familiarity breeds
contempt
“Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory.” Or so said Albert Schweitzer. According to a card Cat had given me on one of her visits. But I was in pretty good health—excepting the recent bump on my head—and had a very bad memory, and let me tell you . . . I was not happy.
People who looked one way, acted another way. There was no road map or Cliff’s Notes for human decency. I guess that’s true anyway, but when you have no memory about anyone’s character, you tend to make bad choices, trust the wrong people. I wished that everyone wore signs like sandwich boards that would declare who or what they were. Character defects and assets. Just a one-word warning so I could get a heads-up and know who I was dealing with. This person is a: Liar. Cheater. Letch. Fraud. Manipulator. Backstabber. Felon. Narcissist. Scumbag. That person is: Dependable. Honest. Selfish. Conceited. Kind. Two-faced. Caring. Satan.
My door buzzer sounded off, nearly giving me a heart attack. When I pressed the Listen button, I was relieved to find it was only Dirk. He was at my door within seconds as if he’d heard my psychic stress signal, and he thrust a brown paper bag in my stomach.
I opened the bag. “What’s this?”
“It was a late-night-ice-cream surprise,” he said as he pulled out two pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream—Peanut Butter Cup and Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough—“but now that I see how cute you look, it’s maybe-we-should-step-things-up-and-move-past-second-base-since-we’ve-been-together-for-two-years-even-though-you-don’t-remember ice cream.”
“New flavor,” I said. “They can fit all that on the carton?”
“Yes.” He seemed amused.
“It’s a very sweet surprise,” I said as I shifted my feet and felt my jaw clenching. “And that sounds really . . . nice. But I just don’t feel ready for that yet.” I shrugged and winced a little. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool. I’ll get spoons,” Dirk said, handing me the Cookie Dough pint, then going into the kitchen to grab two spoons. I caught my reflection in the mirror—the light glistening off my necklace—and I moved a little closer to inspect it.
“Did you get me this?” I called out.
“What?” Dirk answered, handing me a spoon, flicking off his carton top.
“This pretty necklace?”
Dirk looked at it the same way he looked at Sneevil the first time he saw him, so I knew the answer was going to be no. As little as I knew him, I was able to recognize looks I’d already seen.
“No,” he said.
“Hmm,” I said, leaning into the mirror, opening the locket, and noticing the photograph in it for the first time.
“There’s a lighthouse in here,” I said.
“So there is,” Dirk replied, and then raised his spoon for a toast. “To us and to new beginnings,” he said.
We clinked spoons and dug in.
* * * * *
Between my time in the hospital and my recovery time at home, it had been an extra four weeks since the break my job gave us between the holidays. I’d started a routine of twice-weekly physical and mental therapy sessions, so I felt somewhat occupied. But I was ready to restart my real life, whatever that was. So I wasn’t too unhappy to receive a call one morning from Splash Media Human Resources, an extremely nice woman asking about when I might be able to return to work, and seeming a tad reluctant to point out—though she brought herself to do so—that I’d missed an awful lot of work in the past four months or so. I told her I was ready when they were. The next day, a follow-up call came from a woman named Lydia, who also seemed nice in the extreme and also seemed terribly interested in my plans for returning.
On the following Monday, feeling the love, I got dressed in gray wool slacks, a silk and rayon burgundy blouse, black loafers, and a black jacket—all very serious stuff—and set off to the office.
I walked into Splash Media and was immediately struck by the chaos. People were frantic and it was only 9 A.M. I passed a man who looked me up and down and laughed.
“Got an interview?” he said.
“I do?” I asked, not sure what he was saying.
“Oh, right,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “Sorry, I forgot. I’m Kurt.”
“Hi, Kurt?”
“The outfit,” he said as he waved his arm up and down in front of me. “You don’t usually dress like that. We always tease people who show up in suits. It’s assumed that they have an interview at another company because we sure as hell don’t dress up here.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling suddenly self-conscious and wishing I had a change of clothes with me.
“You look like you’re gonna cry,” he said. “Don’t freak out. You look nice.”
I wasn’t going to cry. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m okay. But some things are a little . . . less than clear. Like my office. Could you just get me going in the right direction, please?”
“Sure,” he said. “You’re just down the hall this way,” he said, and I followed him through the halls until we reached my office.
I’d only been sitting at my desk for about three minutes when a woman stood in my doorway.
“Welcome back,” she said. “I’m Lydia.”
“Hi,” I said as I thumbed through a pack of Post-its nervously.
“Look”—she sighed heavily—“I know that what went on may have given you a certain impression, and I want to correct that. Is that all right?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s not working,” I said, and she froze. I’d opened my mouth halfway, to say it was all right, then realized I had no idea what she was talking about. In the containers of my mind—some empty, some overflowing—the one labeled Lydia held very little. I knew her when I saw her, but whether she’d run the place or brought me coffee and Danish in the morning, I had no clue. I remembered that I wrote, and it seemed to me she’d worked with me in the writing—because her face was familiar—but it wasn’t attached to a “Lydia” or any concrete experiences. Just etchings, like graffiti on subway windows, and I didn’t know what they meant.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I continued. “I just, I don’t have any impressions of you, one way or another. I’m so sorry. Right now, I can’t remember anything we did together.”
She brightened, and I mused happily that I’d touched something deep and tender inside her. “That’s, well, that’s— Anyway, are you settled? Ready to create some new magic together? Partner?”
“I just got here, but sure . . . what should I be doing? Or ‘we’?”
“Well, your Get Rich Quick campaign took off, and while you were out it’s really taken on a life of its own.”
“Good,” I said, not knowing what she was talking about but glad I’d done something right.
“So now you’re free to work with me again.”
“Sounds fun,” I said. “What are we working on?”
“We’re pitching a long shot but a dream—Harvest,” she said, but the name didn’t register. I guess my confusion showed because she then added, “It’s insurance.”
“Ah. Okay.”
“They’ve had these campaigns with wheat fields everywhere that they’re trying to get away from so, really, it can be anything. Just no wheat.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Perfect. I’ll check back with you later and we can brainstorm,” she said and then disappeared, only to reappear within four seconds. “Nice loafers, by the way,” she said, and then took off again.
* * * * *
Todd called and asked me to meet him outside my office on my lunch break. When I got to the little park across the street I was greeted by Todd and Travis.
“Ambush,” I said jokingly.
“Actually, it is,” Todd said, and I was struck by how ragged he seemed. His eyes were sunken and ringed by dark circles, his hair was slick and bent in all directions, and he wore dark corduroys and an ill-fitting black shirt. He looked like a down-on-his-luck vampire.
“Yikes,” I said. “What did I do?”
“That’s what we’re here to talk about,” Todd said.
“Hi,” I said to Travis, who hadn’t said anything yet.
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Todd asked me to meet him here, so your guess is as good as mine.”
“What’s going on?” I asked Todd.
“Both of you need to keep an open mind,” Todd said.
“Fine. What’s up?” Travis said.
“Jordan, I’m doing this for your own good. It’s about what we talked about—what I told you at the hospital,” Todd said and then looked at Travis. “Travis, Jordan never had amnesia.”
“What?” Travis said and scrunched up his face. “Of course she did.”
“No, not when you hit her, not when you met her, not when you took her out. She was faking it.”
“Why are you doing this, Todd?” I asked.
“Is it true?” Travis asked me.
I felt panicked and confused. I wanted to tell the truth, but I didn’t know what the truth was. So I answered truthfully. “I don’t know,” I said.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Travis asked, slightly agitated.
“She doesn’t know,” Todd said, “because she really has amnesia now. I’m the only one who knows about before.”
“Okay. A, why would Jordan do that and, B, why are you telling me this?”
“Because she loves you. And I love her. And Dirk is doing a number on her. And I just want to make things right.”
Travis turned to me. “So you were faking the whole time? I don’t believe it!”
“Well”—Todd jumped in—“let me just say that she felt horrible about you and having to keep pretending. Seriously. That’s why she’d always downplay it. But when she got hit by that ball that was a freak coincidence, because she had actually just asked me to try to fake another, different accident so she could make it up to you.”
“Right,” Travis said with a bit of an edge. “Because otherwise I’d have thought you were both crazy.”
“No chance of that now,” I muttered.
“She wanted to plan this fake accident. To supposedly knock her memory back into place—”
“I think this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard—” Travis said.
“No, there’s more,” Todd continued, growing more excited.
“You’re right. I should reserve my vote,” Travis interjected.
“And she wanted you to be the hero. Like . . . to take the blame off you. You were there when she lost her memory, and now you’d be there when she got it back and she’d regain control of her custodianship—whatever it is that her mother got—and call off the lawsuit.”
Travis now looked at Todd carefully. “She was doing that for me?”
“Well, she wasn’t doing it for me,” Todd said.
“Wow,” Travis whispered.
“Yeah,” Todd said, settling into a confident smile. “Stupid, but sweet.”
The two of them seemed to have come to some kind of understanding, but I sure as hell didn’t understand any of it. And they weren’t really including me in the conversation, so I didn’t get why they had asked me there except to humiliate me.
“Am I needed for anything here?” I asked. “Because I don’t necessarily believe any of this and I really don’t want to hear any more about it.”
* * * * *
My stomach was grumbling because I’d skipped lunch after the ridiculous surprise attack, so I went back to my desk, unwrapped half a granola bar I found in the top drawer, and spent the next two hours or so reading the background deck and jotting ideas for the brainstorm with Lydia. I don’t know if it was the shock of Todd’s wildly imaginative confessions, the now-months-old granola bar, the clean slate of my wiped mind, the thrill of being back to near normalcy at my desk . . . Maybe it was the intoxicating inspiration of the insurance industry, but the ideas came remarkably easily. Exploded, really, like flashes from Cat’s digital camera (she’d been on a mission to create new memories from the start, in case the old ones came back in bad shape). I knew from the woman in HR that I’d been doing well and my return had been eagerly anticipated in certain quarters, but I didn’t expect to be able to pick where I’d left off with so little effort.
Late in the day, Lydia came into my office with a legal pad in her hand and sat on the edge of my desk.
“So . . . did you think of anything?”
I didn’t want to seem overconfident, so I played coy. After all, brainstorming was spitballing ideas, to see what stuck. I could undersell the ideas and seem not only brilliant but unfazed by it all.
“Well,” I said, “they’ve been on the consistency thing for a long time with the brand, but this marketing brief calls for a less conservative but still reassuring and embracing message to speak to the biggest consumers of insurance. Not Mapplethorpe but not Norman Rockwell. So here’s what hit me.”
I put my two hands together, side by side.
“Uh-huh,” Lydia said and wrote something down.
“And then the tag: ‘You’re in good hands . . . with Harvest.’”
Lydia stopped writing. “So . . . like a send-up? Or a straight comparison? I don’t know that they do comparison. But if there’s humor, I suppose . . .”
“Well,” I said, a little nonplussed that she hadn’t thrown the pad into the air and embraced me, “it’s not really a humorous approach. It’s the two hands, together, carrying you, holding you up, like this—” and I formed a little cup with my two hands, as I’d seen so clearly in my mind’s eye. “But, and this just occurs to me, it’s also like ‘We treat you right; you’re in good hands with us.’ Or ‘the helping hands of Harvest.’”
She sucked on her pen tip. “Question,” she said. “Does your next concept involve a wisecracking lizard?”
SLAM! I slapped my open palms on the desk. “That’s spooky! Must be out there like . . . electrons in the air. This thing is going to write itself!”
The pad hung limp in her hand, and she regarded me, unsmiling. “I’m not sure it wrote itself, but it did get written,” she said.
“You’re not taking anything down? We don’t want to lose this.”
“Oh, it’s not going anywhere,” she replied.
I looked back to my pad, where I’d been jotting thoughts. “You’re probably right. It would be hard to forget this stuff. It’s just flowing.”
“True that,” she said, and she walked out, leaving me to wonder if I’d overwhelmed her.
* * * * *
Because it disrupted any personal routines I might have had, amnesia left me in a perpetual waiting game. I waited for people to call, come over, make plans, break plans. I fed myself fine and did the laundry, but I didn’t initiate. This left me vulnerable to all sorts of dubious outings—like tagging along on the shopping trip to Barneys with my mom and sister after work one day.
“Hi, Jordan,” Samantha said. “Welcome to our world.” When she said that, I stopped for a second—thinking that it sounded familiar to me.
“I know that . . .” I said. “What is that?”
“It’s the song that played in FAO Schwarz,” Sam said. Barneys seemed like the equivalent of an orgiastic romp through aisles of toys for grown-ups, tantalizingly out of reach, so it was fitting.
“Did we used to come here a lot together?” I asked. They looked at each other and laughed.
“No,” Sam said. “You weren’t much of a shopper.”
“Well, what was I, then?”
“You were more of a . . .”
“An independent thinker,” my mom finished.
“Was I a nerd?” I asked.
“You weren’t a nerd, Jordan,” my mom said. “No. Not a nerd.”
“Yes, she was, Mom,” Samantha interjected. “You weren’t cool at all. That’s why it was such a score when you started going out with Dirk.”
“You guys really do like Dirk, huh?” I asked. It was weird. For every argument Todd and Cat had for Travis, my mom and Sam had one for Dirk.
My mom nodded. “He’s a wonderful man, dear.”
“And I was happy with him?”
“Very.”
“You spent a lot of time with us?” I asked.
“Well, no, but we knew you were happy.”
“Look, Jordan,” Sam said. “You’re not going to do better than Dirk. Like . . . ever. So I wouldn’t question it so much if I was you.”
For the next hour, I watched my sister and my mother go after the same outfits, the same colors, and then argue over who saw them first, finally deciding that they would each get different colors and share. I watched my mom—my own dear bridge-and-tunnel bully—practically rip the last size twenty-four pair of Joe’s Jeans out of some girl’s hands (making them, not Joe’s, not this poor girl’s, but hers and hers alone) and not miss a beat.
I watched in awe as my mother and sister moved deftly through the aisles and targeted their must-have pieces. They could be at opposite ends of the store, but they’d somehow manage to pick extremely similar things. And then when they caught up with each other they’d say in tandem, “Where did you get that?”
I watched the salespeople recognize them both and call them by name and, even more scary, pull out a reserve selection that they had handpicked and kept on hold for them in anticipation of their next visit. Nobody at Barneys seemed to know who I was, though.
I looked at a sweater that was sort of interesting and checked the tag: $2,800. Was $2,800 not a lot of money for a sweater? Had I missed something when I hit my head? Did everyone go crazy and think it was okay to spend a vacation’s worth of money on some knitwear?
When they were getting rung up at the register, the salesgirl gave them each a thong. Cosabella’s new color. They were giving them to their best customers.
“They’re complimentary,” the salesgirl said as she tucked them into the bags and smiled. I picked up another pair and held them up in front of my face.
“You look fantastic,” I said, in a funny voice as if the underwear were talking. “That’s an excellent purchase you’re making. The color really makes your eyes stand out.” My mother took them out of my hand and put them back on the counter.
“What are you doing, Jordan?” she asked in a most disgusted tone.
“I was making a joke. She said they were ‘complimentary.’ Get it? They were complimenting you.” They didn’t laugh. The salesgirl took pity on me and, even though I wasn’t buying anything, surrendered an extra one of the complimentary thongs.
* * * * *
As if my day hadn’t been long enough, when I got home, Todd was there, waiting for me.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” he said.
“I’m really tired,” I said.
“Please trust me. Everything I said was true.”
I did feel like I could trust him, but I also felt so embarrassed. “Faking amnesia? That’s a horrible thing to do to people! The people who care about me . . .”
“Hey . . . your idea,” he said.
“I know . . . so you say . . . It’s just so weird. Were things really that bad?”
“You were going through a rough patch.”
“And what are the odds that it really happened to me!” I said. “Talk about karma! I’m a terrible person. I’m being punished. God is punishing me.”
“God is not punishing you.”
“God hates me.”
“Stop.” He laughed at me. “Jordy, you’re the best person I know. We’ve just gotta get your memory back and help you see that.” There was a warmth about Todd that made me feel safe.
“Let me show you something,” I said, and I pulled out the thong that was still in my bag. Todd blushed a little.
“Okay, we weren’t that kind of close before. I thought I cleared that up.”
“No,” I said, waving the thong around. “I have to get your opinion because I think you’ll get it.” I told him how they’d given out the complimentary thongs, which as I was retelling the story seemed even more strange to me. I mean, what kind of complimentary gift is that? What are you saying to your customer? Thanks for shopping here. Now, if you’d be so kind as to shove this up your ass . . .
The minute I said, “You look fantastic,” Todd started cracking up.
“Complimentary underwear,” Todd said. “Very cute. That’s the nutty girl I know and tolerate.” I felt so much better. Instantly. “You couldn’t expect your pod-people family to get that though. They aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer. And when it comes to sense of humor, forget it.”
“Then why do I have one?”
“Because you’re awesome. Don’t question why you are how you are and they’re how they are. You’ll only be forced to come to the conclusion that I came to a long time ago: You’re adopted. But you have enough to deal with right now. We can revisit that later. Plus, you’re not adopted. You’re just amazing and unique and brilliant and funny and therefore anyone in your presence will appear to be a lesser form. Because they are.”
“How did I get so lucky to have a friend like you?”
“Because I too am amazing and unique, brilliant and funny. People seek their own kind.”
“I see.” I nodded. Todd was a good guy, even without memories. “Thanks for . . . trying to help me.”
“Least I can do. Just trust that I’m not the bad guy here?”
“I do,” I said, but I wondered if that was supposed to mean Dirk was the bad guy. And why did there have to be any bad guys?
* * * * *
Lydia’s cryptic reaction to my “in good hands” idea made it all the more important that I wow her with some different ones. So the next day, when I walked into the office, I was armed and ready with two more equally good angles—one had just hit me the night before in the shower, and the other came to me when I was brushing my teeth that morning.
I was in the mini-kitchen on our floor, pouring stale coffee into a Styrofoam cup when Lydia snuck up on me.
“Creative juices flowing today?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “They are.”
“Great,” she said and followed me back to my office.
“Okay,” I said. “We want to think about branding, right? What rings out more clearly in that background material than confidence and comfort?”
“Comfort?” she asked.
“Well, I, for whatever reason, really liked the ideas I shared already. Not because I came up with them—”
“Jordan, the joke has sort of been milked, and I get that you didn’t come up with it . . .”
“Right,” I said, not understanding but not wanting to lose momentum, “not because they’re my ideas but because they work. When you think about your insurance, you want to know there are people behind the promises. So, to that end, I think we should do something bold for a brand that’s always been about some vague notion of ‘consistency,’ and not known as dependable, personal, caring—you know?”
“Okay . . .” she said.
“So I had a couple thoughts,” I went on. “One was like a neighborhood watch. But not like a volunteer security guard . . . more like a friendly watch. Your neighbor watching out for you . . . having your back.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So this came to me, ‘Like a good neighbor . . . Harvest is there.’ And there could be different variations of the whole good neighbor thing, like maybe—”
“Jordan,” she interrupted, “can you hold that thought?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I just want to get the boss man in on this,” she said, and disappeared out of my office. It seemed that the old Jordan ideatronic may have started cranking out the hits once again.
A few moments later, Lydia returned with a man with white hair and the Kurt guy I’d met, who’d accused me of having a job interview.
“Hi, Jordan. Welcome back,” the white-haired man said. “I’m Ted Billingsly.”
“Hi,” I said. “Nice to . . . see you.”
“Jordan was just telling me some new and inspired ideas she has for Harvest, so I wanted you to hear them for yourself,” Lydia said and smiled reassuringly at me. “Tell them.”
I repeated my “good neighbor” thing, and Mr. Billingsly stood there looking blankly at me for a moment. Then he opened his mouth, but nothing came out. I looked from side to side and nervously just went on. Surmising this concept might have been too soft or subtle for present company, I decided to tell him my other idea—one I hadn’t even sprung on Lydia.
“Then there’s this other one I thought of. Kind of on the same line of thinking, you know, stability . . .” I rambled.
“Okay?” he said.
“Like a rock,” I said, and then waited. But they said nothing. “Meaning,” I went on, “that they are your rock. They’re there for you.” And I sang the words as I’d heard them in my head while brushing. “Li-ike a rock!”
Kurt snorted and then covered it up with a cough. I didn’t know what was going on, but I had a sinking feeling and it was making my throat itch.
Mr. Billingsly smiled at me and then turned to Kurt and Lydia and said, “Could you give Jordan and me a few minutes alone?”
“Told you,” I thought I heard Lydia say to Kurt.
“Do you know what State Farm is?” Mr. Billingsly asked gently.
“State Farm?” I asked.
“Insurance?” he said.
“I’m sorry, I don’t. Did we do a campaign for them?”
“No,” he said. “We didn’t. But they have a campaign that’s very similar to the one you just pitched.”
“Have had for, what, thirty, forty years?” Kurt said obligingly, still standing there with Lydia.
“They do?” I asked, feeling the tickle in my throat again, more pronounced now. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to steal ideas. It just came to me.”
“I understand,” he said. “I think it’s just your subconscious remembering existing campaigns.”
“Campaigns?” I asked. “Plural?”
“Lydia told me you pitched her the Allstate campaign yesterday, and, well, the other idea you had today—the ‘Like a rock’ campaign—that belongs to Chevy. It’s Bob Seger.”
“Oh God,” I said, my throat now closing. “I’m so embarrassed. I swear I didn’t mean to . . .”
“It’s all right,” he said softly, and he motioned for Kurt and Lydia to leave. “We understand. We just want you to get well.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“But for now, Jordan, I don’t think it’s doing you any good to be here. So I think the best thing for everyone would be you taking a leave of absence.”
I stood up immediately and started packing my backpack. I put the stapler in there without thinking—then quickly took it out and placed it back on my desk. “Yes. Absolutely,” I said as I was shuffling papers on my desk and shaking. “I totally understand. How long?”
“We’ll work through Human Resources and come up with a plan. I’m sorry, Jordan,” he said and got up to go.
“Is this a permanent leave?” I asked, my voice quivering.
“Call us when you feel better,” he answered—which wasn’t actually an answer at all. Certainly not the one I was hoping for.