The Art of Forgetting Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Resources on Traumatic Brain Injury

  Acknowledgements

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DUTTON

  Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England; Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd); Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd); Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India; Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd); Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First printing, June 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Camille Noe Pagán

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Noe Pagán, Camille.

  The art of forgetting / Camille Noe Pagán.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-52909-6

  1. Women editors—Fiction. 2. Female friendship—Fiction. 3. Memory disorders—Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 5. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.A33665A89 2011

  813’ .6—dc22 2010042277

  Set in Celeste

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To JP and Indira—

  for all of my best memories.

  Forgiveness means giving up all hope of a better past.

  —LILY TOMLIN

  One

  There is only one way to boost your metabolism: exercise. I realize this in the middle of editing an article about how cayenne pepper, cinnamon extract, and massive amounts of coffee might, just might, trick your body into burning more calories (but probably not). I’m contemplating how to nicely tell my boss that the story is a load of unprintable crap when the phone rings.

  Sigh. I hate the phone. Then again, I’m hating this story, so I pick up.

  “Is this Marissa Rogers, the world-renowned weight-loss expert?”

  “Hey, Jules,” I say, relieved it’s my best friend and not a publicist pitching me the latest fat-melting wonder drug. “You won’t believe this drivel I’m working on.”

  “Let me guess: a recipe for vegan cardboard cookies?”

  “That sounds like something you’d actually eat.” I laugh, referring to Julia’s endless quest to maintain her whippet-thin figure. “You’re close, though. One more try.”

  “Um . . . one hundred forty-two ways to lose the last five pounds.”

  “Very close, but no dice,” I tell her. “Metabolism makeovers.”

  Julia snorts. “I cannot believe you’re doing that story again.”

  “I know. We’ve only covered it half a dozen times this year,” I say, and it’s not entirely untrue. Svelte, like many health magazines, essentially runs the same ten articles over and over, each one tweaked ever so slightly so it doesn’t sound identical to the last. Metabolism stories, I have decided, hover near the top of our mostrepeated topics: above colonics (explosive but effective) but below celebrity get-skinny secrets (diet and exercise, which is Hollywood parlance for Adderall and anorexia).

  An e-mail alert pops up in the right corner of my computer screen. As soon as I click it closed, another appears, and then another. “Listen, I have to run if I’m going to get out the door in time for tonight,” I tell Julia. “We’re still on, right?”

  “Definitely,” she says. “That’s actually why I’m calling. I can’t wait to see you. But any chance you can do six thirty? I’m running the tiniest bit behind.” Then she adds in her sweetest voice, “I just have to pick up a little something.”

  “No presents!” I scold her. “Tonight is my treat to you. You’re the one who got promoted, remember?” I say, referring to her recent bump to senior publicist for the New York City Ballet.

  “This isn’t a present, nut job.”

  “Julia.”

  “Marissa,” she mocks me. I can practically feel her smiling on the other side of the phone. “See you there. Don’t be late!”

  Two hours and half a glass of cabernet later, I’m sitting by a window at the restaurant and trying not to be irritated, although it’s nearly seven and Julia is nowhere to be seen. If I were waiting for anyone else, I would have left fifteen minutes ago; having been raised by a mother who’s perpetually behind schedule, I have no tolerance for tardiness. But in this instance, I have only myself to blame, because I know full well that the chances of Julia showing up when she says she will are on par with polar bears floating down the Hudson River.

  I take another sip of my wine and poke at the chunk of cheese the waiter gave me to sample (not realizing that at nine grams of fat per minuscule serving, it isn’t going anywhere near my mouth). Outside the window, Gramercy is buzzing with life. I love this area, with its low-hanging magnolia trees and crumbling brownstones. There’s still a little daylight left, and like so many Septembers in New York, it is warm enough that people are still strolling about in shorts and sandals.

  In the distance, I spot a familiar brunette striding down Irving Place and I’m struck with a fleeting pang of envy; unlike Julia, I will never be the woman who gets up-and-down looks from fellow pedestrians. It�
��s not that she’s the Victoria’s Secret type—in a city full of models that would hardly be noteworthy. But her heart-shaped face and wide gray eyes are striking, and she carries herself with a confidence that invites staring. When we’re out, people often stop her to ask her where she’s from. Each time, she deadpans a new answer—Honduras. Ukraine. Syria—in her best Midwestern accent, then doubles over in laughter.

  As Julia comes into focus, I see that she’s holding an enormous bouquet of white peonies, undoubtedly for me. Out of season, the flowers must have cost a fortune, but it’s unlikely she even asked about the price before passing her credit card to the florist. I once told her I felt guilty that she always seemed to be bringing me some small token. “My love language is gift giving; yours is quality time,” she informed me matter-of-factly, and so I eventually stopped protesting when she showed up with a bag of coffee she picked up in San Juan, a blownglass ornament she found at a sidewalk sale, or like today, flowers.

  Julia makes her way down the street in record time, no doubt aware that I’ve been waiting. She reaches the corner, and seeing me through the window across the street, gives me an enormous smile. I lift my wineglass to wave at her and she waves back, then does a little skip toward me and steps into the street.

  Before I even put my glass back on the table, a cab hits her.

  The accident unfolds so quickly that I am barely able to process the streak of yellow metal that slams into Julia, tossing her off its hood and onto the pavement.

  I don’t scream. In fact, I do nothing until I realize my pants are wet; I’ve spilled wine all over them. I leap up and run out the door, pushing my way through the small crowd that has gathered. Everyone is talking at once, and I overhear one frightening snippet of conversation after another: “Definitely bloody,” “Skull fracture,” “Natasha Richardson,” “Dead.”

  Trying to shake off the shock I’m feeling, I steel myself for a gruesome scenario. When I finally reach Julia, though, she’s not only conscious, but actually trying to push herself into a sitting position. Her hair is hanging in her face and her right knee, poking out from ripped tights, is bleeding. Otherwise, she looks no more flustered than if she’d just tripped.

  She looks up at me, then glances wistfully at the white petals strewn around her. “Your flowers.”

  “Julia! Are you okay?” My mouth is dry, and there is a metallic taste on my tongue. “Don’t worry about the flowers. Let’s get you out of the street.”

  An older woman with a heavy New York accent wags her finger at Julia. “Young lady, you hit your head, and good. You’d best get yourself to a hospital.”

  “I called 911,” the cabdriver says to no one in particular. The rims of his eyes are red, and I realize he has been crying.

  “No hospital,” Julia says, slowly rising to her feet. “I’m fine.” She points at the cabbie weakly. “You could have killed me.”

  I obviously look worried, because Julia says, “I’m okay. Just wobbly.”

  “Of course. Why don’t you go sit down?” I snatch her leather clutch off the street. “I’ll get the driver’s info for you.”

  “Thanks,” she tells me, and allows a banker type, who is obviously smitten, to walk her over to a bench in front of the restaurant.

  “That woman was right, hon. You need to get checked out,” I call back, digging through my purse for a pen and paper—not an easy feat, as I can’t stop shaking. I’m having a hard time processing the fact that my best friend was just nearly flattened by oncoming traffic. “You don’t want to find out you fractured something when you show up to dance practice tomorrow.”

  The crowd quickly thins out, and I wait at the curb for the cabdriver to get his registration and insurance card. After triplechecking the info I scribbled down, I turn back to the restaurant.

  Immediately, I know something is wrong. Julia is hunched over on the bench, her hands cupped around her ears. “I have a headache,” she says. She sways slightly as she attempts to look up at me, and I spot a small trickle of blood under her right nostril. Then she groans. “I might be sick.”

  In spite of myself, I cringe—I can’t stand the sight or smell of vomit. But instead of throwing up, Julia slumps over on the bench before the banker can grab her.

  “Ambulance coming?” she manages to mumble.

  Then she passes out.

  Two

  At fourteen, I lobbied my mother to send me to the magnet high school in Ann Arbor. Middle school had been hell; I wanted a clean break from my few flaky friends and, more important, the bullies who’d tormented me incessantly. I also knew that the high school I was heading to in Ypsilanti, where we lived, was one of the worst in the state. I relayed this information to my mother, who promptly took the pen I was holding and signed the transfer request form I’d already taken the liberty of filling out.

  The minute I stepped through the swinging double doors of Kennedy High, I regretted my decision. The kids in the hallway were practically Beverly Hills, 90210 extras. The girls, whose faces were painted with just enough makeup to look alluringly trashy, wore ruffled blouses and stretch stirrup pants that I could not only not afford, but that would look ridiculous on my short, curvy figure. And unlike the guys from my neighborhood—whose idea of style involved Cross Colors T-shirts and jeans that hung around their knees—Kennedy seemed to be swarming with quarterback types in pastel polo sweaters and jeans that actually—gasp—fit. It was clearly not my scene.

  This suspicion was confirmed in homeroom when not a single living soul spoke to me. I tried a smile and a cheery “Hi!” several times, but even the prepubescent dork to my left, clad in tight pants and a superfro, just stared back.

  By lunch I was convinced I’d just made the biggest mistake of my teenage life. I tried to put on my best game face as I picked up my blue lunch tray and shuffled through the lunch line, but as I walked out into the crowded lunchroom and realized I had no one to sit with, I was fighting back tears.

  Suddenly, I heard: “Over here!”

  There was Julia, motioning me to her table. I was so surprised that I actually looked over my shoulder to make sure she wasn’t talking to someone else. “No, you, silly.” She laughed, and motioned to the seat next to her. “Marissa, right? I saw you in biology.” I stared blankly. I’d certainly seen Julia, holding court among a crowd of perfectly coiffed Jennifers and Jills, but didn’t think she’d so much as glanced my way.

  She continued. “I was just telling Jen here”—the blonde next to her, I gathered—“that you have the best hair! What do you do to it?”

  I smiled, simultaneously embarrassed and flattered. I had realized long before high school that I’m accurately described as average looking. The one thing notable about me is my hair: thick, wavy, and auburn-verging-on-red; it is by far my best feature, and I’ve always been more than a little vain about it.

  “Oh my gosh. Thank you,” I told her. “I don’t do anything special. Really. Aussie shampoo and a little Aqua Net and I’m done.”

  “So fabulous! I’m jealous,” she told me. That Julia, already stunning at fourteen, would be envious of me was laughable, although I certainly wasn’t going to point this out. She put her arm around my shoulders. “Come sit down and I’ll introduce you to everyone. I know the girls are just going to love you.”

  As I predicted, the Jennifers did not, in fact, love me. But to my astonishment, Julia did. “You’re hilarious.” She giggled after I muttered some witticism, shooting Jen S., formerly known as “the funny one,” a sharp look for daring to roll her eyes at the compliment. It soon became apparent that although gorgeous, charismatic Julia loved being surrounded by admirers, she lacked the one thing she really wanted: a confidant. She grew weary, she confessed to me, of her friends’ utter lack of curiosity about anything outside of fashion and football players. “But you and I, Marissa,” she told me conspiratorially, “now, we can talk about anything.” And we did: We’d stay up until dawn discussing whether Emily Dickinson was happy being alone
, if 7-Eleven Slurpees were worth the calories, and most often, how much better life would be when we finally became adults and we could flee Michigan for greener pastures—specifically, New York, where she would take the ballet world by storm and I would become the youngest editor-in-chief in magazine history.

  It wasn’t long before we were inseparable. Being Julia’s best friend was like being granted a ticket into a fun, frantic, and extremely privileged world, and the first six months were nothing if not a crash course in keeping up. “You haven’t heard of Pearl Jam?!” Julia squealed upon learning yet another of my inadequacies. No matter; she spent the next two days introducing me to grunge. When I revealed my utter lack of knowledge about the male anatomy, she filled me in on what sex ed class had left out. And although she never said a word about my pitiful wardrobe, we soon began embarking on regular Saturday shopping trips where she taught me to pick the best pieces from thrift shops and to dress so my ample hips became an asset.

  Julia was a live wire, and everything she touched became electrified—including me. I felt like she had woken me up after years of deep sleep. How could I not have known that my life had been so boring? And yet we seemed to be in such different stratospheres that I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was a charity case.

  As the months wore on, I began to understand that Julia’s shiny veneer hid a jagged, imperfect center. The only child of wealthy parents, she was used to getting her way and, unlike me, had zero qualms about making a scene if she didn’t. Although she had more self-confidence than anyone I’d ever met, she was also extremely possessive. “You and Heather have been spending an awful lot of time together,” she once pouted about my biology partner, and not wanting to rock the boat, I’d quietly requested that my teacher pair me with someone “less talkative,” leaving poor Heather baffled. Mostly, though, I was the one to calm and comfort her, to help keep her sharp edges hidden from the rest of the world.