Me Again (30 page)

Chapter 35

I
T’S LIKE RIDING A BIKE. The phrase remained intact within my mental dictionary of clichés, but I’d only recently discovered its truth.

I was pedaling away on the exercise bike at the outpatient PT clinic I now visited several times a week when it struck me that perhaps I could learn to ride a real bicycle.

There was an old bike in our garage, purchased during one of my mother’s repeated but unavailing campaigns to get my father into some sort of exercise regimen. Suited to his more “old school” cycling experience, the dusty blue vehicle lacked all the different gears, levers and hand brakes found on more modern bikes, and as such was an excellent fit for my lack of mechanical aptitude. Dad and I spent an afternoon with the bike, cleaning and oiling its moving parts, and pumping air into its tires. Then it was time to try my luck.

Dad said, “I’ve got to say, this isn’t something I thought I’d ever do again.”

“What do you mean? I’m the one trying to ride this thing.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean the whole father-son thing, teaching my boy to ride a bike.” He laughed. “You and I have already been through this once.”

I smiled as gamely as I could while lifting my leg over the bicycle. “Well, let’s see how good a teacher you were.”

Dad stood next to me, one hand on the handlebars, while I situated myself on the bike seat, my feet tentatively finding their place on the pedals.

“I found it!”

Mom’s voice startled us both. We turned to see her walking up the driveway towards us, clutching a red football helmet.

“I knew Teddy left this here when he moved out,” she said triumphantly.

She held the helmet out to me, an expectant look on her face.

“Mom, I’m
not
going to wear a football helmet. Or any helmet.”

“Damn straight,” Dad pitched in. “I never wore a helmet. Sure, I took some falls, but look at me – I turned out fine.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Jonathan, if
that’s
your role model, you’re in worse trouble than I thought.” Again she waved the helmet in front of me.

“I’m just going down the driveway, Mom. I really think I can manage.”

I tried to make a joke. “Besides, I’ve already had my share of brain damage. It’s somebody else’s turn.”

Note to aspiring comedians: people don’t seem to find brain-damage jokes funny.

Dad spoke up. “You ready to do this thing?”

“I guess,” I said, not pleased with how unconvincing my voice sounded.

“You be careful,” Mom said.

Dad stepped behind me, put a hand on the back of the bike seat, and started to push. “Oh, relax,” he said. “He’s going to be fine.”

And I was.

I wobbled a bit as we made our way down the driveway, me pedaling tentatively while Dad’s footsteps and breathing both accelerated. And then I was gone, pedaling out of the driveway, turning gently to the right, and proceeding up the street, a gentle breeze blowing my hair back from my face.

I had never felt so free.

Walking was one thing, but to actually be transported – under my own control, with no assistance from anybody else – was a powerful and utterly new experience. For the first time since I’d awakened, I had a taste of self-sufficiency, and it was delicious.

And the thing that struck me the most was how little thinking was required. Unlike the scant few memories I’d been able to recover, this was purely physical, not mental. It spurred no new images from my childhood, no flashes of beloved bicycles, nor of the paper route that Mom told me I used to have. My mind remembered nothing. But my body remembered everything.

I pedaled with increasing abandon, savoring the speed, the wind, the freedom. And then realized I was probably scaring my parents to death. I checked for traffic, then doubled back to demonstrate my newfound vehicular prowess to my parents.

They were standing in the street in front of our house, and I have to say, I think I was better able at thirty-four to appreciate the joy in their eyes than I could have been the first time they’d experienced this sight. This was another sensation I’d had only the faintest glimpses of, and I made a point of telling myself:
this is it – this is what happy feels like
.

I braked to a stop in front of them and nearly fell over before remembering to take my feet off the pedals. Once stabilized, I graciously accepted their lavish praise and congratulations, and thanked Dad for helping with the rehab work on the bike.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I think I’ll go for a ride.”

Politely declining Mom’s final attempt at offering me the football helmet, I took off on what would become a daily ritual for me, at least when weather permits. It amazes me to this day how much pleasure can be derived from something so simple, but I’m so grateful to have this morsel of freedom still available to me, when so many other ordinary activities are not.

My bike seemed the logical choice for the journey I was making tonight. I really hadn’t wanted to ask my parents for a ride, and the series of buses I would have had to take was too complex to be viable. So with my pant legs tucked into my socks, I pedaled off to Rebecca’s house on my hand-me-down bicycle, bracing myself for what promised to be an interesting evening.

I had mapped my route carefully and had explicit directions from Rebecca. Still, given my numerical limitations, navigation was always a challenge. Fortunately the houses on Rebecca’s street were painted in a variety of colors, so in the waning daylight I worked my way up the street, looking first for color, then for house number. Eventually I stopped in front of a large two-story structure, the front of the house a combination of rust-colored bricks and dark brown, rustic wood. The color scheme was right; I confirmed the house number against the one printed on my instruction sheet. I had arrived.

I dismounted and looked for a place to lock my bike, ultimately opting for the mailbox that stood at the front edge of the lawn. I fished the key from my pocket and looped my lock through the iron scrollwork on which the mailbox was perched. Then I took a deep breath and proceeded up the walkway to the front door, which was adorned with a large brass knocker in the shape of a dolphin or a porpoise – another pair of animals I could never keep straight. Whatever
Flipper
was, if that helps.

Rebecca opened the door shortly after I knocked, dressed in jeans and a faded grey t-shirt emblazoned with the words
Frank Lloyd Wright
along with some angular geometric designs. She had kept her hair short since her beauty-shop debacle, and I thought it looked wonderful. Much like the rest of her.

“Hi, Jonathan,” she said, the nervous beginnings of a smile on her lips. “I kind of can’t believe we’re doing this, can you?”

“I’m game if you are,” I said, a line I’ll admit to having rehearsed while on the way to her house. I’d approached this evening like a NASA space launch, ready to abort at any sign of trouble.

“You know I am,” Rebecca said. “But are
you
absolutely sure about this?”

I’d been smiling, trying to project confidence, but now I let my face go serious. “I’m sure,” I said. “Absolutely.”

Rebecca stepped back from the door to allow me in. “Okay, then,” she said. “Let’s see what happens.”

I came in, and she closed the door. Then I noticed she was looking at me intently. But not at my eyes.

“What’s with your pants?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

I looked down and realized my pants were still tucked into my socks.

I hopped from one foot to the other, hastily untucking and readjusting. “Sorry,” I said. “Just trying to keep my pants from getting caught in the bicycle chain-thingie.”

“I’m just glad it wasn’t some kind of new fashion statement,” Rebecca said. At a loss for a witty comeback, I shrugged eloquently, and she turned and led me into her house.

I’d describe the décor of the house, but frankly my memory of it is foggy. I was focused on Rebecca, and on what I was going to try to accomplish during this visit.

Rebecca led me to the back of the house, past the dining room and kitchen, into an open area where large leather couches were arranged to face a massive wall-mounted TV screen. On one of the couches sat Big Bob, eyes intent on a basketball game being displayed in incredibly vivid color.

“Bob?” Rebecca said. “Jonathan is here.”

Bob turned with a start, then grabbed a remote control and muted the television.

“Hey, Jon. How’s it going?” He bounded up from the couch as if ejected from a fighter jet and reached out to shake my hand. He wore sweatpants and a loose, faded grey t-shirt with the letters SIU arched across the front in burgundy.

“Hi, Bob,” I said, bracing myself for the handshake, which felt approximately like slamming my hand in a car door. “Thanks for having me over,” I squeaked, retracting my now throbbing hand from his grip as soon as the decrease in pressure allowed it.

“Want something to drink?” Bob said. In his other hand he held a tumbler filled with fluid a rich amber in color.

“Is that Scotch?” I asked, looking around. Rebecca had disappeared.

Bob nodded, then bellowed, “Beck, honey, could you get Jon a Scotch?” Turning his attention back to me he said, “Rocks okay?”

“Perfect,” I said.

“With some ice!” Bob shouted. Then he smiled at me and pointed to one of the couches. “Have a seat. Hope you don’t have any money on the game – we’re getting killed.”

I shook my head and sank into the couch, my eyes scanning the screen for a clue as to who “we” might be.

Bob turned the sound back on and resumed his position on the other couch, quickly seeming to forget I was there as the sound of the cheering crowd filled the room, punctuated by whistles and the rhythmic slap of the ball against the arena floor.

Chapter 36

“L
ET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT,” Bob said. His glass was empty, but I’d barely touched my own drink. Rebecca sipped nervously from her wineglass as he spoke.

“You want to give me three hundred thousand dollars.”

“Well, not
give
it to you,” I said. “I’d make it available to you, for
you
to give away.”

“But I’d need to give it away anonymously.” His voice was without emotion, which I found more frightening than the anger I’d anticipated.

“Well, yes, to avoid a lot of scrutiny as far as taxes are concerned. You couldn’t put this money in the bank – then you’d have to declare it as income and pay taxes on it. So you’d need to take what I gave you and disperse it anonymously. My brother’s an accountant – I’ve got a whole list of instructions on how to do this.”

This got a cocked eyebrow from Bob. “Didn’t Beck tell me you were an accountant, too? Before the... you know, the stroke thing?”

I nodded.

“And now you can’t even count?”

Rebecca squirmed on the couch across from me, but I tried to give her an
it’s okay
look.

“Nope,” I said. “It would seem my counting days are behind me now.”

“So how do you know you have three hundred grand?”

This was more the type of antagonistic response I’d anticipated. But I felt strangely calm, falling into the easy speech that seemed to bless me when faced with hard-boiled negotiations. It was probably the one remnant of my old personality for which I was thankful.

“Like I said, my brother’s an accountant. I’ve had people tally this up, so I’m well aware of what I’m dealing with.” Bob didn’t need to know that the concept of three hundred thousand was only slightly clearer to me than the term
lots of money
, nor that my money was managed by a little old lady who used to be my next-door neighbor, not a financial professional.

Bob scowled at me. “So why not have your brother give this money away?”

I cleared my throat. “Because you’re in a position to... to do more good with it. I know you’re active in your church and can probably think of many charitable causes that would benefit from this money. Myself, I don’t go to church, and as I think Rebecca has told you, I can’t remember anything prior to a few months ago, which gives me somewhat of a limited world view. And my brother – well, charity isn’t really in his nature.”

I hated the sound of these blithe words as they poured without effort from my mouth. And I worried that they were missing the mark. Bob just stared at me, expressionless. It occurred to me that this man was probably very, very good at poker.

Trying to maintain a cool veneer, I forced myself to take a sip of my Scotch before speaking.

“You’ve probably guessed that I would have some stipulations,” I said.

I might as well have been looking at an alligator, given the absence of emotion in Bob’s eyes.

“I only have two,” I continued, willing my voice not to wander up into the soprano register.

“First, at least some portion of the money should be given to organizations doing stroke research.”

This got a response from both Bob and Rebecca. Bob raised his head slightly, sort of an inverted nod. And Rebecca sat forward in her chair. I hadn’t told her about that idea, but it was one I felt strongly about. Although my life might have been improved in some ways by my stroke, I’d seen enough of the catastrophic effects strokes can have to want to help medical science prevent or eliminate them.

Bob’s face resumed its blank expression.

“What’s the other stipulation?”

It was go time. God knows where I got that phrase – probably some cheesy sports movie, but the term fit.

“Well, I don’t know a graceful way to put this,” I began. “I—"

“Divorce me.” Rebecca had set her wineglass on the coffee table and was looking directly at her husband. Big Bob swiveled to face her, startled by her interruption.

“That’s what this is about, Bob. I want a divorce. Jonathan is willing to give you enough money to do... amazing things. Things that could help out the church. Or causes that the church supports – whatever.”

Rebecca leaned forward, her soft voice packed with an intensity I’d seldom heard.

“You do something like this, nobody in the church would bat an eye over us getting a divorce. They’d be too caught up in your amazing contribution. Doing something like this would make you look...”

Her voice tapered off, but I completed her sentence.

“...like a saint.”

There was none of the volatility I’d expected. Bob sat motionless, a stone gargoyle with an empty whisky glass. When he spoke, his voice was chillingly quiet.

“I thought you said these contributions would be anonymous.”

“Oh, they would be,” I said hastily. “But realistically,
somebody
would have to accept the money from you. And let’s face it – people do have a tendency to gossip. So it’s not unreasonable to assume that some... key people in the church might inadvertently be made aware of your generosity.”

At times I really hated my ability to talk like this. This was not one of those times. I did regret that Rebecca had to see this side of me. But I’d sworn to keep no secrets from her, and like it or not, I apparently still had the ability to think and speak in a smooth and calculating way under duress.

Big Bob startled me by standing up. Instinctively I recoiled, but he walked past me, towards the kitchen. In a moment I heard the sounds of ice cubes clinking in a glass, followed by the
glug-glug-glug
of more Scotch being poured.

Bob returned and seated himself in his former position, eyeing me intently. Finally he spoke, his voice dry and edgy.

“I have to say, I’m... surprised to have a man I barely know talking to me like this. Here in my own house.” He took a sip of his drink. “My own house,” he repeated, shaking his head.

“Believe me, I find this very awkward,” I said. “It’s a... a weird situation. And you’re right, I don’t know you, not well at least.”

I leaned forward in my seat, gaining momentum. “But I do know that you’re unhappy. Both of you are.” I gestured towards Rebecca.

“You’ve both told me so, face-to-face. Rebecca has confided in me more than once about it.” Turning to more directly face Bob, I said, “And you – you told me yourself that she’s not the woman you married. You said you lost her, and that I wouldn’t understand what it’s like to lose somebody like that.”

Without meaning to, I stood up, continuing my lecture. “You’re both unhappy. You both know it. And I’m offering you a way to... to fix that unhappiness, in a way that everybody benefits.”

“Everybody benefits,” I repeated, gritting my teeth at the Big Bob phrase I was about to use. “It’s win-win.”

Suddenly self-conscious about my pontificating, I sat back down. We all seemed to have become very thirsty, and there was a long, wordless moment while we sipped our drinks.

Bob broke the silence, setting his glass on the coffee table.

“Becky, do you think you could excuse us for a few minutes?”

Rebecca looked at Bob, then at me, her face registering her uncertainty. Then she stood, picked up her wineglass, and walked away without a word.

Bob waited until he heard the sound of her footsteps on the stairway, then turned his attention to me.

He surprised me by chuckling. “You know,” he said, still smiling, “one of the things I did after Becky’s stroke was start going to an anger-management class. There’s a group that meets once a week at the VFW – I heard about it through somebody at church. I was just so damn frustrated, and felt so helpless.”

His smile faded and his face resumed its reptilian stare. “That class is probably why you still have any teeth left in your mouth.”

I must have pulled back unconsciously in my seat. Bob said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hit you.”

He paused to sip his Scotch. “But I am going to call you out.”

“Call me out?” I was worried that I was having an aphasic moment – his words made no sense to me.

“What’s in it for you, Jon?” Bob was leaning in close now, and I felt my calm slipping away.

“I already told you, I—"

“Cut the bullshit. Why are you giving all your money away?”

This was a question I was ready for. “It’s not
all
of my money.” This was not technically a lie – I did have some money in a long-dormant bank account, although from what Brandon had told me it was a negligible amount.

I went on. “But I’m making some changes in my life. I feel like I’ve been given a chance at a new life, and I want to start out by doing something good. So I’m giving away
some
of my money. Not all.”

Yes, I know, this was clearly Old Jonathan (dare I call him OJ?) holding court. But I’d counted on him to show up, and he hadn’t disappointed me with his ability to spontaneously spew and spin information in a manner that best served his purposes.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Bob said, apparently immune to some of OJ’s tactics.

I stuck to the party line. “I want you to be happy. Both of you. And right now, neither one of you is.”

“That’s just great,” Bob said, in a tone that suggested otherwise. “That takes care of both Becky and me.” He leaned in even closer.

“But what are you getting out of this?”

Suddenly my rehearsed line about the joy of helping others seemed inadequate and lame. I’d underestimated Bob: he turned out to be a man who was paying attention.

And now a man who was taking control. “Before you answer,” he said, “can I... offer a hypothesis?”

Now Bob was standing, and I was the audience. Trying to hide my intimidation with what I hoped was an encouraging smile, I nodded.

“You’re in love with my wife.”