Passenger(46)

“You’ve been researching my condition?”

“It’s important to get it diagnosed if it’s traumatic. Not only because there might be a way to fix it, but if it is a physical injury, then you don’t want it to get any worse.”

“I don’t think it can get any worse.”

“You never know that,” she says, her expression severe. “Never say that.”

She has a crush on me, I think. Then, on the heels of that: No, she’s just lonely.

Suddenly, I feel very sad for her. I want to pat her on the head or pinch her cheek.

“I also read up on hypnotism,” she continues.

“For what?” I say.

“To see if I can hypnotize you, maybe help you remember all the things you’re forgetting.”

I turn and look out the window of the chicken shop. In three minutes the next Green Line bus will make its stop. “I don’t know, Nicole…”

“Or,” she suggests, “if that doesn’t work, maybe I can implant memories for you. Nice ones. Give you a whole history.”

“But it wouldn’t be real,” I say, though I cannot help but smile.

“Memories are like cancer. Cancer doesn’t just vanish because it’s never diagnosed.”

This makes me think of Sister Eleanor.

“There’s also one other option,” she says. “That you can stop trying to remember the past and start living for the future.”

“Why are you so involved in this?” The words come out harsher than I intend. They appear to hurt her, too, and her eyes drop to the bits of chicken in the little cardboard box.

“I’m just trying to help you. You said you wanted help. Remember?”

“I’m sorry.” I sigh. “Yes. You’re right. The future.”

“The future,” she repeats.

I toss some money on the table and stand up.

“Hey,” she says. “Will you meet me after work? I’d like to take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise.”

After lunch, I walk to the old stone church by myself. It is just as I left it: mostly empty, quiet, reverent, with the motes of dust floating like angels in the rafters. I take my seat in the first pew and stare at the pulpit, waiting for Sister Eleanor to appear beside me. When she doesn’t, I drop to my knees and remember what it is like to hold the old nun’s rosary beads. I try to pray. I think, Dear Lord, what the hell am I being punished for? Why am I so lost? You are a mean bastard with a horrible sense of humor. You are an ugly, clubfooted * with a vendetta against the world. You are a selfish goddamn prick who steals the memories of young men. You are a brutish, angry, impotent bastard with boils on His ass. Amen.

When I open my eyes, I am still alone.

Out behind the church, I cross the courtyard to the tiny rectory. The grass is crystallized with frost and crunches under my sneakers. I knock on the door to the rectory and, after a minute, it is opened by a clean-faced young nun in a gray sweater and charcoal-colored slacks. An intricate silver cross lies against her chest.

“Yes?”

“I’m looking for Sister Eleanor.”

The young nun’s lips seem to tighten and she asks who I am.

“Tell her it’s Luke.”

“No,” she says, “I mean, are you a relative or friend?”

“A friend,” I say…and suddenly it all comes down on me, a cascade of realizations dawning like the plummet of a waterfall. I don’t need to hear what this woman is about to tell me. I don’t need to hear it and don’t want to hear it.

She says, “Sister Eleanor passed away two days ago. It was the cancer. I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you.”

“Oh.”

“There will be a service here tomorrow at noon, if you’d like to come.”

“Oh.”

“She’ll be put to rest at Greenmount Cemetery following the service. That’s the cemetery out on North Avenue, in case you aren’t familiar.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

The sky is a twist of colored ribbons—of reds, oranges, yellows, pinks—when I meet Nicole outside the post office again. Together, mostly in silence, we walk. The cold has settled permanently into my bones; I fear no amount of heat, save for being jettisoned into the sun, will warm me. When she finally speaks, it is as if she has been thinking about her words the entire time, but says them in a way that makes them sound spontaneous.

“Christmas is coming,” she says.

“True.”

A very long silence follows this and, like a fool, it takes me a while to realize what she is getting at.

“Would you like to spend Christmas Eve together?” I say, raising one eyebrow.

“Just as friends,” she says very quickly.

I smile. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-two. What about you?”

“I have no clue.”

“If I had to guess, I’d say…early thirties.”

“Don’t you have plans for Christmas? Family?”

“My folks aren’t around.”

“What about a boyfriend?”

She is quiet for too long; I can tell she is embarrassed.