An Old New Memory

“I’ve seen you before. Not here, in the hallway. My hallway. You don’t live here, I remember now, in Italy. Back in, oh, ninety-four ninety-five? Twenty-four years ago. I wish it wasn’t you, but it is. The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen at the time, and looking at you now, still is. Sorry Julie, I lied. You left me for your childhood friend, so I guess you lied as well.

You haven’t aged a bit since you tried to keep the Leaning Tower of Pisa from falling. I used to hate those kinds of pictures; you changed my mind.
It’s been a long week. I desperately need some sleep.

I hate my job. It’s one of those high-paying managing ones, so that’s nice. But it’s clear that the people I manage are way smarter than me. People think a woman leaving you for another man is emasculating. Try being ordered around by a bunch of twenty-year-olds fresh out of college. Kids I hired. My boss is starting to notice. I hate my job, but I don’t want to get fired because I’m useless.

As I ponder when I lost my grip, you return. In the same white flowery dress as yesterday, dancing around the empty meeting room. So playful. Smiling. I don’t know how long I’ve been gawking, but in the corner of my eye, I notice one of the workers staring at me. I pretend to come up with an idea and shift the focus to my screen. Useless walls made of glass, I might as well sit in the open office with the rest of them.

Every day you return. And the truth is, you make my day better. A knock on my office door forces my eyes away from you. It’s the boss man. I wave him in and close my eyes. When I open them, you’re gone. I’ve found a workaround—a rule. I can make you disappear; it soothes my mind. My boss asks me if I’m OK. I tell him I am. Just a little tired. But it’s Friday, next week I’ll be rested and good to go.
He asks me if everything is OK at home. I tell him yes, which is technically true, being that it’s just me there. I never told him about the divorce. It’s been over two years. Just let me know, he says and puts his hand on my shoulder. The importance of physical contact, I remember that seminar. The weekend he cheated on his wife. It made me angry. Not because of the cheating, because I was jealous.

Saturday morning you appear in my living room. I’m no longer soothed. You’ve never been this close. You don’t notice me; just keep dancing to the music in your head. I smile; a sense of sadness engulfs me. You bring up the somber fact that I haven’t danced since my wedding. Not even when I’ve been alone. I walk over to my dusty CD rack. I can’t decide, so I turn to ask you what you want to listen to, but you’re gone. It hits me; being crazy has become a regular part of my life. My knees buckle, and I fall to the floor, clutching a CD. Genesis, Invisible Touch. I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, the CD is still there; you are still gone.

I have no one to talk to, and even if I did, I wouldn’t. As far as I know, there’s been no mental illness in our family history. The internet tells me of dozens of diseases that can cause hallucinations, but it can also just be stress. It makes sense; I’ve been under a lot of pressure. Next week will be better.

But next week isn’t better, you follow me everywhere, including now, in the doctor’s waiting room.  Reading a fashion magazine. So cliché. My creativity all right. And as I sit here, I wonder if there is such a thing as good news. They call my name and I leave. Whatever the doctor says, whatever he gives me, can I ever be sure?

I tell my boss I’m taking a vacation. He hints that maybe it should be permanent. I’m not that old, I say. I just turned fifty-two. Think about it, he tells me as I leave his office with the non-see-through walls.

I hop in the car. It used to be my safe haven from the wife. You’re not here, but I expect you to suddenly pop up in the rearview window. But you don’t, and I think I understand. Another rule, your entrance needs to be logical. I smile as I think about it. The many rules of being fucking crazy. If I understand them all, will I win my sanity back?

I keep driving, but it’s getting dark, and I’d rather not crash and die—enough sanity for today. You’re waiting for me in my hotel room. Is that in the realm of logic? I put down my bag. You don’t notice me; you never do. Just stare into the distance. I walk over and take your hand. It’s warm, soft. Real. Your eyes meet mine.

“What took you so long,” you ask with an Italian accent.

“I don’t know,” I say. “You’re not real.”

“Don’t be rude,” you say and squeeze my hand.

But you’re not real, and even though I don’t think anyone would care if I moved into a mental hospital, I’m not ready yet. I embrace you, hold you tight, and shut my eyes. Your breath is like a warm breeze on my neck; your heart beats slowly.
I open my eyes. You are still there, frowning.

“Sorry,” I say.