: future - yours]] a little. It’s a wedding, for Pete’s sake.”

A man with a combover that does nothing to hide his bald spot is shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other. “It’s all there,” he says. Marty, you remember. He’s standing next to the passenger side of a shiny black SUV with windows tinted so dark you can’t make out the features of the men inside. But the gravel in the other man’s voice is unmistakable when he says, “You’re short two hundred.” It’s the man you saw last time, the one with the lazy eye. “What?” Marty says. “No—no, that’s not possible. Count it again. I mean—please. Please count it again. I swear to you, it’s all there.” The parking garage appears to be empty other than this car, Marty, and a silver BMW sedan parked a dozen feet away. That one must be Marty’s. Gravelly Voice mutters something, and then Marty’s shaking his head furiously. “No—no, please! My daughter—” A sound like a soft pop echoes through the parking garage, and then Marty is [[falling.|23 - DREAM: memory]]

“Open up for the choo-choo!” Martha looks up as you walk through the kitchen doorway. “Look who it is, pumpkin!” Martha’s wearing that flowery shirt you hate, but in all fairness, it’s covered in smears of green goop. Just as well she didn’t get a nicer shirt dirty. Chrissy’s scowl turns into a toothless grin as she spots you and waves her little arms in your direction. “Dada!” “Boy are you two a happy sight after a long day,” you say. You can’t help returning Chrissy’s smile. You place a kiss first on Martha’s forehead, then on Chrissy’s. “And what did my two favorite ladies do today?” Martha gives Chrissy a little belly tickle. “Someone said a new word today!” “Oh yeah? What word was that?” “Do you want to say your new word for [[dada|24 -- wake up]], pumpkin?”

The sound of birds chirping wakes you. You open your eyes to see the sun slanting in through your window to land on the foot of your bed, which explains why your feet are so warm. You yawn and stretch before sitting up. The other side of the bed is empty and already made. Usually Martha likes to sleep in, but lately she’s been having these bouts of insomnia. Maybe it’s related to those headaches she’s been having. You slide your feet into your worn gray slippers and shuffle your way to the bathroom. Nothing like a long, steady piss to start the day. When that’s done, you flush without putting the seat down, wash your hands, and shuffle toward the kitchen and your first cup of coffee. “Martha?” you call. No response. Oh well—maybe she left early for yoga or whatever her latest exercise fad is. But then… it’s odd that her coffee mug isn’t in the sink. “Martha?” you call again. Something nags at the back of your mind. Something about Martha. What is it? You can’t remember. Something about… Well anyway. Time for some coffee. [[Skim the newspaper.|25]] [[Watch TV.|26]]

You skim the newspaper while drinking your coffee. Article after article is depressing; this town sure is going down the shitter. A man was arrested for abducting and raping two little girls on their way home from preschool—apparently they were walking home in a group, and he snatched them from the back of the group before the other children noticed and raised the alarm. Disgusting. Obama’s giving his last State of the Union address next week, and the newspaper has devoted an entire section to guessing what topics he’ll cover. Around noon, you head on down to Deb’s, the diner on the corner of Main and 5th. It’s the usual crowd in there, and you nod to everyone politely as you take your seat at the bar. “Afternoon, Frank,” Deb says. “The usual?” “The usual,” you confirm. She plops a lukewarm glass of water in front of you before moving toward the kitchen. [[Watch TV.|27]] [[Chat.|28]]

You flip through TV channels while drinking your coffee. At this time of day, your only options are the news or Home Improvement reruns. You settle for the news, as always, and as usual it’s depressing; this town sure is going down the shitter. A man was arrested for abducting and raping two little girls on their way home from preschool—apparently they were walking home in a group, and he snatched them from the back of the group before the other children noticed and raised the alarm. Disgusting. Obama’s giving his last State of the Union address next week, and they spend a good 25 minutes on guessing what topics he’ll cover. Around noon, you head on down to Deb’s, the diner on the corner of Main and 5th. It’s the usual crowd in there, and you nod to everyone politely as you take your seat at the bar. “Afternoon, Frank,” Deb says. “The usual?” “The usual,” you confirm. She plops a lukewarm glass of water in front of you before moving toward the kitchen. [[Watch TV.|27]] [[Chat.|28]]

The TV above the bar grabs your attention while you wait for your food. They’ve got the news on, as usual, with the volume too low for you to hear. Luckily, they’ve got captions popping up at the bottom of the screen. Some pundit someone-or-other is talking animatedly, his face shiny with sweat. THESE BACK-TO-BACK EL NIÑO STORMS, the caption reads, COULD LEAD TO CATASTROPHIC FLOODING AND MUDSLIDES ALL ALONG THE— Deb’s head appears before you, blocking the screen, as she sets a plate down in front of you. “Get you a cup of coffee, too?” she asks. [[No thanks.|28a]]

The seat to the left of you is empty, but to the right is a thin man with round glasses. You’ve chatted with him once or twice before. “Afternoon, Joe,” you say. “Frank,” he says with a nod. “Keeping up with this El Niño business?” You shake your head. “What’s happened now?” He sips his coffee pensively before responding. “Flooding expected all along the Western coast. Don’t know what the hubbub is all about—seems to me California could use some rain, what with the drought they’ve been having.” Deb comes back and sets a plate down in front of you. “Get you a cup of coffee, too?” she asks. [[No thanks.|28a]]

“What day of the week is it?” She looks like she can’t decide if she wants to pity you or hold your hand. “It’s Tuesday, Frank.” “Tuesday. Right.” What is it you’re forgetting? Something about the day of the week. The day of the—there was something. “Frank?” You look up. It’s the waitress. She’s still staring at you. “I just feel like I’m forgetting something. I’ll call Martha.” You wave your hand, like by acting nonchalant you’ll actually feel nonchalant. “We probably had an appointment scheduled for today.” This time you’re sure it’s pity on her face. “Oh, Frank. I don’t thi—you know what, maybe you should give your daughter a call instead.” Your daughter? [[That makes no sense.|30a]]

“I feel like I’m forgetting something.” What is it you’re forgetting? Something about the day of the week. The day of the—there was something. “Frank?” You look up. It’s the waitress. She’s still staring at you. “I just feel like I’m forgetting something. I’ll call Martha.” You wave your hand, like by acting nonchalant you’ll actually feel nonchalant. “We probably had an appointment scheduled for today.” This time you’re sure it’s pity on her face. “Oh, Frank. I don’t thi—you know what, maybe you should give your daughter a call instead.” Your daughter? [[That makes no sense.|30a]]

It’s unusually warm for this time of year, and you walk around the neighborhood at random, trying to clear your head, trying to remember, trying to forget. After fifteen or twenty minutes, your fists unclench, and suddenly the whole thing seems silly to you. Why were you so upset? You can’t even remember what that woman said that set you off. You also can’t remember if you paid your check. You’ll have to slink back in there tomorrow and make sure you pay it. Stupid. The tenants of your neighborhood are about as run-down around the edges as the little houses they live in. There’s Mrs. Cooper, on her knees in the dirt, forever weeding her tiny garden, her hair always a big frizz of white. There’s Old Bill, who always jokes that the day you don’t see him sitting out on his porch, you’ll know he’s finally keeled over. The man is ancient, at least a couple decades older than you, and you’re no spring chicken. There’s Miss Lucy, who brought you a casserole after Martha died and yet still insists on being called Miss Lucy. By the time you get home, you’re feeling a lot better. Calmer. You unlock the front door, head straight for the fridge, and chug a can of cold Diet Coke. All that walking was thirsty work. You set the can on the counter, and just then your phone buzzes from your pocket. The caller ID lets you know that it’s Christina calling. [[Hello?|31a]]

A sleek black car is waiting by the curb when you open your front door. The driver nods at you as you get in and buckle your seatbelt, and then the streets are blurring around you as the car takes you… wherever you’re going. You’re starting to feel nervous. What did Christina say this was an appointment for? Did she say? You don’t remember walking from the car into the building, but all at once you’re sitting in what is unmistakably the waiting room of a doctor’s office. A woman in pale purple scrubs with pink smiley faces on them opens the door. She looks down at the clipboard she’s holding. “Mr. Joseph?” You look around. Besides you, there’s a young man wearing bulky black headphones, tapping his hand against his knee rhythmically, and a middle-aged woman reading a magazine. You look up to find the nurse staring at you. “Mr. Joseph? The doctor is ready for you now.” Mr. Joseph. Is that you? You know who you are: you’re Frank. Frank Joseph. She’s looking right at you, her eyebrows raised. [[Stand up and follow her through the door.|34]]

You can’t remember who this doctor is, or what the appointment is for. Christina seemed awfully certain of it, but something about it feels wrong. You don’t want to go to some doctor. What for? You’re healthy as an ox, always have been. You take a few deep breaths, feel how solid your legs still are, holding you up, feel how steady your heartbeat is. Doctor, pah. You’re not even sick. Instead, you plop yourself down on the couch before the TV and grab the remote. It’s been a confusing day, and your leg bounces up and down, though you’re not even sure why you feel on edge. You push the power button, and the TV flares to life. You’ve got it on a news station, but you’re not in the mood. You just want something to distract you, something to bring you back to equilibrium. You’re only half paying attention as you flip through the channels. Some sports game, some sitcom, some drama… [[Watch a nature documentary.|44]] [[Watch a movie.|45]]

The woman leans back and tents her fingers. “I’m Doctor Judy,” she says. “Do you remember me?” “No,” you say. “How could I remember you, if I’ve never met you before?” Doctor Judy picks up a pen and writes something on a piece of paper. The piece of paper is sitting on top of a manila file folder labeled JOSEPH, FRANK. “Frank,” Doctor Judy says, “I’m concerned that you’re losing bigger and bigger chunks lately. Have you been taking your meds every night, like we discussed?” [[I’ve been having these dreams.|36]] [[This feels like déjà vu.|37]]

“I’ve been having these dreams. Memories, I guess. But they’re so vivid. They feel so—so now.” “What happens in these dreams, Frank?” The woman is leaning forward on her desk, watching you intently. You shrug, looking away from that intense stare. “It varies. Sometimes it’s my wedding day—or there was this one with this guy and these two goons—or there was one where I was in the hospital, and my daughter was by my side crying.” “Interesting.” She jots down another note, then sets her pen down. “Let’s talk about the one with your daughter,” she says. “You said it was a memory, but do you remember being in the hospital?” [[No.|36a]]

“I’m having the strongest feeling of déjà vu right now. Like I’ve been here before. Have I been here before?” The woman frowns. “You have indeed been here before, Frank. You were just here last week. If you took your meds, they would help you remember.” When you don’t respond, she leans forward. “Why don’t you take them right now, while we talk?” She holds out two oblong white pills and a paper cup filled with water. [[What are these for?|38]] [[No.|39]]

“What are these for?” you ask. You know better than to just take mystery pills that someone offers you, even if she is supposedly a doctor. Hell, you just met this woman. “I’m not even sick. I feel fine.” She gives you a look suspiciously bordering on pity. “You are sick, Frank. You just can’t remember. The pills help you remember.” You aren’t sure. You don’t remember being sick. But isn’t that her point? Maybe you just can’t remember. You try to remember something, anything. Your name is Frank Joseph. You must be old, based on the wrinkles and age spots on your hands. But you can’t remember. Something teases the edge of your thoughts, like when there’s a word on the tip of your tongue, waiting to burst out. Something about this doesn’t feel right. [[No.|39]]

“No.” You shake your head. “I’m not going to take those.” There’s a beat of silence, during which you can practically see the doctor gathering herself, preparing a counterargument. “Frank,” she begins. You shake your head again. “I don’t even know what kind of doctor you are. What am I here for? I’m not sick. Did Martha schedule this for me?” “Frank,” she tries again. “No, never mind,” you say, standing up. “I’ll call her myself and ask.” “Frank,” she says, louder. “You can’t do that. Wait a—” “What do you mean, I can’t call my own wife? What the hell kind of a doctor are you?” “I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean it like—” But it’s too late. You’re done listening to this quack of a doctor, whoever she is. You push past her, following the exit signs, blindly ignoring everything else around you. [[Call Martha.|40]] [[Go straight home.|41]]

<<set $hasKey to true>>You pace back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the building as the phone rings. The medical office is tucked on a side street, so there isn’t much foot traffic around you as you pace. The same car that brought you here is idling across the street, waiting to take you home. You’re expecting Martha’s familiar purr of a voice, so when a man’s voice answers, you’re so shocked you stop mid-pace. “Hello?” he answers. When you don’t respond right away, he repeats himself. “Who the hell is this?” you demand. There’s a pause on the other end of the line. You don’t wait for him to respond. “Put Martha on.” You resume your pacing. The man sighs. “Is this Frank?” He’s got a thick accent, old-school New Jersey. [[Yes…|40a]]

You were already confused on the way to the doctor’s appointment, and the way back is even worse. Your heart is racing, your hands shaking, and you keep hearing the doctor’s voice in your head: You are sick, Frank. You just can’t remember. Can’t remember. Remember. What can’t you remember? The word sticks in your thoughts like a fly on sticky paper. A memory: your mother, standing next to the stove, stirring a large pot. The open window over the sink admitting a warm breeze, ruffling her hair. The sticky paper, hanging from the ceiling in two different corners of the kitchen, dotted with fly carcasses. Your mother’s rounded belly, a younger sibling for you who never made it home from the hospital. It’s so vivid, feels so much more real than the car you’re sitting in. Remember. You can’t remember. The car door opens, and you startle. “Home sweet home,” the driver says, holding out a hand for you to lean on. You hadn’t even realized the car had stopped moving. <<if $hasKey is true>>[[Try Martha again.|43]] <<elseif $hasKey is false>>[[Call Martha.|42]] <</if>>

“That makes no sense.” Now you’re starting to get annoyed. This woman thinks she knows you—thinks she knows your family. Just because you like her restaurant doesn’t mean she gets to butt in on your life like this. “Listen, lady,” you start. You can feel your face turning red. “Frank, buddy,” says the man sitting next to you. He puts a friendly hand on your shoulder. You jerk your shoulder back from the hand. [[Who the hell does this guy think he is?|30b]]

You shake your head. “Already had a couple at home before I came over. Thanks, though.” She walks away, and you tuck in eagerly to your two eggs, over easy, your piece of rye toast, and your two links of bacon, perfectly crisp as always. You’re just using the last corner of the toast to sop up the egg juices when a man slides in to the seat on your left. “Frank,” he says in a quiet, urgent voice. “It’s happened. Those two men. Exactly as you said it would.” The man is heavyset, with a combover that does nothing to hide his bald spot. Beads of sweat drip down his temples, and you notice two dark spots under his arms as he lifts them to wipe his face on his sleeves. Poor man must’ve run all the way here. [[Do I know you?|13]]

You blink at him. You are? “Forgive me, Frank. I’ll wait until our meeting on Wednesday. I shouldn’t have tracked you down here. It’s just—Matilda. I’m supposed to meet them Wednesday night. Couldn’t you just tell me now so I could plan accordingly?” You don’t know what to tell him. He’s clearly a nervous wreck, but you’ve never even met the guy before. He sighs, dropping his eyes to your empty plate. “I guess I’ll—I’ll just bide my time until Wednesday.” Before you can think what to say in response, he hurries out the door. “Deb,” you say when she brings your check over. “Have you ever seen that man before?” “The fat one you were just talking to? Don’t think so.” [[Head straight home.|14]] [[Walk around the neighborhood.|15]]

“Hello?” But you hear a dial tone, and the phone is still ringing. It’s your cell phone ringing, you realize—not the landline. Now where did you leave that thing? You pat your pockets, scan the counter, and finally spot your cell phone on the kitchen table, underneath a stack of mail. It stops ringing right as you get to it, and you curse under your breath. 2 missed calls, your screen says. It starts ringing again, and the caller ID lets you know that it’s Christina calling. “Hello?” This time you get a response. “Hi, Dad. Phone under the mail again?” “How did you know?” You chuckle. [[How was your day?|18]] [[How are the kids?|19]]

“I’m a creature of habit,” you say, shrugging even though she can’t see you. “I swear, that place hasn’t changed since the ’80s.” “Well, you know what I always say,” you say, in the same tone of voice you always say it in. She quotes you, sounding both amused and exasperated at the same time. “‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ Yeah, yeah. Dad, listen, I’ve got to run, but before I forget I wanted to tell you: MIT has asked me to be one of their commencement speakers.” “Commencement? Like, graduation?” “Yeah, they want me to give a speech to their graduating class.” “Honey, that’s fantastic. Congratulations! They’ll be lucky to have you.” You grab a post-it note from the counter and jot down quickly: Christina – MIT – graduation. “Thanks, Dad. All right, I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” [[Eat dinner and go to bed.|20 - DREAM: memory]]

You shake your head. “Already had a couple at home before I came over. Thanks, though.” She walks away, and you tuck in eagerly to your two eggs, over easy, your piece of rye toast, and your two links of bacon, perfectly crisp as always. You use the last corner of your toast to sop up the egg juices and then sit back, satisfied. You feel like you’re forgetting something, but you can’t remember what it is. The waitress comes back to take your plate. “You okay, Frank?” Frank. You shake your head. [[What day of the week is it?|29]] [[I feel like I’m forgetting something.|30]]

You can’t decide who you want to yell at first. They’re both looking at you with sympathetic eyes. You don’t want their pity. What do they have to pity you for? You’ve got a great wife, a successful daughter. Who do these people think they— You’re so angry you can’t even finish one thought before starting on the next. “Well, this is just—this is beyond the pale!” you burst out. “I don’t have to stand for this. I’ve been a loyal customer for—for years! This is the last time I come here. You watch. The last time!” You push back from the bar too quickly, and your stool falls over. Now everyone in the place is looking at you. You want to shout at all of them—all of them. The faces swim before you, familiar, unfamiliar, confusing. You hurry out of the restaurant, your face on fire, eyes firmly on the ground so you don’t have to see the faces. [[Take a walk.|31]]

“Hi Dad. Happy Tuesday.” You glance at the clock on the microwave. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Shouldn’t you be working?” She sighs into the phone. “Happy to talk to you, too. I was just taking a break between meetings and thought I’d give you a call before your appointment.” “Appointment?” She’s silent for a moment. “You have your appointment today with Doctor Judy, Dad. Did you forget?” You did forget, but that tone in her voice—worry, hesitation, accusation—makes you angry. “No, of course I didn’t forget,” you snap. “I was just—just getting ready to go.” “Oh.” She’s quiet again. “Well, okay. I’ll let you get ready then. The car service should be there in… about twenty minutes. Remember, Dad, you do not need to tip the driver. I’ve already taken care of all that.” The car service. You have no idea what she’s talking about. “Got it,” you lie. [[Go to your appointment.|32]] [[Skip the appointment.|33]]

“Well—no,” you say. “I’m healthy as an ox, always have been.” You take a few deep breaths, feel how solid your legs still are, sitting in this chair, feel how steady your heartbeat is. “Can’t remember ever being in the hospital.” But now you realize that you are, after all, at a doctor’s office, and you’re not even sick. Are you? “As far as I’m aware,” the doctor says, “you’ve never been hospitalized.” Phew. You feel the tension in your shoulders ease. “I wonder,” she continues, “if this was a symbolic dream.” “How’s that now?” “Well, dreams often mean you’re worried about something, for example. Perhaps it’s your subconscious telling you that you’re worried about your daughter.” You nod. That makes sense. “I suppose a father is always worried about his daughter,” you say. “Frank, why don’t you take your meds right now, while we talk? They’ll help quiet down these dreams when you sleep.” She holds out two oblong white pills and a paper cup filled with water. [[What are these for?|38]] [[No.|39]]

“Yes, this is Frank. Who the hell are you?” Your mind races. A man answering Martha’s phone? And she’s told him about you? Martha isn’t the type of woman to have an affair—she’s just not. Is she? “Frank,” the man says, and he sighs again. “Listen, we’ve been over this before. This isn’t Martha’s number anymore.” “How’s that? What do you mean, isn’t Martha’s number? Put her on, let me talk to her.” “She’s not here, Frank. Look, I’m sorry. I’ve got to get back to work. This isn’t her number anymore.” Before you can respond, he’s hung up. [[Go home.|41]]

<<set $hasKey to true>>You pace the living room back and forth as the phone rings. Martha isn’t home, and even her neat rows of shoes aren’t in their usual spot by the front door. You’re expecting her familiar purr of a voice, so when a man’s voice answers, you’re so shocked you stop mid-pace. “Hello?” he answers. When you don’t respond right away, he repeats himself. “Who the hell is this?” you demand. There’s a pause on the other end of the line. You don’t wait for him to respond. “Put Martha on.” You resume your pacing. The man sighs. “Is this Frank?” He’s got a thick accent, old-school New Jersey. [[Yes…|42a]]

Your heart is racing so fast you’re starting to feel light headed. Calm, you need to calm down. You take a few deep, steadying breaths and decide to make yourself a cup of chamomile tea before trying to call Martha again. Sitting on the couch, mug of tea in hand, you dial Martha’s number again. This time the man answers on the first ring. “Hi Frank,” he says without preamble. “I’m going to ask you one more time,” you say, and you think you sound pretty reasonable, given the circumstances. “Who the hell are you, and where is Martha?” The man sighs. Again. Like he’s the one having a hard day. “My name is Joe. This is my personal cell you’re calling, and I’ve had the number for the past couple of years.” [[Joe? Just Joe?|43a]]

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you say. “This is Martha’s number.” “I swear I’m not busting your balls, Frank. Why don’t you give your daughter a call? She’ll straighten this out for you. Katie, Kristy, Carla…?” “Christina.” “That’s it. Why don’t you give her a call? I’m hanging up now, Frank.” Deep, even breaths. You snap your phone shut and sip your tea. Is it possible that Martha’s new phone number is one of the things you can’t remember? Martha used to make Chrissy chamomile tea whenever she had a hard time sleeping, and you can feel its effects already. Your breathing slows, your eyes grown heavy. You settle yourself more comfortably in your seat for a nice nap. [[Dream.|46 - DREAM: memory]]

You finally settle on a nature documentary. It’s about fish and their mating rituals, and you vaguely remember something about fish. Someone likes fish. Or, wait, not fish, but a movie about fish? Was it Chrissy? No, that’s not right. When you think of Chrissy, you can see the living room, the black-and-white TV. The decades don’t quite stack up correctly. You can’t remember. You let the soothing voice of the narrator lull you into a trance, and soon your eyes grow heavy. You settle yourself more comfortably in your seat for a nice nap. [[Dream.|46 - DREAM: memory]]

You finally settle on a movie. It’s an animated movie, and at first you put it on just so you can marvel at how far technology has come. Incredible that they can make animations look so real these days! Once you watch for a few minutes, you realize that it’s about a fish trying to find his lost son, and it’s really quite sweet. You remember that someone really likes animated movies. Chrissy? No, that’s not right. When you think of Chrissy, you can see the living room, the black-and-white TV. The decades don’t quite stack up correctly. One of the fish on the TV says, “I can’t remember,” and you chuckle out loud. “You and me both, fishy.” You feel your eyes grow heavy and settle yourself more comfortably in your seat for a nice nap. [[Dream.|46 - DREAM: memory]]

Being a parent is so much harder than you ever thought it would be. Granted, Martha is the one who has to breastfeed the baby every few hours, but even so. You’re tired all the time, all the baby does is eat, sleep, cry, and shit, and you’re not sure why you and Martha ever wanted a baby so badly in the first place. “Frank.” Martha shakes your shoulder wearily, and you snap upright again. You must have fallen asleep watching her breastfeed. “Done?” you ask. Martha nods, and you lift the baby gently and carry her back to her crib. The baby wakes as you set her in the crib, and you freeze in mid-motion. When she doesn’t immediately start howling, you relax a little and smile down at her. “Go to sleep, my little Chrissy,” you whisper, and then it happens. You’re smiling at her, and she smiles back at you—her first [[smile|47 - DREAM: future – Christina’s]]. You feel an ache in your chest, like a little piece of your heart just broke off, but it didn’t break, it just woke up for the first time. You think: Oh. You turn to see if Martha saw, but she’s asleep again, one breast still bared to the early-morning light.

It’s dark in the room, and the figure in the bed is snoring quietly. A phone begins to ring, and the snoring stops abruptly. A hand flails in the darkness and finds the cell phone on the nightstand. “Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice, muffled and half-asleep. A beat of silence, and then the voice sounds more alert: “Andrew? Wait a sec.” The woman sits up, finds the bedside lamp cord, and tugs on it to illuminate what is unmistakably a hotel room. Generic hotel comforter, generic hotel décor. Her blonde hair is just starting to gray at the temples, and it’s shorter than you’ve ever seen it, cut short like a man’s. A name floats to the top of your mind: Martha. But no, that’s not right. The eyes are too big, the lips too thin. She pushes a button on her phone and sets it back on the nightstand. “Still there?” “Still here. Can you hear me okay?” The man’s voice is loud in the otherwise complete silence of the hotel room, but there are background voices, like he’s calling from a crowded room. “Yeah, I can hear you. What’s going on? Is everything okay?” “Leigh went into labor early. We’re at the hospital.” “Oh my god,” the woman says, scooting to the edge of the bed. She throws the blanket back and sets her feet on the floor. “I can cancel my meeting. I can be on a plane back home in a couple of hours.” The man laughs. “Thanks, Ma. But there’s no need—give your talk tomorrow and then fly home. He’s not going anywhere.” “He?” “It’s a boy. He—” The man’s voice breaks, and he has to pause to get his voice under control. “He’s beautiful, Ma. We named him Francis. For [[Grandpa|48 - DREAM: memory]].” “Francis,” the woman repeats. Her face crumples in a way that’s so familiar your heart aches to see it, and you realize Christina as she bursts into tears.

Martha grips your hand tightly between both of hers, resting in her lap. “I just have a bad feeling,” she repeats. She shakes her head. Her eyes dart around, but you don’t think she’s really seeing the doctor’s office around her. It’s a nice room: not too big as to seem imposing, but big enough to give the impression that the doctor is a pretty big deal. He came highly recommended from the neurologist, and an entire wall is taken up with pictures of his degrees and certifications. “There’s no point speculating,” you remind her gently. “He’s probably going to say what the last guy said. They’re just migraines, or pressure headaches, or whatever.” She shakes her head. “He’s not. I just know it, Frank.” Her knuckles are white, she’s gripping your hand so hard. “I just know it.” A tall man in a white coat walks in and extends a hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Joseph,” he says, “I’m Dr. Greene.” Martha lets go of your hand long enough for you both to shake the doctor’s hand, and then she grabs it again between both of hers as the doctor takes his chair behind his desk. “I took a look at your file, Mrs. Joseph, as well as the latest scans.” The doctor has his hands clasped on his desk, a somber expression on his face. His eyes flick from yours to Martha’s. “I’m afraid I have some [[bad news|49 - DREAM: future – Marty’s]] for you.”

Marty shifts his weight nervously from one foot to the other. “It’s all there,” he says. He’s standing next to the passenger side of a shiny black SUV with windows tinted so dark you can’t make out the features of the men inside. But the gravel in the other man’s voice is unmistakable when he says, “You’re short two hundred.” Why does this feel like [[déjà vu|50 -- wake up]]? “What?” Marty says. “No—no, that’s not possible. Count it again. I mean—please. Please count it again. I swear to you, it’s all there.” Gravelly Voice mutters something, and then Marty’s shaking his head furiously. “No—no, please! My daughter—” You want to warn Marty, to shout Look out!, but you’re just an observer here. You have no voice. A soft pop echoes through the parking garage, and then Marty is falling.

You wake with a start to find yourself slumped on the couch with a crick in your neck. You heave yourself upright and stretch your neck from side to side, groaning with the pain. The sun is just starting to peek through the blinds, so it must be around 7 am. You can’t believe you slept so long, much less fully dressed and on the couch all night. You shuffle your way to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. You feel grimy and rumpled from sleeping in your clothes, but you need some coffee first before you can shower. “Martha?” you call. Odd that she didn’t wake you and tell you to come to bed, like she normally does. Something nags at the back of your mind. Something about Martha. You start the coffee and grab a mug from the cabinet. You’re listening to the coffee drip into the pot when a note on the counter catches your attention. Wednesday, 9 am, Marty. It’s your own handwriting. On the back of the note is an address just a few blocks away. Marty… why does that name sound familiar? It isn’t until you’re three-quarters of the way through your cup of coffee that you remember your dream. [[Shower and leave.|51]]

You skim the newspaper as you finish your coffee, then take a nice, long shower and change into fresh clothes. It’s only 8:15 when you leave, but that’s fine by you. Better early than late, you’ve always said. The address on the back of the post-it note proves to be a coffee shop on 5th Ave., just a couple blocks down from Deb’s. You scan the crowd but don’t see the man with the combover from your dream. Well, it’s only 8:30. You suppose you should order something if you’re going to take up a table. The teenager behind the counter looks bored when it’s your turn to order. [[Order a coffee.|52]] [[Order a bagel.|53]]

“I’ll have a coffee, please,” you say. “Black, two sugars.” The teenager barely glances at you. “For here or to go?” “For here.” “Name?” You know this isn’t meant to be a difficult question, but you find your mind curiously blank. Your name is Frank. Frank Joseph. It’s like it’s there, in your mind, but you can’t see the letters, they keep disappearing when you look at them. “Sir? The name for the coffee?” You feel your face flush. “I—uh…” The teenager takes pity on you. “It’s no problem sir, we’ll just bring the coffee to you.” [[Find a seat.|54]]

“I’ll have a sesame bagel, please,” you say. “Lightly toasted, with plain cream cheese.” The teenager barely glances at you. “For here or to go?” “For here.” “Name?” You know this isn’t meant to be a difficult question, but you find your mind curiously blank. Your name is Frank. Frank Joseph. It’s like it’s there, in your mind, but you can’t see the letters, they keep disappearing when you look at them. “Sir? The name for the bagel?” You feel your face flush. “I—uh…” The teenager takes pity on you. “It’s no problem sir, we’ll just bring the bagel to you.” [[Find a seat.|54]]

You snag a corner table and sit in the chair facing the door, so you’ll see Marty when he comes in. You’ve just checked your watch for the tenth time, and it’s 8:58, when Marty walks in. He looks just like you remember, with the combover and the film of sweat on his face. He sits across from you and gives you a terse smile. The skin under his eyes is dark and puffy from lack of sleep, but he looks almost aggressively alert, like he couldn’t sleep even if he wanted to. “Thanks for meeting me again,” he says. “And sorry for the other day.” You aren’t sure what he’s referring to, but you waste no time on small talk. You need to get this dream out of your head so you stop seeing it when you close your eyes. “I saw you in my dream last night.” You relay the entirety of it, including the ending, and Marty’s eyes go wide. “I get shot? Holy shit. Do I—” He swallows. “Do I die?” [[I don’t know.|54a]]

“I don’t know,” you say. You’re impatient. Who cares if he dies? She’s in danger. “The dream cuts off right then.” He stares at the table, eyes wide with shock, and you feel a slice of remorse. You don’t really want this stranger to die. “Since I’ve told you, I don’t see why you couldn’t just wear a bulletproof vest or something.” He looks like he’s about to respond, but you keep talking. “Marty, listen. You’ve got to tread carefully. These guys obviously mean business. You have to make sure Chrissy is safe. Have backup or something, I don’t know.” Marty blinks at you, sweaty brow furrowed. “Chrissy? You mean Matilda? My daughter?” “She’s in danger,” you say. You’re not sure why you said Chrissy. [[Go home.|55]]

You don’t know why some words seem to float on the edge of your consciousness, just eluding you when you need them, while others stick in your craw, repeating themselves over and over until you can’t stand them anymore. But for whatever reason, she’s in danger keeps playing on a loop in your mind. You just can’t remember who she is. You come to yourself standing at the corner of an intersection. You don’t remember how you got here, and as you look around, you’re sure you’ve never been here before. You stare at the street signs, but each time you read the street names, it’s like the letters disappear from your thoughts before you have a chance to absorb them. You’re at the corner of Glhbdos and Rhynrld. You’re so frustrated you could scream. “Are you lost?” a young woman asks. You nod wordlessly. “Where are you trying to go?” But you can’t remember. [[Try to remember.|56]]

You wander aimlessly, looking for something familiar, something that will make you say Aha! and remember how to get where you’re going. For a moment, when you turn a corner, you think you recognize a familiar face, but as the man comes nearer you realize with certainty that he’s a complete stranger. When your fingers start to feel numb from the cold, you finally admit to yourself that you’re well and truly lost. There’s a cop directing traffic around a construction site, and you approach him meekly. “Excuse me,” you say. He turns a polite eye to you while his hands continue directing traffic. “I seem to be lost.” “Where are you trying to go?” he asks. His accent sounds like yours; he’s from your borough. [[I don’t know.|56a]]

You shake your head. “I don’t know. Home?” He seems to size you up in a split second. You try to see yourself through his eyes: an old man, lost and confused, alone. “Do you have an ID on you, sir?” An ID. Why didn’t you think of that? You reach for your back pocket, and thankfully your wallet is where it always is. You hand him your ID, and he nods. “Tell you what,” he says. “I’ve got ten minutes ’til my shift ends here. Pop a squat on that bench over there, and then we can walk home together.” Your face burns as you accept your ID back and shuffle over to the bench. Suddenly you feel about a thousand years old. [[Wait.|57]]

“Here we are,” the cop says. “This your house?” You’ve never been so relieved to be home before. “Yes. Thank you, Officer.” He claps you on the shoulder. “Not a problem. You take it easy, okay? You need anything else?” You feel tears sting your eyes, and you’re not sure why. Because of the kindness of strangers? Because you’re ashamed that you needed to be walked home like a child? Because the words you want to say keep disappearing before they can reach your tongue? He stands on the sidewalk and watches until you’re safely in the house, door locked, before continuing on his way. You watch him through the living room window and then, finally, collapse onto the couch. Your feet ache. Your neck is sore. You’re exhausted. You want nothing more than to take a nap. [[Take a nap.|58 - DREAM: memory]] [[She’s in danger.|59]]

You always thought you’d have a son. You were your parents’ only child, and both your mother and your father had a handful of brothers, so you figured boys just ran in your family. You had plans for your son: you’d teach him how to get that perfect swish of a basketball in the net, how to mow the lawn, the right way to throw a punch so he wouldn’t hurt his knuckles. All the things your father taught you. But here you are instead, clinking a flowered tea cup with your daughter. “Daddy, Mister Rabbit would like to know if you would please pour some more tea for him?” “Of course,” you say, tipping the empty porcelain teapot forward. “And would Miss Chrissy like some more tea, too?” “No thank you, Daddy,” she says, pretending to sip from her tea cup, pinky extended. “I’m still drinking mine. Make sure you blow on it first,” she adds, “it’s really hot.” This isn’t what you’d pictured when Martha’s belly first began to swell, but sitting on the carpet with your daughter, pretending to blow on your imaginary tea, it’s hard to [[believe|59]] you ever wanted anything different.

You jerk awake, and almost immediately your eyes start to feel heavy again. You’re so tired. But there’s an echo in your mind—she’s in danger—and with that realization you’re suddenly wide awake. Yes, every part of your body still hurts. But there’s no time to be an old man right now. You heave yourself to your feet and go pacing through the house, looking for something, you’re not sure what. A sign, maybe. You reach the kitchen and sweep your eyes across the countertop. There: a post-it note in your handwriting. Christina – MIT – graduation. Of course. Chrissy—your little Chrissy—she’s all grown up. And she’s in danger. [[Call Christina.|60]] [[There’s no time to call, she’s in danger!|61]]

Something makes you hesitate. Something just on the tip of your brain, if you could only bring it into focus. Better try calling her before jumping to any conclusions. You dial Christina on your cell phone, but there’s no answer. Damn. You try Martha, too. No answer. You try Christina one more time, and this time when it goes to voice mail, you leave a message: “Hi sweetie. It’s Dad.” Your mind goes blank. What else were you going to say? She’s in danger. The words are falling apart around you. “Love you,” you say finally. Then hang up. What to do now? You remember a gun. And there was something about a ransom, too. What if the kidnappers have her already? You’re not a wealthy man, you’ll never be able to pay their ransom. You glance down again at the post-it note. Christina – MIT – graduation. Okay. So that’s what you’ll do then: you’ll go to her. [[Go to the airport.|61]]

You expected the ticket agent to stare at you like you were a crazy person, maybe to call the cops. This man is trying to flee the state. But no. You get to the airport, tell them you’d like a ticket on the next flight to Boston, and the woman calmly accepts your credit card as if people do this kind of thing every day. Maybe they do. You must look as old as you feel, because they offer to escort you to the gate on one of those golf cart things—and you must feel as old as you look, because you agree. You try Christina one more time from the gate, but there’s still no answer. Something’s definitely wrong. You leave a message for Martha: “Just wanted to let you know I’m hopping on a plane to Boston. Where’d you run off to so early this morning? Call me back.” Soon enough you’re boarding the plane, and it’s not until you’re in your seat with your seatbelt buckled across your lap that you remember how much you hate flying. You’d think, after so many years of traveling for business, that you’d be better at it. Martha used to You don’t remember packing a bag—or carrying one onto the plane—but when you look down, you find that your trusty old travel briefcase is at your feet, under the seat in front of you. You don’t need to look inside to know that all of your toiletries and a couple changes of clothes are already tucked away neatly. [[Try to sleep.|62]]

You close your eyes and try to sleep, but it’s no use. The young man in the middle seat next to you jostles your arm, and then the flight attendant steps on your foot as she passes by, without even an “excuse me” or an apology. Maybe she figures it was your own fault for stretching your legs out into the aisle. You’re finally starting to feel drowsy when the pilot’s voice crackles through the plane. “Hi folks, an update from the flight deck. Looks like we’re gonna be going through a bumpy area here for a while, so I’ve turned the Fasten Seatbelts sign on.” Great. Just what you need. You tighten the seatbelt on your lap and try to think positive thoughts. [[Nervous.|63]] [[In denial.|63]]

TURBULENCE [[It’s no big deal, everything is fine.|64]] [[Take a Xanax.|66]]

TURBULENCE INTENSIFIES [[Still fine, planes don’t crash just because of turbulence.|65]] [[Take a Xanax.|66]]

EXTREME TURBULENCE [[Take a Xanax.|66]]

You unclench the arm rest long enough to bend down and pull your briefcase into your lap. A cursory search of the smaller zippered compartment, however, yields no Xanax. You’ve got Advil, decongestant, even those ridiculous Vitamin C pills Martha insists will keep you from catching a cold when traveling. But no Xanax. You open up the larger compartment and feel around, but there’s nothing in there but clothes. Maybe you missed the Xanax bottle among the others. You try the smaller compartment again. Still no luck. You drop your bag back by your feet, grip the arm rest again, and take deep breaths. The young man sitting next to you doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. [[Think happy thoughts.|67]]

“Where to?” You blink. You’re in the back of a sticky city cab that reeks of cigarettes, and the cabbie is looking at you in his rearview mirror. He hasn’t pulled away from the airport yet, and you’re relieved to see your briefcase sitting next to you. “Where to?” he repeats. “Uh, MIT,” you say. You don’t remember getting off the plane or walking to the taxi line, and the thought makes you nervous. Who do you become when you’re not yourself? There’s traffic, but it’s moving. The cabbie looks at you again in his rearview mirror. “Where you from?” “New York,” you say. You don’t need to ask him; it’s clear from his accent that he’s a full-blooded Bostonian. “Ah.” He pauses. “You a Yankees fan?” [[Yes.|68]] [[No.|69]]

“Of course I am,” you say. “They’re the best team in the MLB. I take it you’re Red Sox?” The cabbie has close-cropped hair, almost a military buzz cut. You watch the skin on the back of his neck wrinkle as he nods. “Ever seen a game at Fenway?” Have you? You’re not sure. You shake your head. “You gotta check it out sometime, man. Unreal.” He chuckles. “But maybe don’t wear your Yankees hat to the game.” He chuckles again, and you’re not sure if he’s joking or not. You ride in silence for a while longer. Finally, he exits the highway and looks at you again. “Anywhere in particular at MIT you want to be dropped off at?” [[No.|70]] [[I don’t know.|70]]

“Not really,” you say. “I don’t follow sports much. I take it you’re a Red Sox fan?” The cabbie has close-cropped hair, almost a military buzz cut. You watch the skin on the back of his neck wrinkle as he nods. “Ever seen a game at Fenway?” Have you? You’re not sure. You shake your head. “You gotta check it out sometime, man. Unreal.” He chuckles. “Just don’t wear a Yankees hat to the game.” He chuckles again, and you’re not sure if he’s joking or not. You ride in silence for a while longer. Finally, he exits the highway and looks at you again. “Anywhere in particular at MIT you want to be dropped off at?” [[No.|70]] [[I don’t know.|70]]

“No,” you say. “I don’t know.” “You meeting someone there?” “Looking for my daughter,” you say. “Hmm.” He shrugs. “I guess I’ll just drop you off in the middle of campus, then.” He takes a few turns, slows down, and pulls over on the side of the road. “Here you go. MIT on both sides of the street, boss. Hope you find your daughter.” You pay and then get out of the cab. It always feels twenty degrees colder here than it does back home. Always? This feels familiar, for some reason. [[Try the Admissions Office.|71]] [[Try Student Services.|72]]

You can’t remember where on campus she lives, so you ask a passing student for directions to the Admissions Office. You check your watch as you enter the building and are surprised to realize it’s 4:50. You made it just in time. “Hi there, how can I help you?” a woman at the front desk asks. “I’m looking for my daughter,” you say. “Is she enrolled as a student here?” You nod. “I’m sorry sir, but the Admissions Office is geared more toward prospective students. Did you try over at Student Services? They should be able to help you out.” [[She’s in danger.|71a]]

You can’t remember where on campus she lives, so you ask a passing student for directions to the Student Services office. You check your watch as you enter the building and are surprised to realize it’s 4:50. You made it just in time. “Hi there, how can I help you?” a woman at the front desk asks. “I’m looking for my daughter,” you say. “Is she enrolled as a student here?” You nod. “Just so you know, I won’t be able to give you her address unless your name is already on her account as a guardian or emergency contact. Is she an undergraduate or a graduate student?” “I—I’m not sure.” Her brow furrows. “Ooo-kay,” she says. She taps a pink fingernail against her cheek. “Why don’t I just check both. What’s the name?” “Chrissy,” you say, before the letters can disappear. “Chrissy…?” When you don’t immediately respond, she prompts, “What’s the last name?” [[Joseph.|73]] [[I can’t remember.|74]]

“She’s in danger,” you blurt, trying to get her to realize the urgency of the situation. The woman’s eyebrows shoot up. “We take students’ safety very seriously around here, sir. Hang on one second.” She rushes past you and out the door of the building into the cold, returning with a campus security officer. “Sir, this is Officer O’Leary.” The security officer—or is he a real cop? you can’t tell—shakes your hand with a firm grip. He’s a young guy, thick head of brown hair, neat goatee. “Afternoon, Mr.—I didn’t catch your name.” “Joseph,” you say by habit. It just slips out, before you can forget it. Like muscle memory, no conscious thought needed. “Mr. Joseph, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” [[Tell him.|75]]

“Joseph. Chrissy Joseph.” “Okay—” “Tina. Christina Joseph.” “Okay,” the woman says. She flashes you a reassuring smile before turning to her computer screen. Her fingers fly over the keys too fast for you to follow. “Hmm, I’m not seeing a current student by that name.” “She’s in danger.” You blurt it out. The woman’s eyebrows shoot up. “We take students’ safety very seriously around here, sir. Hang on one second.” She rushes past you and out the door of the building into the cold, returning with a campus security officer. “Mr. Joseph, this is Officer O’Leary.” The security officer—or is he a real cop? you can’t tell—shakes your hand with a firm grip. He’s a young guy, thick head of brown hair, neat goatee. “Mr. Joseph, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” [[Tell him.|75]]

You can’t remember. Chrissy springs to your mind fully formed, but anything beyond that is hazy. “I—I’m not sure.” You can tell this woman has just about had it with you. But this is important, damn it all. “She’s in danger,” you blurt, trying to get her to realize the urgency of the situation. The woman’s eyebrows shoot up. “We take students’ safety very seriously around here, sir. Hang on one second.” She rushes past you and out the door of the building into the cold, returning with a campus security officer. “Sir, this is Officer O’Leary.” The security officer—or is he a real cop? you can’t tell—shakes your hand with a firm grip. He’s a young guy, thick head of brown hair, neat goatee. “Afternoon, Mr.—I didn’t catch your name.” “Joseph,” you say by habit. It just slips out, before you can forget it. Like muscle memory, no conscious thought needed. “Mr. Joseph, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” [[Tell him.|75]]

“She’s in danger.” “Who’s in danger, Mr. Joseph?” “Chrissy.” “His daughter,” the receptionist chimes in. “Who’s she in danger from?” Officer O’Leary asks. “From you, sir?” You’re so shocked, you’re not even angry at the accusation. “Of course not. I’m here to—” To save her? An old man like you? These people would laugh. “I’m worried about her.” They exchange a look. You’re not sure what the look means, but it can’t be good. “She’s not answering her phone,” you add, but the moment you’ve said it you feel even sillier. “And do you have reason to believe she’s in danger, Mr. Joseph? Can you give me any details?” [[I had a dream.|76]]

“I—I had a dream.” You can feel your face flush all the way up to your ears, it sounds so stupid. But Officer O'Leary keeps a straight face and nods. “I’m going to radio it in, see if we’ve gotten any tips on someone with that name. Could you give me a physical description?” “Short,” you say. “She’s got—” Blonde hair. Blonde. You can’t think of the word. You point to the receptionist’s hair instead. “Like hers.” The officer steps a few feet away and speaks into a radio on his shoulder. You’re trying to listen in, but the receptionist leans closer and puts a hand on your arm. “Would you like to sit down, Mr. Joseph? I could get you a coffee, too. You look practically asleep standing up.” You hadn’t noticed it until she said something, but you do feel a little heavy on your feet. It’s been a long day, and you haven’t eaten anything since—you can’t remember. You’re just about to take her up on her kind offer when the officer comes back. “Is it Frank Joseph?” he asks. “From New York?” [[Yes, that’s me.|77]]

You nod. Your accent must have given you away. “Yes, that’s me.” “We’ve had a call from your daughter, Mr. Joseph. She’s fine, and if you’ll come with me, I can take you to her.” Your immediate reaction is relief: she’s safe. The police have her under their protection. But wait. She called the cops about you? In Boston? That makes no sense. And come to think of it, this officer’s voice. There’s something about it. Something that, now that you’re thinking about it, sends a prickle of fear down your back. “Could you repeat that?” you ask politely. He repeats himself, and this time you know what it is. His voice. It’s gravelly. It must be the man from your dream. [[RUN|78]]

“You know what,” you say, casually, nonchalantly, like it’s just occurred to you. “I must’ve just been having a senior moment. We were supposed to meet at the coffee shop, and I just plumb forgot. Thanks for your time, Officer. I’ll just be on my way.” You reach the door before he has a chance to stop you. He shouts after you, but you’re already outside. The moment the cold air hits your face, you start to run. You’d forgotten you were holding your briefcase, and you hug it to your chest while you run so it won’t throw you off balance. You don’t care where you’re going, so long as it’s away from that fake cop. You must have walked right into their trap. Stupid. Are those footsteps behind you? Voices, chasing you? You turn your head to look over your shoulder. “Watch out!” There’s a sound of screeching tires. A crack like a gun shot. And then [[quiet|79 - END]].

A woman with shoulder-length blonde hair knocks on the open door before coming in. “Hi Nancy,” she says. You follow her gaze to find a squat woman wearing purple scrubs standing by the side of your bed. “Any change since yesterday?” The nurse—Nancy—shakes her head. “No change. But he’s awake now, and I’m sure he’s happy to see you.” She moves past the blonde-haired woman and out the door, calling as she goes, “I’m right down the hall if you need me.” The woman comes and sits next to you, taking your hand in hers. Her hands are cold, and up close you see that her cheeks are red. “Hi Dad,” she says. All at once, a name floats to the top of your mind: Christina. You open your mouth to say it, but no sound comes out. You try again—no luck. You clench your hand in frustration, accidentally squeezing hers in the process. She squeezes back. “The doctors say that you might not regain the ability to speak,” she says. There are tears in her eyes when she looks up at you. “But I told them, if anyone can push through and make a full recovery, it’s my dad.” She lets go of your hand to wipe her eyes. She’s not wearing any eye makeup, you notice. She unzips her coat, shrugs it off, and takes your hand again. “They’re not sure if you’ll be able to understand what I’m saying. I guess—I don’t know. Blink twice if you understand me?” You blink twice. Instead of encouraging her, your double blink sends her into hysterics. She breaks down completely, bending forward so her forehead rests on your entwined hands while she sobs. You know that her tears must be getting your hand wet, but for some reason you can’t feel it. You can feel the pressure from her hand, but that’s it. She regains control of herself and sits back up, not trying to hide her tears anymore. “It’s my fault. I was in a meeting. You called, and I thought, I’ll call him back after the meeting.” Your Chrissy. She looks exactly the same crying now as she did as a toddler, when she scraped her knee, or as a teenager, when some idiot kid broke her heart. You want to reassure her—of course this isn’t her fault—but no sound comes out when you open your mouth. “Oh, Dad. I’m so sorry. It’s worse, I think, that you’re still in there.” She lets out a long, slow breath. “You were—well, you were hit by a car. And I guess you also had a stroke, but we don’t know if it happened before or after the accident. You were running from—Dad, if you’d only been taking your meds.” You have that feeling again, like a piece of your heart is breaking off. You’re here in the hospital with her, but you’re also walking her down the aisle at her wedding and driving her to school and clinking tea cups and staring down at her in her crib. All of these moments, all at once, while the machines beep furiously around you, louder and louder to a crescendo. It’s okay, you want to tell her. It’ll all be okay.

<<run UIBar.stow() >><<set $hasKey to false>><div class="center"><h1 class="myTitle">Forgetting Frank Joseph</h1> by Jennifer London [[Begin|1 - START]]</div>

<div class="center"><h1 class="myTitle">Forgetting Frank Joseph</h1> </div>