Final Piece: Going for the Gold
That’s all I can remember. I’m apparently twenty-eight years old, and all I know is what I’ve experienced in the last two days. They say that I’m lucky to be able to speak and walk and all of the shit that normal people do… that I’m even lucky to still be alive. “Alive,” as in living a life. Living a life that I know nothing about. It’s like stepping on stage as an understudy for the big performance after the lead character broke his leg, except no one asked you ahead of time to be an understudy; you don’t know any of the stage directions, the characters, the lines, even the plot of the freaking story, for God’s sake.
I would feel more comfortable being blind in a room full of pointy objects. At least they wouldn’t look at me expectantly… as if I’d know, I guess. But every time someone comes to visit, they have this look of hope on their face, like I might suddenly remember everything just by looking at it.
“I’m your mom, honey. Don’t you remember?”
And, “I’m your wife. We’ve been married for three years now. Our anniversary is next Tuesday.”
But the worst was, “Dada?” My heart dropped into my stomach for that one. That’s supposed to be my kid, my own flesh and blood, and I don’t even know what the hell his name is.
The tears are really awkward. I know that it’s sad that I don’t remember these people, since I’m apparently an important figure in their lives. I don’t know if I should be crying too, if this should be sad for me. But what it really is, is frustrating. I don’t want to step into the shoes of someone I don’t even know and have to pick his life up where he left it. I know that “he” is supposed to be me, but I don’t feel like I can be him. It’s a big job and I’m underqualified. The most I can do is pat these people on the back and tell them that it’s alright while they paint the infinite piece of canvas which is my life.
I went to Cornell University, where I met my wife my junior year. (I have to say, I did pretty well for myself. Go me.) I graduated with a Masters degree in business, and I have a good job doing… something business-y. We live in the suburbs, have a baby named (something,) and we’re happy. I guess.
My dad died last year, or he would be visiting me too. Even though I’m relieved that one more person isn’t coming, I’m left with sort of a hole. The doctors tell me that I have an eighty-percent chance of full recovery… that leaves me a twenty-percent chance of never knowing my dad. He also went to Cornell. He played golf and taught me how to shave. He was a good man, and he would tell me to just keep pushing through until I make it all the way.
I’m going “home” soon. There, I’ll get to learn a new house and meet all of the neighbors… again. My wife tells me that the first time meeting them wasn’t my favorite; maybe I’ll like it more this time? I hope she doesn’t have a job in sales. I’m assuming she doesn’t, if we have the cushy life style that she tells me about.
But who am I supposed to be waiting for?
Golden hair flying behind her, arms outstretched, she chases after me. I ride faster and smile while she laughs and yells. “Slow down,” she tells me. “I can’t keep up!” I turn just in time to see the hill stop right in front of my tires. I pedal backward, but not soon enough—my bike topples down the side of the mountain, and I watch it. With the wind under my body, I’m actually flying!
Daisy. Her name is Daisy. I think.
More tests, more people I don’t know. More information to fill in the blank spaces.
I love big band music and lasagna. I stay up later than I should, just to watch my wife fall asleep. I read the paper every morning after I go jogging, and I shower at exactly 6:14am. I don’t like cats, I’m allergic to blueberries, and I’ve always had a “thing” for a gorgeous view across a lake. Once a month I throw a big party with hundreds of my closest friends, but those are the nights I go to sleep early.
I’m trying to concentrate, but I’m really only half there. They can tell me about my life all they want, but I can’t stop thinking about the golden-haired Daisy.
Later, when I’m alone in the room with who is apparently my mother, I ask her about my childhood. She tells me that I used to ask to go on business trips with my dad, and that he taught me how to golf at a young age. I’ve always been mature for my age, but always a big thinker… a dreamer. Maybe a little unrealistic, but I was a kid, right? I was always popular, but I only had one friend who I wanted to play with every day after school.
“No, darling. Who is Daisy? No, her name was Jenna. Beautiful girl, and you two had so much fun together. I was sure that you would end up married.”
My mother frowned and looked at the floor. “Well, Jenna died when you were nine. She… you two were playing on a rock pile over where some new houses were going, across the green.” She shuddered. “Are you sure you want to know about this? There are so many other things that I could tell you about!”
I insisted that I wanted to know. So, another canvas was painted, this one not so beautiful. Jenna and I would race around the rock pile, build castles, and make up our own games. We’d been playing at the pile for months. It was added to throughout every construction day, which meant more for us to play with. But one day, the pile got too big. There was a small avalanche, and I was fast enough; she was not. I raced for help, but my small legs couldn’t carry me fast enough. Jenna did not make it.
That story flew through my mind for the rest of the day. More tests, some lessons, another person who claimed to be my best friend since sophomore year. He’d been there at the accident. He said that I was talking to Daisy when they pulled me out, barely conscious.
The golden floss is flying again, this time in front of me as I chase it. Her laughter is like bells. She stops and says, “this is the spot.” We have a castle-building contest. Every stone we pull makes a bigger castle, and we eventually combine them. “I’ll be the queen, and you’ll be the king,” she tells me. I like that idea. So up and up it goes, and eventually we’re standing on our tip-toes to finish it off. She pulls a flatter rock from the bottom of the pile beside us to finish the castle drawbridge, and they all fall. Stones hurl themselves toward us. I take her hand and help her up, and we start to run. But her foot gets caught.
They say I’m depressed, that that’s not uncommon for cases like mine. I know who the immediate family is, and I met the in-laws via Skype. The baby’s name is Jardin; I chose his name. I have seen pictures of my house and I’ve learned to expect the mourning doves outside my window.
I still don’t remember any of it.
I ride up to the door of the kingdom on my white horse, and the drawbridge is let down for me. As I ride out, glitter catches my eye near the sea. She turns, gives me a smile, and coaxes her horse ahead through the crests. Deeper and deeper she goes, until the horse disappears into the water. I panic, but she continues on over the waves and toward the sunset. I push my steed toward the beach and into the water at full-speed, hoping to wrap my fingers in the gold.
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