Thought I Knew You(86)

I placed the empty coffee can on the top step, and I walked back inside to my family.





In some ways, the next few weeks were more strenuous than when Greg went missing. The dichotomy of my week against my weekend was exhausting. My weekdays were spent with Hannah, Leah, and Drew—school, homework, dance class or soccer, bath, and bed. On weekends, I made the eight-hour drive to Toronto to spend with Greg. Mostly I travelled alone. I took the girls once, but told them we would spend a lot more time with Daddy when he came back to New Jersey. I deliberately avoided the phrase “when he comes home.”



At the therapist’s suggestion, we were recounting our life, chronologically and in great detail. I would haul in pictures, mementos, and things I would find around the house. When I gave him his journal, he ran his hands over the soft leather, passing the book back and forth between them. When I asked if he remembered it, he nodded. He opened the journal and read each page. He paused at the poem, I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. C! He ran a finger over the words.

“Was C me?” I asked tentatively, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

“I don’t know,” he said, honestly, regretfully. “I don’t remember writing it.”

That stung. I had hoped it would spark a memory. Our time together was filled with so much of me talking, recounting stories, filling in blanks in Greg’s memory that he might not remember minutes after I told him anyway.

That was the frustrating part. I thought that once he remembered something, it would be retained, but frequently, I found myself retelling stories over and over again.

Once, after three weeks, he forgot Leah again. I excused myself and walked into the hallway, making sure to shut the heavy latched door behind me, then kicked a chair and cursed.

“What did you expect?” a voice asked from behind me. I turned to see Dr. Goodman watching me.

“I don’t know. I thought… I thought it would be easier.”

“It will become easier,” she replied mildly, as if my frustration was just a small part of her day. She started writing on a clipboard, all but ignoring me. When she looked up again, she smiled kindly. “Memory works like a natural tributary.”

I shook my head, confused by the analogy.



Reaching into her portfolio, she pulled out a yellow legal pad and a pen. She drew two lines down the center of the page. “Memories form new memories, just like water will find water. That’s how it works. Draining water will form small streams, flowing together to a larger water source. A creek. A river. Eventually, the ocean.” She drew small offshoots into the larger original two-lined river. “After a heavy rainfall, smaller, temporary streams can be formed, but without a source, they’ll dry up. Same thing with memory. New offshoots can be formed, but only with sufficient replenishment. With enough water, those tributaries become a permanent part of the landscape, and the earth underneath carved to accommodate the new stream. Rocks will be moved; even trees and vegetation relocate to allow for it. It’s a natural, yet time consuming, effect.”

I understood the concept, but I was just tired of being patient. Of being understanding.

She nonchalantly stored her notepad and pen back inside her portfolio. “The analogy works on a few different levels.”

I studied her with a spark of interest. “What levels?”

“Without a sufficient source of memory, Greg will forget a lot of what he’s learned. That’s you. You have to feed these small creeks of knowledge, both the established ones and the new, baby ones; they’re the most fragile. Feed them by telling the same stories over and over again. The people in Greg’s life have to shift. New canals won’t be formed without this change. You must put aside yourself, your life, your kids, everything. The landscape of your life has to change. Without it, those new memories? The small ones that he keeps forgetting? They’ll be stamped out. Like a dry riverbed.”

“Will he ever just remember anything? I mean, right after I tell him a story, will it ever come back fully, where he retains it?”

“It’s a long process. It’s not the movies, Claire, where someone wakes up from a coma and poof! they remember everything. Remember, Greg is extraordinary. We have rarely seen someone come so far so fast after such a long period of unconsciousness.” For the first time, the cold, steely woman was helpful. I felt better.



When I told her so, she laughed. “Working with the family members has never been my strong point. I frequently find them to be a necessary evil. They are emotional and often negatively impact a patient’s progress with their own way of dealing with their situation. Your situation is unique, to say the least. I have to admit I’m intrigued.”