Retrograde Read online

  “I had this crazy dream,” Helena says. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  This isn’t going to be like that time. He’s going to start telling her the truth now, little by little. He’ll do it slowly and carefully, make sure he says it all the right way so as not to hurt or frighten her, but he’ll do it.

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  She looks hurt and a little surprised. She must’ve been expecting him to ask what she dreamt. He can see her lips slipping into a pout, but at least she’s listening.

  “We had this fight before your accident,” he begins. Just a fight, not a breakup. One step at a time. “We both said a lot of things we didn’t mean, I guess. We’d been having a lot of issues anyway. What I’m trying to say, Helena, is that we decided to separate… for a while.”

  She inhales sharply and he wants to stop speaking, but this is the very sign he needs; this is what the truth sounds like. Still, everything in moderation. She needs to recover.

  “We had decided that,” he corrects himself, “but I changed my mind. I want to stick it out no matter what, spend this time with you now. I want you to come home with me and rethink all of it. What do you say?”

  “Me, too,” she says. “Let’s just forget about it.” And then they both laugh, and it’s a little painful and a little hollow, because they both know she already has.

  “Oh,” he says, “I almost forgot.” He takes the torn envelope out of his pocket and lets the thin gold band fall into his cupped hand. Hopefully she didn’t notice that he didn’t have his on the day before. “Your fingers were too swollen, and they had to take it off.” He slides the ring onto Helena’s third finger, and if it feels out of place, if the sensation of wearing a wedding ring is strange for her, she doesn’t say anything.

  His heart still pounding, he helps her into the folding wheelchair the nurse left beside the door, and wheels her to the nurse’s station so they can sign her release forms and pick up her crutches. She seems happy to be leaving with him, but then, what choice does she have?

  • • •

  Joachim carefully places Helena on the last step, where she sits a moment looking uncomfortable, but not complaining. His back aches and it takes him longer than he expected to catch his breath, but even after he feels the heat of exhaustion melting out of his pores, he waits a moment longer. He isn’t quite ready. But he isn’t going to be ready for this, so he wipes his palms on the front of his pants and takes out his keys.

  He helps her to stand. He would’ve helped her more, swung her legs over his arm and carried her over the threshold all over again, but she shakes her head and limps after him on her crutches. She must be weak from lying in bed because she looks as sweaty and worn-out as he feels.

  He pulls out a chair at the table but she hobbles over to the sofa. He doesn’t know whether the gesture is deliberate. You never know with Helena. She falls more than sits on the sofa. For a moment, for several long moments, neither of them speaks. He comes and stands across from her, as if waiting to take her order.

  She wrinkles her nose slightly and quirks the right side of her mouth as she looks around. Does she notice anything? He can’t for the life of him remember what’s changed about the apartment in the past few years. Except, of course, for her absence. But she makes her lips into a thin, flat line and looks just over his shoulder, so he knows something’s bothering her. He knows and hates that look but loves that she’s here, loves that she’s here looking like that, for him to know and love and hate. It’s a wonderful thing, an unbelievable thing, a chance most people don’t have in their entire lives. It’s time travel and reincarnation and something Helena herself will appreciate when she can.

  “What’s the matter? Are you feeling okay?” Stupid question, but rude of her not to answer. He tries again. “Do you want something to drink?”

  “I’ll get it.” She starts to stand, winces and remains on sofa. He pours her a glass of water. It’s a relief to have his back to her, to let his face relax. Only these few moments are impossible; then everything will be okay. And once he’s told her, everything really will be okay, once and for all. He hands her the glass with a forced smile. She drinks too eagerly and chokes a little; he brings her a napkin before pouring himself a glass.

  He sits down beside her. He can’t tell her now because it wouldn’t mean anything. She’s been gone so long he barely remembers what it was like to be with her, and whatever she remembers is outdated anyway. She probably remembers how their relationship was, with all the fighting, crying and accusations, the problems that never got solved. But he’ll give her new memories: He’ll show her how good it can be, how happy they can be together. And then she can decide. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a chance like that.

  She clears her throat and takes a smaller sip of water. “Something’s different. Isn’t—aren’t some things missing? Where are the plants, and the painting of Port Louis?”

  Leave it to her to pick out details like that. He doesn’t remember what plants she had in which windows, and it didn’t occur to him to take that painting from her apartment. But of course, she remembers all that like it was yesterday. For her, it is.

  “I didn’t want to tell you while you were in the hospital, but some pipes burst upstairs. The neighbors were out of town, and tons of water came through the ceiling while I was on a business trip and you were visiting your parents. The repairmen have been in and out fixing everything up, but not everything could be saved.” He’s practiced this lie so many times that it seems true; his memories of imagining the soaked apartment, the crumbling plaster of the ceiling, the repairmen’s dirty footprints and the smells of mildew and fresh paint are as vivid as real experiences.

  As an afterthought, he adds, “I’m having the painting restored. I should be able to pick it up next week.”

  “Oh, that old thing? It’s hardly worth the trouble.”

  But he can tell she’s pleased. They picked the painting up from a local artist selling on a table near their hotel in Mauritius, so it took on a kind of sentimental charm, though the picture isn’t especially well-done. A boat, roughly daubed waves, some kind of hut in the background. It was the only real vacation they took together after they got married.

  “It’s good to be back,” she says.

  “It’s good to have you here.” He strokes her hand, tentative at first, then, remembering his role, puts his arm around her shoulders and kisses her on the cheek, avoiding her stitches.

  She smiles, but a moment later she’s restless, fidgeting in his grasp. “I wonder when I’ll be able to go back to work.”

  “I bet you can work from home,” he says, improvising. It didn’t occur to him that she’d want to fly the nest so soon after he picked her up from the ground. “I’ll stop by your office tomorrow and see what you need. You’ll have to remind me of the address, though.”

  “Where’s my laptop? I can work on that.”

  “I’m still waiting to hear whether they were able to recover the hard drive. The flood, you know. But you can use mine. I had it with me when the flooding happened, so it’s still in good shape, and I’ve got a couple design programs installed for when I work from home. I’ll take it by your office tomorrow and have them put on everything you need.”

  “Thanks, Joachim.”

  He wishes she’d said “darling.” They only used each other’s names when they were fighting. But that’s over now.

  “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  HELENA

  Helena lies awake a long time the first night. All that time in the hospital has thrown her off schedule. Dozing around the clock, always half-sedated. When you’re indoors all the time, there isn’t much difference between night and day. Your allotted portion of light comes from the window, or it comes from a fluorescent lamp.

  To make matters worse, she can’t help feeling acutely aware of each of her injuries, running over the list in her head, feeling her blood pulse pas
t twisted muscles and fractured bones. When she puts her hand to her face, she can feel the throbbing warmth of her bruises, the peculiar rigidity of her skin and the crooked seam across one cheek she isn’t supposed to touch.

  And her brain, too, is supposed to be bruised. It must’ve knocked against her skull when she fell, like a piece of fruit rolling against the side of a crate.

  Retrograde amnesia. Both Dr. Hofstaedter and Joachim told her. As if she’d forget, ha ha. But would she have known if they hadn’t? How do you know what you don’t know? She feels the blank space between her and the world now, but if she didn’t know, maybe it would all seem okay. After all, what’s she missing? She and Joachim decided to separate for a while. But that’s no surprise; they were always fighting. That could be just the decision of a moment, something said in the heat of a particularly bad fight. Besides, that’s over now, no longer relevant. Well, there’s her new job, still graphic design, still advertising, but in a different office with different people.

  And what else? At least they still live in the same apartment. Not much has changed here, though a few things are missing because of the flooding. She suspects that he lost track of where all her things are, which are getting dry-cleaned and which are getting repaired and so on. Either that or he had to throw out a lot more than he’s admitting, and doesn’t want to tell her right away.

  Something clicks into place with this thought. Something he doesn’t want to tell her. But what? It’s nothing she knows for certain, only a feeling… There’s been something off about him these past few days. At first, she thought he was just worried about her, being particularly attentive, but now, listening to the peaceful sighs of his breath at the very opposite edge of the bed, she’s sure there’s more to it. There’s something cautious about him; that’s it. As if he were taking great care to avoid a certain subject.

  But what could it be? Is it something she knew already and has forgotten, or something that just happened? Maybe he’s waiting to tell her when she’s better. Or planning never to say anything. As if she were too stupid to notice. On the other hand, how can she confront him about it? Joachim, I know you’re hiding something from me. And then what? If he says she’s imagining it, what evidence does she have? She drifts off in the great void of this question.

  JOACHIM

  At Joachim’s office, everyone is careful and kind to him. Since word got around that his wife was hit by a truck and is now an invalid, deadlines are extended, everyone’s willing to help out, and any strange behavior on his part, any lack of concentration, is perfectly understandable.

  He appreciates their kindness but feels guilty accepting it. It’s true that Helena’s an invalid at the moment, but is she really his wife? As soon as he left his apartment, the absurdity of the whole situation became clear to him. It can’t go on this way. He has to tell her. It was ridiculous to think he could keep this up for more than a couple days.

  Sitting at his desk, staring blankly at the InDesign file in front of him, he considers all the aspects of her life that didn’t occur to him before. He thought of her work, fine, and her clothing and shoes, but what about her friends and family, all her connections to the world, and what about her secret life, the world within her he’s never known anything about? How can he restore that to her?

  He should tell her when he gets home. Should he have told her before? But it would’ve been kicking her when she was down to tell her at the hospital. What if she remembers now and hates him for keeping it from her? That would be even worse than if she’d remembered all along. Dr. Hofstaedter said that telling her about the past is the best way to help her. Does that mean she won’t remember as long as no one tells her? Or will her brain just reset automatically one morning? Will she wake up and push him out of bed? Either way, it’s not fair of him to do anything that could slow down her recovery.

  Even the night before, he began to have his doubts. She was quiet, not bubbly and cheerful as he expected her to be after leaving the hospital. She spent most of the evening staring into space as they ate the dinner he prepared and had a few drinks—wine for him, grape juice for her, since she can’t mix alcohol with her painkillers—and he couldn’t begin to guess what she was thinking about. It occurred to him that the awkwardness he felt was not estrangement from a partner after a fight, but rather the distance between two strangers. Somehow, in spite of everything, she must feel that, too.

  In the morning, he helped her to bathe, dress and eat breakfast, but still felt like he was abandoning her. She has books and movies, but no one to talk to. And he’s the one who made sure of that, by unplugging the wireless router and the phone line while she was in the bathroom. It was a close call, because she wanted to call her parents a little while later. He blamed the flooding. But he felt bad leaving her alone like that.

  At the same time, it would’ve been worse to tell her the truth and then leave her, helpless, trapped, alone with all those thoughts and questions. First things first: He’ll go to her office during his lunch break and get her something to do during the day. Then, when they have a lot of time together, when he can break it to her gently, he’ll tell her.

  Why is the truth so difficult? Why do lies come out as smoothly as lines from a well-written script, while the truth sticks in your throat until you could choke on it? And when you finally say it, it never sounds true, never relieves you or conveys the meaning you really wanted.

  That’s how it was when Helena got the letter from Ester. Half of it was lies, hysterical accusations. Ester wrote about her affair with Joachim that “lasted for months and never really ended properly,” implying that this was just one of his many affairs, and then, far worse, about his refusing to help her when she was pregnant and coercing her into an abortion she didn’t want. Then some graphic details about related health problems, and finally, the wish that Helena find out what the man she was married to was really like. Ester had included her address and phone number in case Helena wanted to learn even more.

  He doesn’t know whether Helena ever contacted Ester, or whether she already knew as much as she wanted to. When he came home that evening, cheerful, planning to take her out to dinner, she started to ask him a few things, then simply handed him the letter. Her gaze was excruciating; he couldn’t get it off of his face. So he told the truth with downcast eyes and a catch in his voice, and it sounded like a bunch of lies and excuses and the hateful piece of paper in her hand must’ve read like gospel, and that was all there was. There was no way to make the truth sound true.

  Realizing he’s been looking at the same file for half an hour without absorbing anything, he decides to take an early lunch. He looks up the address of Helena’s company and logs out of his computer. It won’t be that way this time. He won’t wait until he’s caught out. She’ll have to believe him then, if he tells her when he has no reason to, when he has nothing to gain by it, and it can only hurt both of them. That’s how she’ll know it’s true.

  • • •

  He tries to approach her office with the confidence of a man who knows all about his wife’s work, her daily struggles and routines, the dull office gossip. As if she’d been coming home to him every evening all along. When he buzzes to be let into the building, he simply says his name and that he’s there on behalf of Helena Bachlein. No relationship necessary.

  A tough-looking woman with short, spiky maroon hair meets him at the door and takes him back to the HR office. He doesn’t catch her name—Annika? Ulrike? She’s wearing a casual, sporty outfit but has such an authoritative walk that he feels like he’s being led to a cell.

  “I called up about Helena’s accident last week,” he begins, once he’s seated opposite her in a small glass-walled office. He fumbles in his briefcase for the papers from the hospital; Dr. Hofstaedter recommended that Helena not come in for at least four weeks. He watches in anxious silence as the woman opposite him reads over the papers with a fine wrinkle forming between her dark, overplucked eyebrows.

  “But sh
e’d like to work from home,” he adds, when she looks up.

  And then the very thing he was afraid of happens. “And you are?” the woman asks with unapologetic curiosity, its frankness bordering on accusation.

  “Her husband—that is, her cousin’s husband,” he says, feeling the onset of a cold sweat all over him. This woman works in HR; Helena’s tax status is enough to let her colleague know that she’s either single or permanently separated. “Helena’s staying with us while she recuperates,” he adds. “So we can look after her. She lives alone, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  So there’s always a right answer, even if it isn’t the true one. You have to say things that make sense to people. The kind of things they expect. So maybe Helena always expected to hear something awful about him, was waiting, all along, for a letter like the one Ester finally sent. But that’s not fair.

  “The thing is,” he continues, getting the ball rolling now, sure of his performance, “we had some flooding in the apartment recently, so our Internet connection’s practically nonexistent. What with her broken leg, Helena can’t really leave, so it would be a big help if you—that is if her colleagues were able to load the things she needs onto a flash drive.” He pulls one out of his pocket, but then the line is back between the woman’s eyebrows so maybe he brought it out too soon; maybe it looks like he’s trying too hard.