A Memory of You

The initial transition from light to dark was temporarily blinding. Peering through my sunglasses, the lights overhead caved in the building, blockading any hint of natural sunlight. I squinted as if it had some magical power that would adjust my eyes to the fluorescent lighting faster.
The air tasted like disinfectant, which burned my lungs each time I inhaled. Squinting again, I saw the outline of an employee whose presence disrupted the monotonous white sterile environment.
I looked around for someone else to talk to, but no one was in sight. Shifting the red duffle bag, I cleared my throat; the woman’s eyes remained fixed on her paperwork. I tried again, “Excuse me.”
Raising an eyebrow, she looked up. She offered no salutation or assistance. Annoyed she waited for me to take initiative and speak again.
“I’m here with Benjamin Harper’s clothes.” I hugged the strap of the duffle bag, trying to muster the courage to ask if I could visit you before I left.
But the woman at the desk didn’t give me time to ask. She said nothing as she pointed left toward a corridor. I guess I wasn’t worth talking to. She had probably seen a million other people just like me walk in here.
Tiptoeing toward the corridor I wondered why I was even there. Why had I felt up to this? The fluorescent light flickered inconsistently. The corridor narrowed as I walked unsure toward wherever it was the woman had pointed.
“Excuse me, are you lost?” The voice was meek, but yet it startled me. I turned around to face a stout male, peering out of the stainless steel doorway. His white lab coat was unbuttoned and flopped open, making it impossible to read the name embroidered onto the pocket.
“Um, no. Well, sort of. The lady at the desk said …Well, she didn’t say, she sort of pointed.” I stopped, sighed and tried to collect my thoughts. Nodding toward the duffle bag slued over my shoulder, I wrinkled my forehead and said, “I’m here with Benjamin Harper’s clothes.”
“Ah, yes. I’ll just take them and get him dressed.”
I retracted from the man’s chubby outstretched fingers. “I was sort of hoping that maybe I could go in and see him before I left.”
“Listen kid, I’m sorry. I know this is difficult, but we have a very strict policy and my supervisor—”
“Who? That lady back there?”
He slid back into the doorframe out of the woman’s sight, as if she would suddenly look up from her desk and realize he was stepping out of line.
“Come on. She barely even knows I’m here. Please, can’t you just make one small exception? I won’t do any harm, honestly. He’s my friend and I … I just need to see him and know he’s going to be alright.”
He leaned out of the room farther, glancing first at his supervisor and back at me.
“Please. Just give me five minutes.” I bit my lip.
“Fine, five minutes.” Grasping my shoulder, he pulled me into the room. “I’ll be outside when you’re done. But only five minutes.” Exiting, he closed the heavy door behind him.
Your room was spacious and it appeared you were its only occupant. The window gave view to a nearly empty parking lot. “So much for a room with a view,” I thought.
I lifted my sunglasses and rubbed my raw eyes. I knew you would know that I had been crying. There was no point in trying to hide that fact. I waited for you to sit up and say with your caring and concerned voice, “Christ, Becky, you look like Hell.”
My presence in the room went unnoticed. “Benjamin? Are you awake?” I whispered.
You were silent.
Outside I could hear the groundskeeper trimming bushes. The hum consumed the sticky silence of the air. “Okay, if you don’t want to talk I guess that’s fine.”
I looked out the window and watched the groundskeeper hack away at the overgrown bush. Out of the corner of my eye I waited for you to acknowledge my visit. You never so much as fluttering or flicking your eyelids. You held your arms loosely at the side of your body. I watched your fingers and waited for you to tap or twitch one in a moment of weakness in this game, revealing that you were only pretending to be asleep. Nothing.
You remained motionless as you lay on your back. I knew you were faking it. In all the times I had watched you fall asleep on my couch during a late night movie, you had never once slept on you back. You were always on your side, with one arm bent and tucked under your head as a pillow, the other arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me into your cuddle position.
“I brought you some clothes. I wasn’t really sure what to bring you, so I grabbed a couple of different things. Your mom, uh, she wanted me to bring you a suit.” I chuckled to myself at the thought of you in a suit. “But thankfully the only suit in your closet was from your junior high graduation. No way in hell you’d fit into it now.”
Nervously I scuffed my feet against the floor. The silence was unbearable as I waited for you to answer. What was it you told me you did to calm your nerves? Count floor tiles?
Yes, that was it, you counted the floor tiles. I forced myself to count them. One, two, three, four. The rhythm was anything but soothing.
“So, I um, I brought you the blue stripped button up you wore on our first date. I remember you had just bought it and you were trying so hard to impress me. But you forgot to take the tags off it. God, you were so embarrassed.” My cheeks flushed at the memory. “You took me to that new Italian restaurant. Do you remember? Of course you do, you were there. You were so nervous you could barely hold your fork steady. Man, your mom was never really able to get that spaghetti stain out.”
The blue stripes had brought new life into your eyes during those few times you wore the shirt. It transformed your eyes into a breathtaking shade of blue. But the faded pink stain had ruined the shirt for you. I tried to tell you it wasn’t noticeable, but you refused to believe me. Instead you let the shirt hang in the back of your closet, regardless of how sexy I said you would look in it. You continued to pretend to sleep, which I took as a sign meaning you’d wished I had kept the shirt hanging forgotten in your closet.
“But I also brought you your practice jersey. All the guys wore them at school today, or at least that’s what Courtney told me; I, uh, didn’t go to school today.” My voice trailed off. Waiting for a lecture on why you were no excuse for me to miss school, I held up your blue and white football jersey and quietly traced the 81 with my finger.
I remembered the countless games I had spent searching for that 81 on the field. Snippets of your ridiculous touchdown dances replayed in my memory. I saw you once, practicing a new victory dance in front of your full length mirror. I had come over to read you my speech for English class, but I never made it past your bedroom door. Peering through an open crack, I pressed my body into the doorframe and just watched you dance. You imitated spiking the ball and proceeded to hula around the imaginary end zone.
I wanted to bust through the door and collapse into a laughing fit, but as I watched your reflection in the mirror, I saw the seriousness etched across your face. My feet remained glued outside your door. I don’t know how much time passed as I secretly watched you revise and edit your motion in a desperate attempt to craft the perfect dance.
Finally I just turned around and went home. Later that night you called me and asked why I never came over. I pretended that I had fallen asleep. You never questioned my lame excuse, but you never asked to hear my speech either.
Refolding your jersey, I continued filling the null room with meaningless conversation. “Well, anyway, I was gonna bring your khaki pants too because that’s what you always wear with your jersey, but, uh, they were dirty. And so then I remembered you always thought you looked good in those old Levi’s and I packed those for you instead.”
Your smile remained expressionless, a forced fixture in your slumbering state. The collection of clothes lay misconstrued on a neighboring table. “Benjamin, please say something.” The sanitized air burned my throat as I choked on my plea. “Please, talk.”
Floor tiles: five, six, seven, eight, nine. I counted them as I walked toward you. Every nerve in my fingertips was on end as I positioned myself beside you. With my trembling hands I gently grasped your hand. Its usual warmth was absent.
I knew later your mom would say you looked peaceful. I agreed when she did; not because it was true, but because it is what she needed to hear. But I knew your body was anything but at peace. Who was this man lying before me? The color and welcoming demeanor drained out of your skin. Your face swollen from the embalming process. Your cheekbones placed in an unnatural, tense position.
I was ready for you to jump up and yell “I got you.” I wanted to hear you laugh hysterically at your cruel, cruel joke. I needed to hear you tell me that you were okay, that none of this was my fault. But there was no laughter, no joke, no movement. Your face remained frozen in position; the secrets of your actions locked inside you.
“Answer me. Talk to me.” I screamed it full force in a sudden violent rage. I began to beat your chest, partly because I was so angry, but mostly because I thought maybe I could restart your heart.
My fist grew with force each time I struck you. The tears I had been suppressing for hours finally escaped my body. Sobs were the only emotion I could muster as I continued pounding your stiff chest. I exhausted my lungs with each gasping cry as I collapsed across your chest and held you for the last time.
The door creaked open as the mortician re-entered the room. My five minutes were up. Quietly I finished laying out your jersey and Levi jeans. I un-packed those old Chucks you insisted on duct taping back together and sat them beside your lucky socks. Although their luck had run out sophomore year, you never played a game of football without them and it seemed incomplete to dress you in your jersey without your lucky socks.
The man waited patiently as I stopped to absorb our last few minutes together. I ran my fingers through your hair. It was the only part of your body that looked and felt the same: soft, uncombed and in its natural disarray.
The man gently placed a hand on my shoulder, jolting me out of my foggy daze. I covered my tearstained eyes again with my shades as the man escorted me out of the facility.
This is the not the you who I wanted to remember but the visit etched itself over all our other memories. I forgot what your voice sounded like; what your smile looked like; what it felt like to be held in your arms. But I remember the way your lifeless fingers refused to grasp my trembling hand.

This writing is copyright of Sarah Binning 2010. Permission must be obtained to reprint or publish.