Forgetting

Forgetting

I remember her, of course.  Lisa Cohen.  But she doesn’t remember me.  So I smile and wave whenever I see her.  She waves back.  I wink and I then see the look of understanding in her eyes.  She puts her finger to her temple and makes an ‘X’. I nod.

It has been only about eighteen months since the Forgetting drug came out.  It’s as illegal in this country as the Morning After pill.  In England, they use it in hospitals and psych wards.  For Forgetting of course.  They show you the person’s picture or a video and then, when you are focused on that person, they administer the drug using a specialized syringe. 

A small finger prick and then the pain from the prick settles on a spot in your head, like a mini migraine.  And then … poof!  It’s gone. The entire memory bank associated with that person, place or thing.  Quite extraordinary and, of course, quite full of side affects.

Lisa Cohen and I were married, actually.  One of those quickie things in Vegas. After about half a year of dating.  That was more than a year ago now.  The dating was great.  The marriage failed on the first night.  She thought it changed things; I did not.  Pretty much the story of every failed marriage. Of every step up the social ladder from “And you are…?” to “Wanna step out and get some pizza?” to  “Here comes the bride.”  She wants him to become something different.  He never will.  And he wants things to stay the way they are.  They never do.

Illegal here or not, the Forgetting drug is quite popular.  Everyone knows someone who has taken it.  Often more than once.

But back to me.  Back to us. So she forgot me and most of my friends and everything we had ever done and everywhere we had been together.  To remind her of the Forgetting, she, like so many people, had a picture of me in her phone with an X on it.  And a name.  Simple as pie. 

So I wink and she smiles.  No bad memories so a simple ‘not gonna happen again look’ and we both move on. Like we had never met. 

But we had.  And I am not just talking about the dating and the marriage and the Forgetting.  We have met every day since she Forgot me. 

You see, Lisa has residual.  One of the many side effects.

Most of the time you Forget, you can meet the person and, while you did not remember any of the times before the new meeting, you would remember the new one.  But she had the residual side effect.  Like a dead spot for that person.  All past memories are erased, as planned, but no new memories can stick.  Residual.

Every day I see Lisa again and she meets me for the very first time.  Every day I nod to her and she assumes I am Forgotten and smiles a ‘sorry, but not again’ smile.  Every day.  Every day.  Even though she has no idea what it is she doesn’t want to happen again.

Twice I had the device, loaded, poised above my finger.  Twice I had her picture in hand.  But neither time could I do it.  I did not want to Forget.  I wanted another chance.

Technically and legally we’re still married.  She’s still my wife.  I have the piece of paper and picture to prove it.  Both signed by a real Justice of the Peace dressed up like an old Elvis.  He was in his nineties and we joked that if Elvis were still alive, he’d be younger. 

Then we broke up.  But we couldn’t stay apart.  I could explain why we kept finding ourselves together, but why take the time.  You know this.  It’s like the sun rising every day.  Like static electricity attracting dog hair to velvet pants. People that are bad for each other can’t seem to stay away from each other. 

This is why the Forgetting drug is so popular.

So we bought two doses, off the Internet of course.  The source of everything illegal.  And untaxed.

And we pricked our fingers together, a joint ceremony complete with a glass we broke that could never be put back together again, which, I must say, is a far better use of that symbol. 

But I hadn’t loaded the drug into my device. 

As I watched her eyes cloud into a curious ‘why am I here?’ look, I knew I had made the right choice.  I wanted to remember.  It hurt.  It hurt more than I could imagine anything could hurt.  My throat closed.  I couldn’t breath, but I sat there as she became startled by the piece of paper in her hands.

On it was the following language, which came with the device and was a favorite of comedians and speech givers.  At least it was until it became a hackneyed joke and then only Jay Leno used it.

You have taken the Forgetting drug. 
This is the reason you do not remember the PERSON in front of you. 
If you do not want to make new memories with this PERSON, please leave the room immediately.

On our pieces of paper, we both added a single word:

Leave!

Which is why she smiled, got up, and left.

I stayed. And hyperventilated until I awoke sometime later.

They say that you don’t know what you’ve lost until it’s gone.  But it’s not true when the other Forgets.  She’s not gone.  She’s right there in front of you.  She’s just empty.  Like a CD that somehow got wiped clean.  Still labeled, but nothing on it. 

Best to throw it away to stop the feeling of loss over and over again, but I can’t do it.  I can’t do that.

--

“Something’s wrong.”

“Wrong as in ‘you broke a nail’ wrong or wrong as in ‘pregnant’ wrong?”

“Somewhere in between. I don’t remember what happened after I went to get coffee this afternoon.  The whole afternoon is lost. I ordered the coffee, I remember that.  An overfriendly, middle -aged person dressed too young for her age served me the coffee. I turned to … nothing… and then I was walking back to the apartment in the afternoon … with no coffee in my hands.”

“That’s disturbing.  Are you dizzy?”

“No.  And I am pretty sure it’s happened a few times before. I’ve lost hours and afternoons before. But this time I have a lemon ice spoon in my pocket.”

“Lemon ice spoon?”

“I went to Navy Pier while I was out.”

“Lemon ice spoon equals Navy Pier?”

“Yes.  They sell lemon ice there by the Ferris wheel.  I love lemon ice. I used to get it as a kid and then ride the Ferris wheel. So, yes, lemon ice spoon equals Navy Pier.”

--

There are actually court cases about people taking advantage of residual Forgetters.  But since the drug is illegal, it’s like suing someone for stealing your heroin.

The courts usually slap a fine on both parties and a restraining order on the one that remembers. 

--

“When was the last time you saw Mike?”

“Who?”

“Mike, your ex.”

“What are you talking about?”

--

It’s been nearly two months.  Every morning I have to remind her that we’re married and she has amnesia.  I give her sugar pills from a fake prescription bottle.

But it’s not working. Not working for me, I mean.

--

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

“What I can remember.”

“Please respond with a ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“Yes.”

--

This is the worst.  No, not the threat of jail. The fact that she looks at me and sees me and has no recognition of the months we spent together before the police came.  No recognition of me at all.  They could point to the man three rows back, tell her it’s me and she’d react the same way.

I wish I had taken the drug.  But I couldn’t. 

This is hell.

--

“Let’s go ride the Ferris wheel.”

“This is getting to be like a disease.”

“I know.  But I am happy when I ride the Ferris wheel.  Like the missing piece returns.”

“But you can’t remember him at all?”

“No. Only what you tell me when you say ‘him.’  Once you use his name, the whole conversation is gone.  Like a dead space appears, like when you try to remember an actor’s name but trying to remember it only pushes it further away. So, can we go?”

“To the Ferris Wheel?  Again?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember being kidnapped?”

“No.”

“It lasted nearly four months.”

“Still no.”

“And you went to the Ferris wheel at least five times each week, from what the reports say.”

“Yes.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I must have been very happy on the days we went.”

“That’s crazy.”

“So, can we go?”

--

This is hell. 

Lisa’s Forgetting me is hell. My remembering her is hell.

Jail is nothing.

My knowing that she Forgot me is hell. Hell on earth.


===========

THE END