I Forgot to Remember: A Memoir of Amnesia (26 page)

I had never been to California, and Los Angeles was a bit of a shock. Benjamin’s apartment in West Hollywood, which he would be sharing with three other AADA students, was just two short blocks from the campus, as well as an easy walk to Ralphs Grocery store, Target, and a bunch of other shops and restaurants. We shipped his bicycle from Maryland, and he wasn’t at all worried about not having a car. “Mom, don’t worry! I’ll have public transportation around this city figured out in a week!” And damned if he didn’t! Jim found an Ikea nearby, and the three of us went shopping and outfitted Benjamin’s room with a bed, desk, chair, dresser, file cabinet, and bookcase. To be honest, Jim and Benjamin went shopping. I know I was there with them, but Ikea is one of those warehouse-type stores, like Costco and Sam’s, that is so enormous and loud, with so much stuff around as far as the eye can see, and so many people everywhere, that I have trouble filtering; it’s all just too much, and I am almost always lost and frightened in such places. I’m never quite sure if it’s a good thing or not, but most of the time I don’t remember much about being in situations like that.

The day before Jim and I flew home from California, we went to an official parent orientation and reception at Benjamin’s school. The president of the school as well as many of the teachers spoke to us. They told us about the school’s history, explained the program, and provided specifics of what was expected of the students, our kids, my Benjamin. It was during that orientation
that it really hit me. Hard. I was going to be leaving Benjamin here in Los Angeles, California, more than 2,600 miles away from our home in Maryland. The teachers and administrators didn’t know him at all. Nobody at this school had a clue about the way he had always struggled. What if he couldn’t keep up with the work? What if he got overwhelmed and depressed and didn’t do any work? What if teachers didn’t appreciate his incessant talking, and his “expertise” about, well, everything? What if his roommates or the other students didn’t get his sense of humor? What if nobody liked him, and he didn’t make any friends? What if he was bullied here? I was beside myself with worry. But truthfully, thinking back, I was really more worried about myself. How was I going to survive without my Benjamin? Sure, I didn’t depend on him the same way I used to, to literally help me get through each day without getting too lost. But he had never been so far away. What if I needed him?

After getting back from California, I continued to teach aerobics and Spinning classes in the area. I regularly taught ten or twelve classes every week, for the most part at two different Fitness First locations in North Potomac and Rockville. With the exception of our time in Cairo, I had been teaching at Fitness First Health Clubs since before Kassidy was born, back when Peter Harvey first started the franchise as Fitness World. I had survived the reigns of numerous aerobics directors and general managers. But as the economy started to slow down in 2006, my job suddenly came under threat. The recession may likely have hit places like health clubs a lot earlier than other areas, and when people tighten their financial belts, it’s usually the nonnecessity items that are the first
to go. If people have to make a choice between their mortgage and their health club membership, it isn’t hard to see why certain decisions get made. I had a huge following of members, who regularly attended my classes, but I was expensive, and I was difficult. I was expensive because I had been working there forever, and those fifty-cent or one-dollar raises per class that I earned every year, over fifteen or sixteen years, added up. I was difficult because I was growing up and becoming aware. The aerobics director could easily replace me with an eager, far younger, inexperienced instructor, who would do whatever he or she was told to do, for one-tenth of what she was paying me, and for one-tenth of the headaches she got dealing with me. Game over.

In March (March 8, 2007, to be exact) I was “let go,” “taken off the schedule,” “fired” (however you choose to look at it) from Fitness First. Before losing this job, I had not realized or actively thought about how much of my
self
was tied up in teaching there. The physical space, the rooms, the equipment, the parking lots, the stereos, the smell, and the Fitness First members themselves were all so familiar to me. I had developed close friendships with many of the people who had taken my classes for years, and I felt suddenly very lost and alone. I became depressed. I had also gotten used to the exercise high, the feel-good endorphins that I’d scored on a daily basis from teaching particularly intense classes several times a day, day in and day out. It was a huge blow to no longer have that feeling, and I had absolutely no motivation to exercise on my own. I continued to pick up classes at other gyms in the area wherever and whenever I could, but it wasn’t the same. My heart wasn’t in it, and my confidence was shattered.

There was also something else to think about. And that was
the not insignificant amount of money that I would no longer be contributing to the family finances. Our 2006 tax return showed that I had earned well over $21,000 that year teaching aerobics part-time. That income was now gone.

But that wasn’t all. Things were about to get worse.

—The Pretenders

I
received a phone call from Benjamin just a few weeks after losing my job. His calls always helped lift my spirits, and because he was so talkative, they also helped make my newly endless days go by more quickly. He was always excited about his classes, his friends, his apartment, and his teachers at American Academy of Dramatic Arts, and his excitement was contagious. This particular call started out the usual way. I remember talking to him as I walked the dogs. (Those poor dogs! After I lost my job, I walked them
all the time
! I think they both secretly hated me.) Benjamin was going on and on about this, that, and the other thing, and it was a light, comforting kind of chatter. But suddenly, toward the end of the walk as I was nearing our house, his tone changed. “Mom,
do you know what Myspace is?” Initially, I thought he might be telling a joke: “Do you know what my space is?” It’s not always easy to follow Benjamin’s train of thought, especially when he is 2,600 miles away. Although I guess I shouldn’t really judge. I played along, saying, “No. What?” Then he asked if I was home yet. “Almost, why?” “When you get home go on the computer, and call me right back.” Oh, I get it, I thought. Benjamin had recently been finding and sending me funny videos from this new site he had found called YouTube.

When I got home I logged onto the computer, and Benjamin told me exactly what to type and where. I followed his instructions step-by-step, and pretty soon I was staring at something on my screen that was not making any sense to me. There was a site called Myspace, and I was reading the words but not comprehending them: “Jim Meck. North Potomac, Maryland. Single. No Children.” What was this? I didn’t understand. Benjamin awkwardly tried to explain, but nothing he was saying was registering with me. My Jim
was
married. To
me
. And we had three children. This was just some kind of Internet garbage. Right?

I ignored both Jim’s Myspace page and everything Benjamin told me. He and I didn’t talk about it again, and it would be months before I brought it up with Jim.

There was further evidence that my marriage was not exactly on solid ground. Later that spring, I was helping Kassidy look for art supplies for a school project. We kept a lot of extra construction paper, poster board, markers, stickers, and all kinds of additional crafty stuff on shelves in the basement. While searching among the boxes, Kassidy pushed a stack of plastic containers to one side and suddenly an enormous stash of porn magazines and videos tumbled onto the floor. Kassidy and I looked at the floor
and then at each other. It was an intensely awkward moment, and neither of us knew what to do or say. We both just left the stuff there and went back upstairs. I think I may have found Jim sitting in front of his computer and said something snarky like, “Your fourteen-year-old daughter just discovered your porn supply in the basement.” And then I walked away, and I honestly didn’t think any more about it. Pornography wasn’t something that made any sense to me and it didn’t make any sense that it was in our house.

My parents came and stayed with us at the end of May. My mom, I think, was worried about me, and even though I was feeling better than I had after losing my job in March, I still felt a little bit adrift. I still had no real plan to speak of. Jim had a business trip out to California that week, and he was planning on extending his stay in order to be with Benjamin on his twenty-first birthday. I was happy to have my parents visiting, and for dinner one night I invited my aunt Sally and Uncle Phil, who lived close by. During dinner, my off-course life came up in the conversation. My uncle Phil said something like, “Why don’t you take some classes at Montgomery College?” My aunt Sally immediately agreed. “That’s a great idea. Montgomery College has a whole program for people who are going back to school after a long time. You could take a few classes in whatever interested you. No pressure.” Uncle Phil taught math and Aunt Sally taught English at the college.

I think I probably laughed at their suggestion, only because I didn’t know what else to do. Mom spoke up, and for a moment I thought she was going to save me. Instead she said, “Su doesn’t need to go to community college. She went to Ohio Wesleyan and TCU, and probably just needs a few more credits to graduate. But, Su, I think Phil and Sally make a good point. You
should
consider going back to college and finishing up your degree. Now would be the perfect time!” I nervously laughed again, and probably asked if anyone wanted dessert.

The truth was, me going back to college seemed like a totally ridiculous idea. Since my injury, I had no memories of ever having gone to school. I didn’t remember sitting in a classroom as a student, I didn’t remember ever having written an essay or having read a textbook. Going to college, in all likelihood, meant a certain amount of proficiency in math, science, history, English, and who knows what else. I didn’t even know all my multiplication tables. It’s possible that I had picked up some very basic understanding in a few areas through the years just by listening to the kids talk, and occasionally “helping” them with their homework. But certainly not at any kind of college level! How would I ever explain that to anyone?