My Life, Deleted (15 page)

She and I talked, and we agreed that Grant needed his mother there to help him through this. So while she talked to him on the phone, I busied myself booking her a flight online out of John Wayne Airport in Santa Ana. We decided that she would go home to deal with Grant while I met with the broker Sunday afternoon as arranged. I'd never been to this airport before, so I made sure to print out my MapQuest directions and also programmed them into my GPS system as backup because sometimes the two didn't match up. I was okay with Joan leaving to help Grant as long as I was consumed with the logistics of getting her home. It was only after she left, when I had time to reflect, that I felt lonely, thinking how nice it had been to get away and how abruptly we'd been interrupted.

How often will this happen in the future?
Will he always come first?

But I was learning from Joan that you have to prioritize people's needs in life, which is what she told me she'd done as a triage nurse, and she seemed pretty good at it.

Later, around 9:00 that evening, Joan called to check in, but she was elusive about details. I let it go, figuring that she didn't want to worry me when there was nothing I could do from here. Surely she would fill me in soon enough.

After signing a contract with our new broker, I called to update Joan. “But more important,” I said, “how's Grant doing?”

“He's having a real rough day,” she said, adding that he was going to spend the night at our house.

I took myself out to dinner harborside, returning to the boat to watch some TV. The plan was to go to bed early and head home around 9:00 in the morning, but as I was watching the news, something very strange, unexpected, and exciting happened.

One by one, a series of memories from my early childhood in Chicago, about a dozen in all, flashed across my mind. These short glimpses revolved around a backyard barbecue, with a bunch of adults sitting in folding nylon and metal chairs next to a pool, a long skinny lawn, and a chain-link fence. None of the adults had faces, and although I couldn't visualize what they were wearing, it was clearly warm enough to sit outside. I could also see a big apple tree, a kid's bike at the bottom of seven steps that led up to a metal screen door, and a garage with power lines running across it.

Each flash lasted only thirty seconds over the course of maybe ninety minutes, but they were all so vivid and clear I was beside myself.

Yes! This is it! I have my memory back. It's all going to come back to me now.

Ecstatic, I wanted to call Joan right away, but I decided to save the bombshell until I could watch her face light up. It was too late to start driving home now, so I'd get a few hours sleep and leave around 3:00
A.M.
, which would get me home around 9:00 to start Joan's day off with a bang.

But things didn't work out as planned. When I pulled up to the garage around 8:45, Taylor was getting into her car to go to school—about an hour and fifteen minutes later than usual—and she looked upset.

“Why aren't you at school?” I asked.

“It's been a terrible morning. Talk to Mom.”

“Tell me what's wrong,” I said.

Taylor started crying. “I don't want talk about it, Dad.”

“You are not leaving here upset. Now please tell me what's wrong.”

“Grant relapsed again. He's using heroin now.”

I almost passed out. I simply could not believe what my daughter had just told me. Heroin? Joan said she'd never seen heroin as a nurse, so I assumed that I'd never met someone who knew how to get it, let alone use it. Here we were the ones who were supposed to be older and smarter, and yet my son knew how to buy this street drug that dirty lowlifes used?

“Where are they now?”

“Mom took him to this free place in the ghetto for detox,” Taylor said. “They just left.”

I hugged Taylor until she stopped crying and told her she could stay home for the day. “No, I don't want to be here,” she said. “I want to forget about this.”

I called Joan but got no answer. She either wasn't picking up or her cell phone was dead; she often forgot to recharge the battery. My concern about not being able to reach her quickly turned into anger. I was so pissed that Joan hadn't told me about the severity of Grant's drug problems, I couldn't even see straight. I was convinced that she'd been trying to protect me from this problem, and this was not something I wanted or needed to be protected from.

Why is she doing this alone? Is this how life has always been?

I'd just gotten some of my memories back, and I wanted to share them with the most important person in my life, but she was too busy taking my son, the drug addict, to rehab.

An hour or so later Joan got home, and I confronted her as we sat at the kitchen table.

“Why didn't you tell me about this?”

“I didn't know Grant had been doing heroin until this morning,” she insisted, explaining that he told her he'd pretended to be walking our dogs when he was actually walking to a drug dealer's house two blocks from ours. So much for the nice, clean neighborhood we thought we'd moved into. He'd apparently tried to self-detox before but had never made it past the second day, when he started getting sick.

So we've been lied to and deceived? For how long?

I still found it hard to believe that she hadn't known about this. “Is that the truth, or is that just what you're telling me now?” I demanded.

“No, really, I just found out this morning. I would never lie to you. I was going to tell you when you came home,” Joan said. “I never thought you would come so early and run into Taylor. And why
are
you home so early? I wasn't expecting you until 11:00 or so.”

These obviously weren't the best circumstances, but I couldn't wait any longer to tell her. “Well, I have good news,” I said. “I got some memories back.”

Joan started crying, she was so happy. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, her hands flying up to her cheeks. “Tell me, tell me! Your memories! They're going to come back. They're going to come back!”

After I recounted the snapshots of my past, I asked if anything sounded familiar. But because she didn't know much about my early childhood, she suggested I call my mother. I did, and she confirmed that the scenes I described were from our apartment in Calumet City, a small community south of Chicago, when I was five or six.

As Joan and I talked further, my initial burst of anger about Grant, which stemmed from the frustration of not being able to get enough information, began to subside. Once he got out of detox four days later, he went back to his apartment, where he picked up his life again and told us he was trying to stay sober. I felt torn, so happy about my memories coming back but still so devastated about Grant's increasingly serious drug problem. I only wished I could be as strong as Joan, who seemed to be able to put aside her obvious pain about our son's medical crisis in order to feel happy for her husband's medical breakthrough. It made me feel better when she confided that with her nurse's training, she typically went into a numb, emotionless action mode during times like this, saving the breakdown and mess of tears for later. Such was the case, she said, first when Taryn died, then when Grant suffered his head injury. But obviously I didn't remember any of that. My Joan of Arc was all I knew.

Chapter 14

W
HEN THE WEEK
of Valentine's Day came, I didn't understand its emotional significance, so Taylor briefed me—at her mother's suggestion—and told me to get Joan a card. But she didn't give me a hint about buying flowers or a romantic gift for the woman I loved. It wasn't until I saw the dozen yellow roses arrive in a vase for Taylor that I felt like an unfit husband.

How could I not have gotten something for Joan, the woman who has done everything for me, shown me so much love, and has stood by me, taking care of me every step of the way since the accident?

My ignorance, once again, was hard to accept. After I'd told Joan several times how sorry I was, she finally said, “Please stop apologizing to me. We don't need to give each other gifts to know that we love each other.”

These comments only reconfirmed how giving Joan was and that although she appreciated that we were still together after my injury, she was more interested in whether I'd fall in love with her again.

“I love you, and I love the fact that you love and care for me the way that you do,” I said, embracing her and giving her a tender kiss. “Next time I'll know what to do.”

As Joan's birthday on February 23 approached, she was becoming more tense, a stark contrast with how Taylor had acted near her special day. I could understand that celebrating birthdays was no longer as much fun for someone our age as it was a reminder that we were getting older, but I wondered if something else was going on.

“Have you noticed Mom is acting different, more stressed, lately?” I asked Taylor.

“She never really gets excited about her birthday because four days later is Taryn's birthday,” Taylor explained.

“What do I usually do for Mom's birthday?”

“You've always tried to make it a special time for her,” she said. “You've surprised her with a trip to San Francisco. Last year you took her to Chicago and surprised her with Bon Jovi concert tickets. You're always romantic, and you do your best even though she doesn't want to celebrate it.”

I believed all that, but I knew this year had to be even tougher with the stress and depression she'd been experiencing since my accident.

“Maybe I need to discuss this with Mom before making any plans,” I said.

But when I tried to talk to Joan, she wasn't very responsive. “I don't want anything for my birthday—maybe just go out for a nice dinner with the kids,” she said.

She was clearly in no mood for festivities, especially knowing that she was going to have to endure the anniversary of the worst day of her life with a husband who couldn't genuinely share her grief. Sensing all this, I wanted to please her even more, so I agreed not to get her anything and that we would go to one of our favorite Japanese restaurants where they prepared the food tableside.

We all met up at Way Sushi & Teppanyaki around 5:30 and had a long table all to ourselves. Joan ordered her usual fillet and scallops, Taylor got the chicken and shrimp, and Grant and I ordered the scallops, which Joan said was my favorite.

The cook put on a show with fancy knife work, forming a volcano-shaped mound of onions that billowed white smoke after he poured oil into the center of it, then made a “choo-choo” sound as if it were a train's smokestack. That seemed to break the ice a bit. Our elevated stress level was compounded by having Grant there, in another one of his moods. But at least he wasn't acting out like he had on Taylor's birthday.

I tried to keep the general conversation light and upbeat, hoping to make Joan laugh.

“Don't worry, I'm still older than you,” I said.

“Yeah, six months.”

“Well, you still look better than women half your age.”

I knew deep down that Joan was putting on a front just to get through the night. Taylor told the owners it was Joan's birthday, so they brought over a dessert plate of sliced pineapple wedges with a single lit candle and sang “Happy Birthday” in Japanese. I found this amusing, and Joan seemed to appreciate the gesture.

After dinner Joan's parents joined us back at the house for chocolate cake and coffee. By this time I felt comfortable enough to actually sing the birthday song. Taylor said we should put only one candle on the cake even if we had forty-six in the house.

When Joan had obviously had enough, her parents left, Grant went home, and Taylor went to Anthony's, leaving Joan and me alone. I told her I felt conflicted about not getting her a gift, but I'd honored her wishes just the same.

“I just don't feel very happy about myself these days, and I don't want to focus on me,” she replied.

“I understand the way you feel, but I'm still trying to figure all of this out, and I want to make sure that I'm doing everything correctly.”

“You don't need to feel disappointed,” she said. “It's more about being with you and the family. That's a gift enough. Just get your memory back for my birthday.”

“I'm trying.”

“I can hit you in the back of your head again if you like,” she joked. I immediately thought of the Three Stooges and figured she was going to be okay.

Among the voicemail messages that Joan had saved was one from a guy who said he hadn't heard from me in a while and wanted to have lunch.

“Did I know a guy named Mark Hyman?” I asked.

Joan reminded me that we'd been friends since we had offices next door to each other in 1993. She called him to explain what happened, and he and I had a short, awkward conversation. He said he'd wondered what happened to me because we'd planned to have a holiday lunch the day after my accident but I'd never called to confirm. He invited me to lunch again, but I wasn't ready yet to try having a conversation in public with someone outside my immediate family.

Joan had been encouraging me to rebuild my friendship with Mark and my old friend Jerry Pinto, saying it would be good for me to have someone other than her to vent to, someone who could give me a different perspective on the old Scott and could fill me in on private man things we used to talk about. “You don't tell your wives everything,” she said.

Besides that, she said, who better to teach me how to be a man than another man?

These seemed like good reasons, and, frankly, I was intrigued to see whether my friends were anything like me. I knew that Jerry and Mark were both a decade older than me, and even on the phone they sounded far more boisterous and self-assured than I felt inside, which was meek and reserved, even though I didn't know what those words meant at the time. I didn't really know how to be myself with either one of them because I didn't know who that was, so all I could do was react to whatever they said or did.

Back in February Jerry had flown in for a brief trip to help Joan and me resolve our health insurance problems, but we didn't have more than an hour's conversation over dinner before he flew home with my signature. I'd been hoping to rebuild our friendship, but in spite of his promises to be available anytime to talk to me—“If you're upset, call me. If you can't sleep, call me”—I'd left multiple messages on both his cell and business numbers and he'd only called once since his trip.

“Sorry I haven't called back. I've just been busy. I'll give you a call tomorrow,” Jerry said. But the call never came.

Initially I thought maybe he was just busy, as he said, but when the trend continued, I wondered what I'd said or done wrong, so I kept leaving messages. We finally did connect a few times later in the year, but they were brief conversations, with dozens of messages from me in between.

Mark, on the other hand, had been checking in with me every couple of weeks, and when I was ready, we made plans to meet for lunch at Chompie's, a Jewish deli in Scottsdale.

When Joan dropped me off, I saw a man fitting her description standing outside the restaurant and pointing at me. He was balding on top with brown, graying hair. Wearing nylon workout shorts and a T-shirt, he was about five feet ten inches tall and two hundred and forty pounds. If they made a movie about my story, I'd want a younger version of actor Abe Vigoda to play Mark.

Without Joan there, I had to order for myself for the first time. I knew I didn't like bread, so I told Mark I was going to have the chopped liver on crackers because it looked good in the menu photo. Mark, who is Jewish, was surprised and even more surprised when I ended up liking my meal.

Joan had told me that I could trust Mark, but I also sensed that on my own. I felt it in my chest—what Joan called my “gut instinct”—that my feelings were safe with him and that he wouldn't judge me. So I told him I didn't remember playing football or who Joan was in the hospital, and I confided in him about my constant fears and anxieties.

“It must have been really traumatic for you to lose not only your memory but everything that you've worked for and everything that you planned for,” Mark said. “To lose your goals in life, who you are as a person, must be very disturbing.”

“It's been very hard,” I said, pleased to hear someone other than Joan be so warm and understanding. “I'm having to re-create myself.”

Mark had three kids, even younger than mine. He and I were able to talk seriously about issues such as our families, my wife, and his ex-wife, and yet still joke around, including who was going to pay for the check. He offered to pay, and I let him because I didn't know what else to do. Joan later told me that friends often alternate paying for lunch and that I could get the bill next time.

From that point on, Mark and I met for lunch at least once a month. Sometimes he joked that I had done myself some good with this accident because I'd never been one to talk about my feelings before. But when he told me I used to be confident and enterprising in business, he might as well have been talking about a total stranger.

Around this same time Joan was recruited by someone she'd met at a charity function and was hired as the director of a hospice foundation in Phoenix, where she was to be in charge of fund-raising and operations, starting in mid-March. She said this was something she'd always wanted to do, but more important, she needed to start earning an income and reduce our health insurance costs.

I wasn't thrilled with the idea of her going out in the real world while I stayed home alone. With Taylor at school and Grant in his own apartment, the prospect of being alone for eight to ten hours a day was frightening.

What will I do all day? How will I get by? Who will teach me what I need to know?

Joan had rarely left my side for nearly three months. She'd provided me with the knowledge to exist, shown me how to live and how to love. For her sake I tried to laugh it off.

“You're going to have fun not having to deal with me five days a week,” I told her.

She laughed. “I would still rather be here with you than go back to work,” she said. “You're easy.”

Joan was concerned about the career change ahead of her, given that her past work experience was as a registered nurse and as a marketing director for our jet company. Working for me was the easiest job she'd ever had, she said. She didn't have to show up for work every day, and she got to sleep with the boss, who always took her on vacations. But I figured that Joan was going to do just fine. After all, she had a master's degree in leadership. I didn't know what that meant, but it sure sounded good.

When Joan was getting ready for work on her first day, March 15, she looked happy and relieved. I figured she was pleased to be returning to work with her own age group, not having to spend every minute with her three-month-old husband. I had to admit I couldn't blame her. This was her time to get away from me and to share her experiences and knowledge with others.

Still, it was tough to watch her walk out the door in her brown suit and pumps, her Louis Vuitton computer bag, and a small box of family photos and knickknacks for her office. I told myself it was time to share her with the rest of the world; this was also my opportunity to discover new ways to fend for myself. I wanted her there with me every second of the day, even if we got on each other's nerves sometimes, but I had to admit that I really needed her to leave.

I walked her to the garage door and held her longingly, as if I wouldn't see her for ten years. “Have a good day at work, and don't worry about me,” I said. “I'll be fine here by myself.”

She sighed. “I know you'll be fine,” she said. “I'm just concerned about leaving you alone.”

I watched her back out of the driveway and head down the street before I walked into the house and closed the garage door. After Taylor left for school, the house was all mine, and it was oh so quiet.

I walked around the house, looking for some magical sign telling me what to do next. The house had never seemed so big. No one was there to stop me from getting into trouble or to tell me how to do things. I knew Joan was only a phone call away, but I was determined not to bug her. She had enough going on in her world, getting used to a new job and dealing with new people.

When she called around 11:00
A.M.
to check on me, I was happy to hear from her.

“I'm okay, but I miss you,” I said.

“Maybe I shouldn't be working yet,” she said, sounding worried. “Maybe I should be home, taking care of you.”

“I'll be fine,” I told her again. “I need to learn on my own, and you need to be with other people so you don't go crazy.”

That seemed to calm her down. “What are you up to?” she asked.

I told her I'd been reading news articles on the computer and going through my desk, scanning through documents and brochures to learn more about what I used to do for a living. I also felt it was important to learn as much as I could about the changing economy, the automakers' bailout, and the ongoing controversy over CEOs' use of private planes. I was trying to determine whether I would ever be able to make money again by managing private jets amid all this negative media coverage.