Page 46 of The Affair
“No,” she agreed. “Just the ones she wanted to remember.”
We hung up after that, and I began the process of getting ready for bed. I saved my progress on the computer, making sure it was backed up, and carefully closed the delicate binder for the night. But as I made my way upstairs to the childhood bedroom I still refused to leave, I couldn’t help but think about the words my aunt had said just moments earlier.
If I’d kept a journal about the last two years of my life, what would it look like?
Would I have written everything down? Would I have recorded every nitty-gritty detail, or would have I just included the things I wanted to remember?
Because, honestly, that version would be a whole hell of a lot shorter…
Every journal entry my nana had written included a few sentences; just short facts about her day. But what had she left out?
What had she been trying to forget?
* * *
“Nana, I’m nervous,”I confessed as I followed her down the long, empty hallway.
It smelled like floor cleaner and rubbing alcohol, and the mixture made my stomach turn a little. Every door had a name on it. Some had two.
The one we stopped at, I recognized the name immediately.
Before she knocked, my nana turned, her warm, weathered face bent down toward mine. “It’s okay to be nervous,” she said.
“What if he doesn’t recognize me?”
Her head tilted, and her lips pressed together. It was a common expression I’d seen on many adults.
Especially when they were trying to be comforting.
She placed a tender hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “He probably won’t, dear. He hasn’t remembered anyone in some time.”
“Not even you?”
She shook her head, her eyes downcast.
“Then, why do we go? If he doesn’t remember us?” I asked, surprising her by my blatant honesty.
“Because we remember him.”
* * *
The next day,I was dragging.
My eyes looked like they were carrying enough baggage for a summer holiday in France, and there simply wasn’t enough coffee in the world to give me the energy I needed to function.
Between going to bed too late and the constant tossing and turning all night from the vivid dreams of my grandparents, I was dead on my feet.
“You okay?” Sawyer asked as I shuffled my heavy feet into the store.
My eyesight was blurred, and my mood was less than cheerful.
“Yes. Fine,” I spat.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Why?”
A soft grin fell to his lips. “’Cause you’re wearing pajama pants. And your hair …”
