“Can I decide in January?” I ask. I look around the apartment and realize it’s not even decorated for Christmas but I still say, “I want to enjoy the holidays as best I can without feeling broken.”
“You’re not broken.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, his hand cupping the back of my neck and drawing me closer to him. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
I don’t distract him further but I do watch him strip off his boxers before he strides into the bathroom.
“I was thinking about trying a hypnotist,” I confess when he emerges, bare and clean. He’s rubbing the towel in his hair, leaving the rest of his magnificent body on display. He glances at me with interest. I had honestly only thought of it in the time that he was in the shower, but it was still a consideration.
“What brought this on?”
“I feel like I should want to get my memories back.” Ever since seeing Vivian, I keep thinking that maybe I should let the past stay in the past, but shouldn’t I want to remember? Shouldn’t I want to reclaim that history?
“We can talk about it later, but only if you really want to.” Charlie disappears into his walk-in closet to get dressed. When he emerges, I admire how good he looks in a suit. He looks classy and elegant, like he belongs on a GQ magazine cover, not heading to the financial district for work. His hands are quick and practiced as he puts on a fresh tie.
He catches me watching him in the mirror. “Stop undressing me with your eyes,” he says, fixing his belt. “I might just let you actually undress me.”
I smirk at him. “Maybe later,” I promise, thinking of all the things I want to do to him. I’m not interested in furthering what must already be his father’s frustration, so I keep my come-hither looks to myself. He gives me a quick kiss before running out the door.
After physical therapy, I drift back to the guest room I had inhabited for two months. The queen bed is freshly made, a pair of pajamas neatly folded on the corner, waiting for my return. I had been prepared to move my clothes into Charlie’s room and then realized that it would have been too presumptuous. I’m stuck in limbo with him, unsure what to do about my clothes. I settle for grabbing my toiletries and moving those into his shower because at the very least, I’ll be showering there.
After showering, I email the temp agency again, trying to get back in their good graces. The response I get, a mere hour later, is full of explanations as to why they would have to consider it. In the last two years I’d worked for them, I had a poor track record when it came to being on time and missing work. News of the accident didn’t sway them at all: they politely promised to be in touch after the holidays and that was all. I have about as much hope in that as I do in Jack having a change of heart tomorrow.
It had been one thing to let myself feel aimless and adrift before our trip since I was still focusing on getting better and stronger, testing my limits. The swimming we did in Bora Bora, or water therapy as I tried to call it with Dan, helped some, but I still have aches when standing too long. Overall, though, I’ve been feeling stronger, so I want something for myself. If that’s a job, a hobby, or a volunteer position, I don’t know. What I do know is that I don’t want to feel so reliant on Charlie for everything, especially now that my relationship with him has changed so drastically. I can’t just float around the apartment with nothing to do while Charlie is at work. My time convalescence was a mixture of watching TV and reading books to pass the time. He was working long hours before he spirited me off to the other side of the world and I know it's only going to get worse now that we've returned. With PT taking up less of my time, I need a new focus.
Tired from physical therapy, I take the stairs to Charlie’s office one at a time, carefully testing the strength of my knee as I go. I love the space he designed here. There are wall to wall bookcases ringing the room but they’re bare. His desk is positioned at the window, providing him with a sweeping view overlooking Central Park. There is a half-scribbled-on notepad sitting just to the left of the desk, his handwriting smudged by the way his left hand drags across the page.
Setting my laptop on the desk, I contemplate what it is I’m doing up here. Very briefly, while I was in the hospital, I saw a therapist. It was short-lived because my anger was still too fresh for me to be open about what I was feeling. One of the tips she gave me before departing was to try journaling about my feelings. I had dismissed the suggestion, not wanting to admit there was anything wrong with me.
So today, I write. Similar to how I was one day ready to reach back out to Vivian, I’m finally in a headspace that will let me look on the events of the last few months without a dark heart closing me off. Bora Bora was exactly what the doctor ordered. It cleared my head for me to finally really process what happened in the accident outside of this closed off apartment.
I open a document and I pour all of my thoughts and feelings out onto the page, not wanting to stop. I write about the changes in myself and how it feels to have lost so much time. The document grows in length as I talk about the things that I had taken for granted, things so simple, like knowing my own favorite restaurants, like having friends.
The whole exercise is unexpectedly cathartic and I curse my stubbornness for not trying it sooner. It’s a perfect way for me to work out how I’ve been feeling about the accident. When my words approach Thanksgiving and the trip, I hesitate. This is only for me, but writing about it makes it so real. Charlie has grounded me, stopped my emotions from casting me adrift.
I feel more alive with him, like I’ve touched something deep inside me that was dormant a long while before the accident. The feeling, I think, is hope, and I don’t know what to make of it. I let my feelings settle and I sit back, looking at the length of what I’ve written. I catch the sob that tears through my chest before it reduces me to nothing. Eyes squeezed shut, I force the tears back down.
I begin to dig through my old emails to find my landlord's contact information and send him a message to find out what requirements there are for subletting the place. Then I spend what feels like hours deleting all the old marketing emails I’ve accumulated. Once my inbox is empty, it feels like a weight has been lifted from my chest. I feel like I’m on a roll, so I text Vivian, thanking her for brunch, for forgiving me, for being my friend. I knew I missed having someone to talk to, but until I had Vivian back, I hadn't realized how badly I needed it.
It’s lunchtime when Charlie texts that he’s going to be home for dinner and will finish work from here instead. Dinner for Charlie could be anywhere from six till ten, so I still have almost an entire day to come up with something to do. I reason with myself: I’m trying to return to work, so what does it matter if I charge a few more things on my already bloated credit cards? The apartment is in desperate need of sprucing up. I’ve learned about the rise of same day deliveries over the last five years, so I order a few things with a guaranteed delivery for today. Four hours later, I’m catching up on another procedural show when I get the call from the front desk that my packages have arrived.
One of the doormen, Benji, knocks on the door with the boxes. My eyes want to bulge out of my head when I set my sights on them.
“Hello, Miss Elia,” he says, setting the boxes inside. I feel guilty that I have no cash to tip him and make a mental note to get him something nice for the holidays. I know Charlie had mentioned needing to tip the doormen after all the packages and guests they have had to accommodate since my arrival. I’m hardly the worst of the residents here, but I know how important our front desk is to keeping things running.
“Hi Benji, thanks for your help.”
We chat for a bit about what I’m doing, and he loves the idea so much that he offers to come up and help after work, which I politely decline. I want to do this for me and Charlie, for our first Christmas, even if our relationship is just a fledgling one.
I work up a sweat hanging tinsel and lights around the stairs to the loft. I’m winded by walking up and down the stairs over and over again, struggling to wrap the delicate garland through the banister. My knee aches from using it like this, but I try to focus on how excited Charlie is going to be to see it all. The fake frosted window spray goes on easily. I can barely keep myself from dancing with delight as I spray it on, trying to make snowflake patterns as I go. The floor-to-ceiling windows make it difficult to get to the top, and it’s going to be a bitch to clean up in a few weeks, but it’s so bright and beautiful. Maybe I can convince him to let it stay until February. Little vinyl decals stick neatly to mirrors in the house, presents and snowmen in little crevices where he wouldn’t expect to find them. I can only hope that Charlie is as delighted with the space as I am. All we need now is a Christmas tree.
Our relationship has done everything out of order, like living together before even kissing. However, I think of the magic and whimsy behind my grandparents’ courtship: it was a no-nonsense arrangement, quick and full of love. They wasted no time after finding each other. I thought love stories like that had been lost as we started to expect more and want more from our partners. These days, knowing someone for only three months wasn’t long enough to get engaged or married, but my grandparents' courtship had lasted only eight months from meeting to marriage. I knew the story well: of how my grandparents, both immigrants, met at a club and for two weeks straight, they talked. Tired of waiting, my grandmother demanded to know when he planned to ask her out. He proposed three months later, on Christmas Eve, and they were married the following May. Perhaps this was my chance at a whimsical love story. Maybe everyone had one, but they just didn’t see it when it came around.
I’m reading on the couch when Charlie gets home at nine. I lean my head backward so I’m looking at him upside down when he enters. He drops his bag off to the side, shrugging his coat off and then hanging it up with care. Routine finished, he zeroes in on where I’m sitting, crossing to me in three easy strides before dropping to his knees to kiss me upside down. I see the allure of the Spiderman kiss as his tongue grazes mine.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he apologizes, standing. He pauses, finally noticing the change in the space around him. Christmas lights are flashing from the stairs, a different strand hung around each doorway, painstakingly coordinated to match his pre-existing décor.
“Did you do this?” he asks in wonder, picking up a nutcracker. Carefully, he fiddles with the lever behind it, his eyebrows lifting in surprise to find that it functions.
“No, I took a shower and came out and it was like this.” I shrug, like it’s the only thing that makes sense. I dig around for my bookmark, the one I always seem to misplace, and cram it into the spine.