Retrograde Page 9

  “Thank you!” she says. But a moment later she’s reining in her delight. Why did he wait this long? Is there someone he doesn’t want her to contact? Or was it just the usual thoughtlessness? Maybe she’s in denial now, trying to come up with conspiracy theories to cover for the fact that he can be so inconsiderate. This is her marriage, not a spy movie.

  She can’t help testing the waters. “I’m really glad to have a phone again,” she says. “I’ve been so lonely this whole time.”

  And then the conversation is like watching a play she wrote herself, except that it’s too late to go back and change her lines. Were they always this predictable?

  “You should’ve said something. I would’ve gotten you a phone sooner. I just didn’t think—”

  “You didn’t think I might be lonely, not leaving the house for days, with no Internet and no phone? I haven’t seen anybody in weeks!” Best not to mention that neighbor now. He hardly counts. It would be best not to mention any of it, now that he’s finally gotten around to solving this problem, but she can’t help herself. She may have to suffer, but she doesn’t have to do it in silence.

  “So I’m nobody? Guess it was nobody who carried you down the stairs and wheeled you all over Berlin this weekend. Guess nobody’s been taking care of you all this time.”

  There’s something unnatural about the way he’s speaking: she can’t tell whether he’s acting angrier than he actually is, or whether he’s even more furious than he seems, and holding it in. The thought frightens her. Maybe it frightens him, too. She props her crutches against the end of the sofa and slowly settles onto it.

  “You know I didn’t mean that.” They can only allow themselves to get so angry. They can’t take it too far. At least she can’t. What would they do, separate when she can’t even leave the building by herself? Or remember what happened last year? If they let it get ugly enough, he won’t care. If he cares about anything, it’ll be what people would say if he kicked her out in her condition. “I’m grateful to you for looking after me like this.” At the same time, she runs over the alternatives in her head. He’d have to take her to her parents’ house. It’s a bit of a drive from Berlin, but she’s doing home office anyway. And her dad’s carpentry shop is right next door, so there’d always be someone nearby.

  “You don’t have to thank me for it,” he says, and the sudden change in his tone disrupts her vision of escape. “I’m your husband. Of course I’m looking after you.”

  “Thank you,” she says, for lack of anything else. It wouldn’t be a real escape, anyway. She’d just dwell on their problems even more than she is here. And if they left it that way, if they ended things before she recovered, there’d be no going back. This is a kind of test, an extreme situation that swept in and turned everything on its head, and if they can’t get it together now, they’re never going to. If she can’t count on him now, there’s no point. The finality of that kind of ending scares her, but in a way she’s just as scared of the alternative: the two of them walking around this apartment on eggshells, cautiously dodging fights and choking down their resentment, determined to keep the peace long enough for her bones to set. Knowing it’s over but unable to leave, acting out an awkward epilogue that should never have been written.

  He sighs and sits down next to her, strokes her hair. She wants to cry and cry until she’s washed something out of herself, until she stops choking on it. But he wouldn’t understand; he’d only see her tears as a trap for him, a ploy to force him to pity. The tension is unbearable, her awareness—and his—that they can’t afford to fight right now, and of the violence they’ll be capable of when this is over. Each knowing the other knows.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should’ve thought of it sooner. I was so caught up in worrying about how you were physically, and I didn’t think how lonely you must feel. I’m sorry.”

  Love fills her, and resignation that is its own kind of affection: This man, with all his failings, all his flaws, is her husband, her own imperfect partner for life. She loves him in spite of himself, she loves him for himself, and she loves him for his sacrifice now, swallowing the pride that was keeping them apart.

  “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Dr. Hofstaedter gave me the names of some specialists. I’m going to call up tomorrow and find out who can see you soonest.”

  “Thank you.” And now she is crying, but only passively. She’s not weeping; something’s just crying itself out of her, moving over her face like rain on a closed window through which she watches, safe and dry. And it’s okay, this time, because he isn’t angry.

  “Shhh, shhh.” He moves his thumb through the hollows under her eyes, sweeping out the tears, and kisses the corners of her eyelids. She lifts her head to kiss him on the mouth. Just mentioning the specialist seems to work magic. Doesn’t she remember more already? Not that any concrete facts have come back to her, but a certain obstacle has been removed, whatever it was separating them, making them act like strangers: too polite to fight, but also too polite to really get close. She lies down slowly, moving her weight onto her left arm, and nudges him with her cast until he lies down facing her on the narrow space of the sofa, kissing her like this is the first night they’ve ever spent together: that passion, and that restraint.

  His caution and gentleness remind Helena of losing her virginity. Her first lover was finishing his degree as she started hers, and far more experienced. Like Joachim now, he moved so slowly, so carefully, like she’d break if he dropped her, and kept asking whether he was hurting her. Because of her injuries and Joachim’s nervousness, there’s a strange stillness to their lovemaking, but also a kind of wonder, as if neither had believed it would really work. She can’t remember it ever having been this intimate.

  JOACHIM

  Joachim wakes a few hours later and considers carrying Helena to bed, but she’s so peaceful he doesn’t want to risk waking her, so he simply covers her with a blanket and goes to bed himself. He expects confusion, racing thoughts, panic at what’s just happened, but he only feels the same peace with which her slender chest rises and falls. He wakes just before his alarm with an absurd happiness, knowing before he knows anything else that there’s something special about today, about life in general.

  HELENA

  Joachim is already gone when she gets up. Long gone, judging by the light coming through the window, the sun already nearing its zenith. You get used to looking out the window when you never go outside. And guessing the hour when you have to start up your laptop to tell the time.

  But this thought reminds her of her new phone, and she picks it up from the coffee table with a feeling of sublime happiness. For a moment, she can’t think of anything really wrong in her world. The hard, cool feel of the cheap phone in her hand summons up the soft warmth of last night, of Joachim beside her, around her, within her. The lightness she feels isn’t happiness about any individual fact, but the removal of some burden, the dread that’s been weighing on her. She must never have believed it was going to work out.

  She plays with the phone for a few minutes before getting up, figuring out where everything is. Joachim put his office and his own cell phone under the contacts, two lonely entries, barely enough to keep each other company. She tries not to let that loneliness pass into her, not this morning. She isn’t lonely; it’s just another thing she’ll have to start over on.

  She was lying so comfortably that the usual aches surprise her as she sits up and slowly gets to her feet. But they’re only temporary, have no bearing on the strange bliss she woke to. Just a little longer, and she’ll be walking normally, using both hands, able to put weight on her abdomen again. A bit of physical therapy and she’ll be good as new.

  In the bathroom mirror, she’s surprised to see that her face is puffy and still lightly scarred, that her hair is matted greasily on one side. She feels so glowing. Brushing her teeth, she avoids eye contact with herself, as if this were just a reflection someone else forgot here, nothing to do with her. />
  Her stomach growls like a machine starting up, and immediately her hunger is ravenous. She feels like she hasn’t eaten in days. Still, she forces herself to wash her face, brush her hair, put on clean clothes. She can’t afford to let herself go, not when things are going so well with Joachim. She can’t afford it anyway—that’s the way people go crazy, sitting in their apartments day after day until they start to wonder who’s going to care whether they get dressed.

  She only notices when she comes out of the bathroom how full the living room is with the aroma of coffee. The machine must’ve been on for hours. Joachim has left two pieces of bread in the toaster, and today he remembered to leave out the jam and the butter dish. The jam jar is holding down a torn piece of paper with half the logo of what must be Joachim’s employer.

  I LOVE YOU!! the note says in large letters.

  She reads it again, turns the paper over. Somehow, it seems like there must be something more. But there’s just that big, frantically scrawled I LOVE YOU!! She puts the paper down again, pins it in place with the jam jar and presses the button on the toaster. So what? What’s so strange about that? It’s a nice thing to have done. He’s her husband and he should love her; in a way it goes without saying, but it’s still nice of him to say so.

  She loves him, too, doesn’t she? It takes a few milliseconds for the voice in her head to reply, of course you love him. What is it that bothers her about this note? The toast pops up and she extends her fingertips so her cast won’t come into contact with the hot surface. She has to make a few trips to bring her breakfast to the computer, but she’s getting better at it. Doesn’t spill so much anymore. For some reason, she makes a last trip after she starts up the computer, and brings the note back with her.

  She looks at it again. What more does she expect to see? But that’s just what bothers her about it: that there is nothing else. It would be an ordinary thing to write at the end of a note, rounding out the contents with a well-placed reminder. Above or below the signature. But this isn’t an afterthought or a postscript; it’s a declaration. As if he’d never said it, as if he’d never even thought it before. As if he’d just realized it for the first time. And thrilling as it must be for him to love his wife like he only just fell for her, there’s something not quite right about it. Not quite right for him, anyway. He never liked to get carried away—or to see her do it—whether it was in love or a fight. What brought on this sudden change?

  The antivirus appears on the screen, then disappears. She inserts the flash drive. Maybe she’s overthinking things. Whatever the reason, she should be happy about it. Not borrow trouble. That’s what he always accused her of, never being able to let anything go, always picking at things. At the same time, it’s only by picking at things that you get to the bottom of them, find out the truth.

  But what truth? She’s less and less sure that he’s hiding anything from her. If he is, why did he find the specialist she asked for and buy her a phone, which she could use to contact anyone she liked? Well, not quite anyone. She can call him at two different numbers, or she can call someone whose number she has memorized. Which narrows it down quite a bit. The only numbers she has memorized are his cell, which she has anyway, her old phone number, and the number her parents used to have. She didn’t memorize their new one; she just replaced the old one in her phone. So, basically, she’s where she was before.

  Except for one thing. There is one number that she has, and she retrieves her phone from the coffee table to dial it, consulting the get-well card from her office. To her surprise, once she’s entered the first three digits, she finds that she knows the rest by memory after all. Did she know it before the accident, or has she simply looked at this card so many times that she memorized an unknown number?

  It doesn’t matter. She’s done enough thinking and agonizing about things. She needs to talk to someone from outside this apartment, outside this marriage. She presses the call button and listens to the phone ringing over and over again, as if it never planned to stop.

  She can’t tell if she’s disappointed or relieved when the voicemail picks up and she ends the call. What could she possibly say in a message? Before she can decide how to feel, Doro is calling her back, the sound of the generic ringtone echoing through the silent apartment.

  “Bachlein, hallo.”

  “That you, Hel?”

  “Doro?”

  “How are you, Hel? We’ve all been so worried.”

  “I’m as good as can be expected, I guess.” She forces a laugh. There’s something so awkward about having no idea what the person on the phone looks like, and listening to her take such an intimate tone. Helena can’t remember anyone having called her “Hel,” and yet it sounds right as Doro says it, so it must be something she went by for the past couple years, maybe just at work or maybe just with this particular friend. Because she’s sure now that she and Doro were friends. Or still are, of course. There’s no reason that should’ve changed.

  “Listen, Doro,” she interrupts the other woman in the middle of an update on office gossip, “can you come by sometime? I need to talk to… you.” She decides not to say I need to talk to someone, in case such a general statement would offend Doro. They may be quite close friends.

  “Of course, do you need anything? I could go by the store or—”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Oh, right, your cousin’s taking care of you. He was at the office so early last time I didn’t see him.”

  Cousin? Doro must’ve gotten her stories mixed up. “No, no, Joachim is looking after me,” she says. “Would you be able to come by today? It’s important.”

  She hears the sound of a door closing, maybe Doro making sure no one can hear what she’s saying. “What’s the matter, Hel? Are you all right?”

  “Of course. Of course I am.” She can tell Doro doesn’t believe her, and realizes she doesn’t want her to.

  “I’ll be over in an hour.”

  Helena’s about to end the call when Doro asks for Joachim’s address. Helena gives it to her but has a sickly feeling in the pit of her stomach: If they’re such good friends, why doesn’t Doro know where she lives? Why did she ask where Joachim lives, pronouncing his name like a foreign word?

  • • •

  By sheer strength of will, Helena manages to work for the next hour and a half. She’s only able to force the thought of Doro’s visit from her mind because, on a certain level, she doesn’t believe it will really take place. Then the doorbell tears through the silence like the shriek of a fire alarm. It takes her a long time to get to the door, not just because of her crutches, but because it’s that hard to believe someone actually rang.

  She buzzes Doro in and listens to her slow, uncertain steps in the stairwell, the steps, Helena is sure, of someone who’s never been here before.

  Then there’s a rosy-cheeked, middle-aged woman in a bulky turtleneck on her doorstep.

  Doro doesn’t look the way she pictured her, though the moment she sees her, Helena can no longer remember what she expected. Perhaps someone stronger, more authoritative. Or just someone with a familiar face.

  “Well,” she says, opening her arms to embrace Helena, “how are you?” She uses the familiar you again, so this must really be Helena’s friend. Helena retreats from the hug, stumbling awkwardly against the frame of the door and mumbling something about her broken ribs.

  “Come in,” she adds, trying to keep the reluctance out of her voice. She regrets calling Doro, regrets summoning a stranger into the close air of this apartment, where she’ll have to entertain her and pretend to have some recollection of their time together. Surely Joachim must’ve explained, but she can already tell that Doro is the kind of woman who’ll expect an exception, as if Helena should’ve forgotten everything but their friendship.

  “Please sit down,” Doro says. “I’ll get the door.”

  Helena returns to the sofa, then remembers to offer her guest a drink. “Would you like tea or coffee?” Does D
oro expect her to remember what she drinks?

  “I’ll make us some tea,” Doro says. Her confident tone reassures Helena until she hears Doro rummaging in the kitchen cupboards, clearly unsure of where they keep the mugs and tea. Helena’s afraid to ask about her unfamiliarity with the apartment. Maybe, like the wolf when Little Red Riding Hood remarks on his long teeth, Doro will become dangerous the moment Helena says something.

  Then she’s setting two cups of black tea on the coffee table and sitting down beside Helena, who thanks her and sips at her tea. Milky and sweet, the way she likes it. But maybe that was a lucky guess. Joachim keeps making her coffee, though. What does she usually drink in the morning?

  “I told them I wasn’t feeling well,” Doro says into the silence that starts to grow between them. “Things are a bit slow this week, anyway, so they didn’t mind sending me home.”

  “It was nice of you to come so quickly,” Helena says. It takes great effort not to use the formal you.

  “No problem, of course I came. Everybody’s so worried about you and we’ve barely heard anything. Tell me, what exactly happened? Uli said something about a car accident? But you don’t drive.”

  “Apparently I was crossing the street when I got hit.”

  “Apparently?”

  “That’s what they told me at the hospital.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  So she doesn’t know. It seems impossible, but she really doesn’t. “I can’t remember you, either,” she says. “Or anything about the last few years. I have amnesia from the impact. The doctor at the hospital seemed to think it would pass, but Joachim’s supposed to be getting me an appointment with a specialist.” Suddenly, she doesn’t know what else to say. Maybe that’s all there is.