The Song Remains the Same (2 page)

Does this help what?
I want to ask, but instead I stare at myself until my eyes go double. Trying to connect to the face in front of me, the face I’ve worn my life through but whom I’d never now pick out of a lineup. I am still trying to connect, trying to remember, when the beeping—that damn beeping—creeps back into my ears again. This time louder, more frantically.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep
.

Remember, goddamn it! Remember!

I am fading. I feel myself fading, the blood throbbing in my temples, behind my eyes, shortening my breath, reverberating in my chest cavity—a headache that feels akin to a small death.

Peter clasps both of my cheeks in his oversize hands, forcing me to stay awake, to focus.

“No,” I reply with every last ounce of energy I have. “I’m sorry. No, I don’t remember.”

“I’m your husband,” I hear him say, though it sounds like an echo, a faint echo from so very, very far in the distance, just before I drift away. Just before everything goes silent once more.

When I wake up
for the second time, the mushroom woman is asleep in the chair beside my bed. The beeping has slowed now, a mimic of my own heartbeat, such that I barely notice it. It’s there, of course it’s there, but it’s white noise almost, that spot where your brother has pinched you so many times that you no longer feel it.

The TV is on in the corner, low enough so that it won’t disturb me, loud enough so that I can still make it out.

The newsreel is spinning in blaring red urgency on the bottom of the screen, and at the forefront stands a man in front of a hospital. An ambulance whines in the background, but either he doesn’t hear it or he’s too much of a pro to notice it, and he continues without so much as a flinch.

“It was reported earlier today that Nell Slattery, one of only two survivors of the crash of Flight 1715, has emerged from her coma. As viewers may remember, Ms. Slattery was found about two hundred yards from the debris field, still strapped into her seat, next to Anderson Carroll, the actor—we all know his story—and the first and only other survivor found on the scene. Investigators believe that their seats were somehow propelled fully intact out of the plane upon or just before impact. Ms. Slattery has sustained remarkably few physical injuries but suffered a severe concussion and initial brain swelling, and doctors were unsure as to her prognosis until she awoke today. That she woke at all is, they say, very, very good news.”

“I am very pleased to announce that what you have heard is true,” I hear, and then see, Dr. Macht say on the screen. He is standing at a podium, flashbulbs illuminating, microphones thrust upward from jutting arms. “Nell Slattery woke up for about seven minutes today. I cannot give you the full details of the situation, per hospital policy, but I am happy to say that yes, she is conscious, and someone will keep you posted as to her progress.”

Me. They’re talking about me. Nell Slattery.
I roll my name around in my mind.
Yes, it sort of feels like it fits.
I try once again to remember the crash, of being ejected from a fireball, of being tugged by gravity down toward an inevitable death, but still, it is blank space, a void of nothingness.

I return to the screen.

“As you already know,” the reporter is saying, “Ms. Slattery’s story—and that of Mr. Carroll—has captivated the nation. That she has finally come to has bolstered spirits around the hospital
and
around the country.”

“I just can’t believe it! It’s like God has granted us a miracle!” a woman cries into the camera. “God bless that girl and Anderson Carroll! They’ve given us all a reason to believe again!”

“And that,” the reporter says, “is what is being said around the nation today. A day of hope, of thankfulness, and of possibility. Nell Slattery, found one week ago in a field in rural Iowa, after the devastating crash of Flight 1715 that left one hundred and fifty-two people dead, has regained consciousness. We’ll keep you posted from here. This is Jamie Reardon, happy with the miracle we got today, bringing you more news about it as it breaks.”

He nods as a sign-off to the newsroom, and I wish he wouldn’t, wouldn’t sign off. There is something comforting about his face, about the way he lays out the facts without sounding too factual, about the way he’s talking about the most crucial details of my life and somehow not terrifying me.

Jamie Reardon, Jamie, Jamie Reardon, why don’t you hear them?
A melody weaves through me, a compilation of notes, a made-up song that somehow hums out of my lips. I feel the notes reverberate in my throat and almost laugh from the surprise.

The woman in the chair stirs and, on instinct, glances up at me before even wiping the sleep from her eyes.

“Nell!” She is by me in less than a breath, folding her breasts over me, and I recognize the hint of her honey-smelling soap. It’s a fog, a memory of a memory, intangible, ephemeral, but warming, calming, too. “I’m your mother,” she says, pulling back, her gold bangles
jangling. She holds my cheeks in her hands, her palms soft against me, and then she mimics the melody I’d just created.

Our smiles echo each other’s.

“You did that as a child,” she says. “Made up songs about anything. Everything. Sometimes, you’d be generous enough to let me join in. Harmonize.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could remember.” My smile falls and then my voice cracks, but she just says, “Shhhhh.

“Don’t cry, don’t apologize, sweetheart. You’re alive. You’re here. And I’m so thankful for that. Don’t waste another second being sorry.”

“That news? Is it true?” I nudge toward the TV.

“Oh, let’s not keep that on, dear. It’s only upsetting.”

“But is it? Is it true? All of those people killed?”

She sighs and intertwines our hands. “Yes. You were on a plane flying from New York to San Francisco. Two hours in, it crashed.” The blood drains from her face as she tells me this. “They don’t yet know why.” She waves a hand, the twinkling of her jewelry singing between our silences. “Let’s see if I can help remind you of anything. You work in an art gallery. You are thirty-two years old. You live in New York.” She pauses. “Does…does any of this bring anything back?”

I shake my head no.

“And Peter? Peter is my husband?” I scrunch my face, trying to imagine a world in which I pledged myself to him, that man. I can’t see it. More important, I can’t
feel
it.
Really?
I think.
Him?

“Enough for tonight,” my mom says, pulling the sheet up to my chest, tucking me in tighter, like I’m a toddler. She leans over and kisses my forehead, humming that same tune, like it might calm
me, be the balm to cure me. “Enough for now. Let’s put you back together, back to how you were. Then we’ll have time to answer all of these questions.”

Yes,
I think.
Let’s put me back together, back to how I was. Then, there will be time for everything else.

2

A
nurse is adjusting one of the tubes in my arms when my eyes drift awake. Though my mother is gone, she hasn’t left me alone. The walls are now covered with photos, the nightstand stacked high with albums that must contain remnants of my past, reminders of who I was before I ended up upside down and broken in a cornfield in Iowa.

“Hello, Nell,” the nurse says. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Thirsty. With about a million questions.”

She smiles, nods, and holds the sippy cup in front of me.

“We sent your mother to the hotel to get some sleep. She’ll be back in a bit. She left you these at the doctor’s request. I’ll page him. He’ll be in shortly—he can answer some of those questions for you.” She places one of the albums in my lap.

She shuffles out of the room, and here I am, alone. Alone with myself, a stranger to my own life.

I turn the first page. Shiny, gleaming faces peer out at me. That man, my husband—Peter—and me, where? In an ocean the shade
of blue glass. Him with snorkeling goggles on his forehead, me in a purple bikini and a nose on its way to a sunburn. I turn page after page. Each photo is much the same: a wash of faces that I don’t recognize, arms slung around shoulders, hands toting mugs full of beer or glasses of margaritas in bars or beaches or crisp-looking apartments, none of which mean anything to me now. The women are pretty in a common way, in dark jeans and inoffensive tank tops; the men haven’t starting losing their hair or putting on too much paunch around their bellies. All in all, this life that I suppose is mine looks solid, content, not a bad one to occupy, if I could just somehow remember it, know that it is mine. I exhale and try to focus on something else—that I am a walking miracle, that I was tossed from the sky, and that the mere fact that I am here—to question these faces, to wonder about this wholly rounded life in the first place—is as much of a blessing that I can ask for right now. I drop my head back a touch.
Who was I? An art dealer. An envied, well-heeled woman-about-town who was admired and revered and who sat on charitable boards and who helped mentor inner-city kids who had a speckle of their own artistic talent. Yes, that sounds right. That sounds simply fabulous
.

Someone clears his throat in the doorway, and I float my eyes open, then shift them lower, to see a guy with a mess of blond-brown hair, the type you can gel into a just-ever-so-slight hipster Mohawk, in a wheelchair sitting in wait. He is wan and shrunken, but his cheekbones are perfect, the kind of facial structure you double-take on the street, and despite everything, I feel myself flush at his handsomeness, at the intensity of his stare.

“Excuse me, Nell, can I come in for a second?”

I nod, confused. A nurse wheels him to my bedside.

“It’s okay, Alicia, I can take it from here.”

“Press the call button when you’re ready for me,” she says over her shoulder on her way out, almost like she’s flirting with him. I squint. Why would she be flirting with him?

“I’ve heard that you probably won’t remember me,” he says.

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“That’s okay, it doesn’t matter.” He waves a hand, and I notice a flash of a tattoo on his inner wrist, a surprise against his skinny frame in a dishwater-colored hospital gown, folded into a wheelchair. “But I asked to see you when you woke up. It feels impossible that it’s been a week since…everything.” His voice breaks, and he swallows, then sews himself back up. “My name is Anderson Carroll, and even though you don’t remember me, you saved my life.”

“I’m sorry? I did?” I feel my forehead wrinkle, scanning my brain, but it feels like a muscle that’s been unused for too long, flaccid, impotent.

“We were sitting next to each other on the plane,” he continues. “I’d…well, I’d probably had one too many vodka tonics—I sometimes tend to do that while flying—and I’d zoned out for a few minutes. You woke me up when things starting going wrong, snapped me into my seat belt, told me to put my head down, curl up to steel myself against what was coming.” His words catch on themselves, his nose visibly pinching. “Look, I don’t know how we’re here, why we were the ones who made it. But I do know that I owe my life to you—I would have been tossed ten miles from that plane if you hadn’t strapped me in, had the clear sense to keep me calm.”

I stare at him for a beat and replay his words, my concentration lagging. I decide that I’d heard him right—that I’d saved him, that I’d been someone’s life vest, that in the horror of this situation, I’d come out of it a hero.

“You’re welcome.” I suck on the gash on my upper lip, trying to put the pieces back together. “How’d I do that? Keep you calm.” A small rush swells inside of me, that yes, I was that woman, that go-to gal-about-town, that I
was the one who kept people calm
! Of course I was.
Of course I was.
I already knew myself, even when I didn’t know anything else to know.

“Just talking to me, holding my hand. You told me to focus on something other than what was happening, so we started coming up with our favorite songs, our favorite lyrics…it was chaos, but…” He stops. “I mean, obviously, it was chaos, people screaming, lights flashing, smoke pouring in, and well, I don’t know how you did it exactly, but you made me not lose my mind during it all.”

“Who did I say?” I ask.

“Sorry?”

“My favorite band. Who did I say?”

“Oh.” He angles his head to think. “I don’t know, we were just naming names, throwing stuff out to keep going. To be honest, I can’t even remember a lot of specifics.”

“To be honest, I can’t, either,” I joke, unsure if I’m joking at all.

“If it matters,” he says, “you’re famous.”

He flips over a
People
magazine in his lap. There we are: him—when he was ripe and alive, healthy, perfect, the kind you
do
do a double take on the street—with his arm linked around the waist of some svelte model-looking type emerging from a nightclub; me, in a navy cardigan and pearl stud earrings, looking very much like I’ve never stepped foot in a nightclub in the first place, looking nothing like the girl-about-town.
No, no, no. This can’t be me. I am the hero, the go-to gal.

“Survivor Stories!” the headline screams in bold print.

“Probably not the best shot.” He shrugs, as if he’s responsible for the way my mouth curls under like I’ve just bitten into a sour orange. “I kind of hate it—I think they pulled it from a website.”

“I look like I’ve never had fun for a second in my life.”

Anderson laughs, and I laugh, too, because, what the hell, I don’t really get the joke, but why not?

“What?” he says. “No, I meant me. But regardless, I’m indebted. Truly. For the rest of my life, whatever you need, I’ve got your back.” Somewhere in the base of my neck, a headache begins to spin up through me. I wince, and he detects it.

He starts to reach for the call button.

“So how badly are you banged up?” I say, stopping him, refusing to relent to the pain for now. Part of me is exhausted, but the other part of me is grateful for his easy company, that he’s not hovering, close to a breakdown at any moment like my mother or my husband.