A special thanks to my Writers Group who despite life being too busy, still find the time to email and meet and listen and talk about our work! This piece is a product of our last meeting.....
Once therapy began memories slowly returned. It was a surprisingly easy process once he relaxed and followed Dr. Paushka's instructions. He wished his shoulder would mend as quickly.
There was no guarantee that all memory would return but, he was told, the early signs suggested given some time and therapy he should be able to make sense of most of the puzzling fragments littering his thoughts.
He was diagnosed as suffering from traumatic amnesia. Since the accident he simply could not remember a great deal of the events that happened before. Of course he knew where he put his wallet, how to ride a bike, how to cook beef goulash and that he loved his wife. But other memories remained elusive, frozen in time disconnected and disorientating. He had been working through each of these frozen moments with Dr. Paushka and he felt he had made adequate progress. Most fragments were now out of shadow, understood, and relegated to their correct place in his personal history.
He had been home two months since his discharge from the hospital and was still frustrated with the pace. One particular memory wished to remain hidden. Like the others it was just a few seconds of recall, a feather falling and floating across his vision, sashaying down to the ground. He could make out the blurry outline of his home possibly from his backyard, as the small white and yellow feather danced lazily on the breeze.
Each time he returned to this memory, he could discern no other information about the fragment. Dr Paushka had explained that memories could not be forced, they will come to the surface only when they are ready. He wondered to himself, if that was true, why he was seeing her once a fortnight spending a small fortune to not force what would happen naturally.
Months passed and Dr. Paushka suggested they were meeting the end of the process. He claimed they still had work to do, what about the feather? She pointed out it had been four sessions since his last breakthrough. Maybe, she suggested, he should start to move forward without the therapy, and of course she was always there should he need to meet.
He reluctantly agreed. Despite the considerable financial saving, he felt the feather was the key to something important. If he stopped therapy now then perhaps he would never understand. He felt as if something critical had been stolen from him but he could not name it.
Life carried on and his shoulder began to feel strong again. He thought less and less about the small white and yellow feather. Until the day before Christmas.
Each year he removed the old bird nests and overhanging branches from the large gum in their backyard. This was in preparation for an outdoor Christmas lunch with family and friends. This year was particularly important as the accident had occurred Christmas Eve last year meaning no-one was in the mood for any celebrating while he was fighting for his life in an Intensive Care Unit. He felt he was responsible for wrecking the previous Christmas and wanted to make amends. This year would be a delicious spread of lobster, prawns, roast turkey and pork. Something for every taste. He had even bought French champagne for his wife as a surprise, the same they had on the first night of their honeymoon in Paris.
Half way up the ladder he took a moment to find his balance. It felt good to be able to perform this simple task, even if he was a little slower to get it done. He continued on to the top, reaching out to the nest. He wanted to remove it before cutting down the branch, just in case it held small life in the haphazard weaving of sticks and leaves. The nest was a full hands width away. He stretched to his full length but still could not reach. He decided to grab the leaves of the branch and give it a gentle tug, see if he could gently bring it down to within his grasp.
On the third downward pull the nest tumbled sideways teetering for a moment. He noticed with relief that it held no life, just the discarded memorabilia of a small family long gone. He reached out to grab it just as the branch flipped back up and the nest upturned and unloaded shell fragments, leaves and feathers. He held fast to the side of the ladder as small objects passed by his head throwing him off balance for a moment.
He decided to go down to get the saw and return to take care of the branch. Slightly shaken but still pleased with himself he glanced over his shoulder at the house just as a small feather passed his line of vision. It was making its way to terra firma just as he was.
But this time he did not focus on the feather. This time he noticed the upstairs bedroom window, the nest he shared with his wife. He saw last Christmas Eve and his best friend Joshua kissing her, pushing her down on the bed and her hand reaching out to drag him down on her. And he saw her face, her beautiful sweet face full of adoration and intent. And he had died a small private death at seeing that lovely face look at his friend with a fire he never saw when she looked at him.
He turned away from the memory playing like a film in his head and took a few wobbly steps till his feet hit the ground where his legs betrayed him too and he fell exhausted by sadness. He began to take deep breaths just as Dr. Paushka had taught him. At first they were shallow and short, but eventually he was able to do the task some justice. He began to cry, a slow weeping that comes with grief. He recalled getting into his car after seeing them together, and driving at excessive speed to the mountains that hovered just above the city. He had spun dangerously around hairpin corners pushing the car to its limits of control. But still the pain was there and it would not go away despite the need to have his full attention on handling the car. It rolled up inside him multiplying and dividing and multiplying again till he longed for it to stop.
The tree had been a way to make it stop. And then he was in hospital and Christmas had passed and details of that day were locked away behind a floating feather.
He remained at the foot of the ladder for some minutes continuing to focus as best he could on his breathing. The light in the yard changed as the sun moved lower in the sky and the shift woke him from his uneasy meditation. He stood slowly and deliberately and moved to the house where he packed a small overnight bag. After this was done he wrote his wife a note and called a cab, giving the driver the address of a city hotel.
The note was left on the bed, a feather sitting across the words,
There is champagne in the fridge. And I remembered what you did.
