A Day to Remember

A Day to Remember

Daniel Yetman September 5, 2010

The only sound on the entire Northern coast of Nova Scotia is a pen being dragged across a sandy green notebook. It makes a scratching sound and gives the impression that the pages may rip at any point. They don’t though; they manage to stay intact. When Chris stops writing temporarily (to rethink his words) the night is completely silent, even the sound of sand being blown across the beach doesn’t seem to make a noise. Tonight this notebook is everything; it means the world to Chris.

With only three more hours until sunrise it’s no wonder silence reigns across that night air. Even the sound of the pen only came to be by chance. Chris had trouble sleeping underneath the stars in his tent pitched behind the beach. Although not particularly warm or cool he still found himself restless and decided that his time may be better spent with a pen in his hand opposed to rolling back and forth in a sleeping bag. Stepping out of the tent and into the night he was instantly captivated and his inner poet started to become inspired.

The only light source comes from the moon, all of the stars seem to be blocked by clouds but the moon shines right on through. Almost completely full it illuminates the beach to the point one may forget that it’s just past four in the morning.

The tide is in but the beach is relatively flat compared to most in the province, reducing the moon’s pull drastically. There’s still at least twenty meters of beach left before it meets the brine of the ocean.

Surprisingly Chris isn’t writing about the serenity of the night (as a well-off poet might) but instead has chose to write about the most overdone topic since before Shakespeare. He’s writing about a girl, not just any girl but Meagan Lily. Chris has been infatuated with her for nearly two years now but nothing has ever happened between them. Perhaps he came on too strong or perhaps they just aren’t meant for each other but each time he has asked her on a date she said no. He has asked her out three times in total as of yet. The first time was mild, one may even say casual. He had no trouble swallowing rejection. It wasn’t until the second time denial started to sting, he felt his heart drop and he cried a bit. By the third time he was nearly embarrassed, he has had trouble looking her in the eyes since that one.

She has long been long out of his grasp but it doesn’t matter to Chris, writing about her keeps him busy and makes him feel like he’s doing something progressive. One may say that thinking of her makes him happy but it’s not happiness he feels. When conjuring images of her he is simply filling the void of desire that has long been left in his heart.

Not to say by any means he has given up on her but the plotting and scheming has grown tiresome and as he matures childish antics become seemingly more redundant and inefficient. Chris has learned to admire her as one may admire a statue; it allows him to maintain respect for her without chasing after her night and day as he has a tendency to do.

Failure does seem to take a toll on the mind and eventually it’s not worth the effort anymore—at least the perception Chris has adapted through his own personal experience.

As long as he keeps spending the middle of every night writing about her statuesque qualities and cuts the antics he should do fine. In much the same way giving Crayons to a toddler may keep him quiet at a restaurant these midnight expeditions keep Chris from saying anything he shouldn’t. Everyone wins. She mustn’t be bothered by him and he still keeps his self-esteem, feeling he has a progressive task that will keep him moving forward linearly. She is beautiful though, and that’s part of the problem.

Weariness starts to set in and with each passing moment the words scribbled onto the page become more illiterate. Chris’s eyes barely remain open; each time he blinks they stay shut a little longer.

Finally he gives up on the night and sinks into the sand. He takes the pillow he was using to prop himself up against a rock and places it in the sand. He curls his body into a ball. The periodic sound of waves hitting the shore knocks him out almost instantly; if there was anybody in the vicinity they would hear him snoring boisterously.

***

When he awakes he is surprised to find his hair has stayed at least mostly sand free. His face feels raw and burnt though and his back is stiffer than ever before. The notebook that he dedicated his life to last night sits callously thrown into the sand, half buried and half tattered. Chris picks it up and briefly scans the gibberish; it doesn’t seem as profound as it did last night, now they’re just words on paper, they aren’t his thoughts—his desires—anymore.

Like a child that has forgot their mother’s face he rips the first three pages of the notebook out, crumples them and throws them into the wind. Unfortunately they blow back at him hitting him lightly against the chest.

Reality, it’s where dreams come to die and all your dreams from the night before fade from your mind forever. It’s where you live your whole life but share none of it. It’s where you die alone and become lost in nostalgia, thinking of how your best days passed you by.

Chris staggers to his feet, brushing most of the sand off his clothes and straightens his attire. The sun still burns his eyes but they are starting to adjust, the world becomes less hazy and finally his vision becomes clear again.

The beach doesn’t look as pristine as he thought it did last night, the sand is rocky and flotsam covers the shallows. He walks towards the shoreline, putting his bare feet in the surprisingly warm water.

“Good morning!” The voice of an overly cheerful woman walking with her husband and a small black dog catches him off guard.

“Ah, morning…” He responds.

He watches them walk away and gab away at their mundane lives. Slowly he turns around and starts to walk to the wooden staircase that leads back to the campsite he was spending the night. The sand and wood burn his feet, the late morning quickly heats up.

Upon returning to site number 65 he stares at the tent that he pitched early last night. There’s no emotion in his face, he simply stares blankly at the blue-green structure. It looks like it’s having trouble standing straight and the far right corner seems to be pushed in a little. Bugs cling to the sides, atrocious monstrosities in their own right.

“Screw it.” Says Chris even though there isn’t anybody within earshot.

He jumps in his compact car parked behind the tent and starts the motor. He backs out of the campsite and drives away leaving the tent where it was.

He blasts the radio and runs his right hand through his hair; it feels greasy. Running on fumes he charges onto the highway, well over the speed limit and starts his journey home. His adrenaline is short lived however, by the time he reaches the highway the songs on the radio are all slow songs, bringing him closer to tears than happiness.

Here’s one for that special lady, the one that brightens up your life and makes everyday worth living. Why don’t you give her a call and—

Slamming the power button the voice instantly stops.

“Why don’t you give her a call? What makes you think I could just pick up the phone—” Chris mutters to himself as the phone in his pocket vibrates. He pulls to the side of the road and checks who the text message is from. His heart drops as he stares at the name. It’s her; it’s Meagan. He gets a fluttering sensation through his chest and he just stares at the name not wanting to open the message. Right now she could have said anything but when he opens it he will probably find she has hardly said anything at all.

Hey Chris, I’ve been doing some thinking, would you maybe want to come over today…say like 6:30? ~Meagan.

He responds almost instantly in the affirmative and tips his wrist to check the time. The needle on the car’s dashboard is buried to 150km/h.

At 5:00pm he finds himself still a half an hour away from Halifax and by 5:30pm he’s stuck in traffic on the MacDonald Bridge.

“Screw it.” Chris mutters while opening up the car door. Cars blow their horns at him angrily as he weaves between them. He breaks into a full out sprint and doesn’t stop until 6:01pm, of course he had to be a little late—casually late.

On her doorstep his hand quivers so much he has to lower it to his side. His breathing quickens as does his heartbeat.

Reaching towards the door Chris knocks three times quickly. He can hear footsteps inside the home walking down stairs. When the door opens his heart becomes sullen. About six feet tall, thin build and a stubble beard the man who answers the door is surely not who he was looking for.

“Who are you?” Chris asks startled.

“Hello Chris.” Says the man.

“Who are you?”

“Do you want to come in Chris?”

“Who are you?”

“Sorry for not introducing myself, I’m Dr. Reinfield.”

“Is Meagan here?”

“Meagan whom Chris?”

“Lily… Meagan Lily, she lives here doesn’t she?”

“Come in Chris?”

The doctor steps away from the door allowing Chris to enter. Reluctantly he obliges still confused as to whom the man in front of him is.

Reinfield guides him into the living room where there are two more men and one women sitting in a semicircle.

“Ah please, take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” The doctor says calmly.

“Okay… Are you family of hers?” He says while sitting in an armchair facing the opposite direction as all the others.

“This is Dr. Sheppard, and next to him is Dr. Rudal.” Reinfield points to each doctor as he says their names.

“And this fine lady on the right is my wife, Mrs. Reinfield. She’s also your mother Chris.”

“Oh yeah? How’s it going?” He says sarcastically.

“Is Meagan coming or not?”

The older man pauses, carefully pondering over his words. “Does the name Miley mean anything to you?”

“No, should it?” Chris asks.

“It doesn’t mean anything to him.” Reinfield states plainly to the two doctors behind him. Both of them start writing frantically on their small notepads.

“Is this some kind of joke? Who are you people and is Meagan here or not?”

“No she’s not here.”

“Then I’m out of here.” Chris gets up and fiercely storms towards the door. As he puts his left hand on the doorknob the old doctor speaks once again.

“She’s not anywhere.”

Genuinely worried Chris turns around and walks back into the living room. “Did something happen to her?” There’s terror in his voice.

“What’s Meagan’s last name again?”

“Lily, I already told you that.” Chris starts to yell. “What the hell is going on here? She left me a message telling me to meet her here at 6:30pm and now I’m surrounded by you so called doctors.”

“And you’re sure the name Miley doesn’t ring any bells? Miley Galen?”

“Yes I’m sure.”

“Then you better sit down Chris.” Reinfield says. Chris continues to stand.

“You’re going to have to bear with me a moment as I try to fill you in.”

“Fine.”

“This really is your mother, and I am your birth father. You don’t remember us, for some extraordinary reason you have chose to block us out of your mind. Miley Galen was your wife; she was also pregnant with your son at her time of death. See, two years ago you both suffered massive trauma in a head on collision with a charter bus. You were driving, and as much as I hate to tell you this, you were at fault. Overly fatigued and not fit to drive you drifted over the yellow line. She died at your hand.”

The woman in the room—Chris’s supposed mother—starts crying. Chris tries to follow along as his father speaks but none of his words sink in.

“She was the love of your life and you had only been married for a year. She died twice that night—once in the car and once in your mind. You forgot about her instantly; the second you stepped out of the car you started babbling about Meagan and how you had to go see Meagan. Dr. Sheppard and I have spent many long nights studying why you developed this pseudo-personality but we have come to the conclusion that it was your exuberant attempt of blocking out of the pain.”

Dr. Sheppard intervenes. “I suggested that it may have been a head injury but nothing came up on any tests that we ran. Beyond a few lacerations you were fine.”

Chris laughs heartily and speaks with a bitter tone. “I’m sorry Doc for not taking you seriously but this is some kind of experiment right? Meagan put you up to this? If she’s not real where are all these messages from?” He holds up his phone and points it towards the doctors.

“This was an ethical decision on our part, I’m not saying it was right or wrong but we decided to feed your complex to feed our research. We decided to register the phone number you were texting or at least whom you thought you were texting so we could see your interaction with her. We would read your messages and respond neutrally or not at all—on days we didn’t respond you assumed it was because she was mad at you and would apologize. This afternoon we sent you a message to come here, a message that you’ve clearly received. It’s a shame she’s not real in a way.”

“Why’s that?” Chris asks

“You loved her very much, maybe more than your wife. You could never have had her though, she wasn’t real and that’s why things never seemed to work out between you two.

Scrunching up his face Chris speaks with bitterly. “If she’s not real why can I remember her breaking my heart? If she’s just in my head why can I remember crying myself to sleep every night for a month after the second time I asked her out? Why can I remember the exact color of her eyes or the way her voice gets squeaky when she’s excited?” Chris’s voice is filled with passion; tears start to bubble in his eyes.

“Can you Chris? Can you truly remember the color of her eyes? What color eyes does she have? How about her hair, what color is hair? Tell me.” Reinfield’s voice is cold and stern.

“Her eyes… They’re… Well an off blue? Or are they brown… no green?”

“Where were you when you asked her out? The doctor asks

“I was… It was the day before… Must have been—”

“You don’t remember do you? She’s not real, she’s never has been. Think about it, can you even cognate an image of her in your head? No you can’t because you’ve never seen here, never spoken to her, never heard her laugh.”

“What kind of twisted experiment is this, you’re all insane—all of you!” Chris shouts.

“I know it’s hard to believe but it’s true.”

“Surely I would have noticed a team of doctors following me around, how do you explain that, Doc?” Chris says angrily.

“Yes you would have Chris that’s why we had to be subtle. Think of some of the major people in your life as… Double agents if you will, if that helps you to picture it. And of course we have been reading all your conversations with a one Ms. Meagan Lily.”

Reinfield reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small phone. He reads from the screen.

“Meagan, I’m sorry for making things awkward but I really like you and I just want things to work out. I know it’s a lot to ask but do you think that we might be able to start over and just forget what happened?”

Chris looks astonished, his mind starts to flutter and he stares in disbelief as Reinfield reads the next message as well.

“Still don’t believe me? How about this: Hey long time no see, how’s it been going? I’ve been away for a couple weeks and I’d really like to see you Meagan.” You sent that a month ago you know.”

“Stop.” Chris says calmly and focused—it’s as if he’s using all of his energy to keep from exploding.

The woman sitting in the back the room pips up. “Chris please, can’t you remember your life before? Can’t you remember when I used to hold you when you were a baby or when I took care of you when you were sick? Or your father, don’t you remember fishing—”

Chris puts both his hands over his ears and shouts uncontrollably. “Stop! Stop! Stop it! Why are you doing this?” Tears start to fall.

“Or running, you used to love running Chris before the accident.” His mother starts to cry as well.

Chris screams and babbles pitifully. He buries his head in his shirt as his memory starts to come back to him.

“There you go Chris, can you see it? I know you can.” His mom pleads as the doctors all take notes and whisper to each other, sharing opinions.

Suddenly Chris stops his whimpering, blows his nose into his shirt sleeve and looks his father directly in the eyes.

“They’re the same person aren’t they?” He asks Reinfield.

“Yes I’m sorry Chris?” his dad responds.

“Wait what? What do you mean they are the same person?” His mom asks, sounding confused.

Chris pauses and whispers to himself. “Miley Galen… Meagan Lily… M-I-L-E-Y… L-I-L-Y… G… G…”

“They’re anagrammatic aren’t they?” He asks Reinfield again.

“Afraid so.” He responds with an empathetic smile.

Chris’s tears dry and he becomes calm by appearance.

“I still don’t really remember her.” He says.

“It’s okay, time heals all wounds. With our medical clinics you’ll be back to normal in eight weeks tops.”

“Where are you sleeping tonight?” Chris’s mother asks.

Reality hits him—his car is currently sitting on a bridge at least five kilometers away.

“I guess you’re still living in you and Miley’s old place, aren’t you? Why don’t you stay here tonight, this is the house you grew up in after all!” His mother says enthusiastically.

“I think I remember that.” Chris muses.

“Wonderful!” She says loudly and with an ear to ear grin.

***

After hours of reminiscing through the night, drinking tea in the living room with the two doctors and his parents, Chris starts to regain his memory piece by piece. The only part of his past that seems to remain blurry is his late wife. No matter how hard he tries to picture her face he comes up blank.

His parents tell him about how they have been watching over him for the past two years—how they would regularly get updates from Chris’s close friends and colleagues. Periodically Chris breaks down crying completely devastated that the past two years of his life have been fraudulent but for the most part he stays attentive.

Eventually after talking about everything else imaginable the topic of Miley and Meagan comes up again.

“Well what color were her eyes then?”

“Miley’s eyes were brown Chris.” Says Reinfield,

Pausing Chris stares off into the distance seemingly concentrating on what he’s about to say next.

“No.”

“What do you mean no? His father asks him.

“No, her eyes were grey.”

Reinfield sighs. “Chris no, maybe Meagan had grey eyes but Miley had brown—” Chris walks away before he can finish.

“I’m going home now.” He says abruptly while walking towards the door. He leaves, to the awe of the doctors and his mother. Reinfield runs out the door after him but Chris is already gone, lost to the night.

He stands on the porch looking in both directions calling Chris’s name. Just as he’s about to give up hope the cell phone in his pocket vibrates. Chris’s name comes up and the doctor reads the message. He walks back into the home disgruntled.

“We lost him.” Reinfield says.

“What do you mean we lost him?” Asks Chris’s mother.

Reinfield holds up the text message and shakes his head; Chris’s mother breaks down in tears.

Hey Meagan, I guess you weren’t home when I got there but if you leave me a message later I’ll get back to you. Anyways have a great night I’ll talk to you when I can. I’m sorry that we don’t always see eye to eye but I still like you a lot… ~Chris Reinfield.

DannYetman

http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

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