Who would I be if I forgot the teacher who coaxed me past my math phobia, or the time my boss bailed me out and then reamed me out after I got a client into a disastrous investment, or the glowing loveliness of my wife Jane on our wedding day? Memory is identity: I’m the sum total of all the mistakes and all the blessings on my journey through life.
These thoughts came to mind when I saw our elderly neighbor, Tatiana, sitting on the bench in front of her apartment building, her wooden cane at her elbow like a sheathed sword in a painting of a medieval knight. I was nearing the end of my pre-dinner constitutional, which I took in lieu of my old commute from the office.
Pausing before her, I said, “Such a beautiful day, don’t you think?”
“I’m glad they finally put seating out here,” she said.
“Tatiana, that bench has been there for at least ten years now.”
“Has it?” Then she said, “Do you have a moment? I feel like talking and there’s no one to talk to.”
I recalled how Tatiana had once been a social lynchpin of this block. I’d met her when she was starting out as a real estate broker, after her husband, Tony, died. They’d both been only in their forties. She was long since retired.
“Of course,” I said, sitting down where she’d patted the bench.
“What have you been up to?” she said.
I told her about the trip Jane and I had taken to the Grand Canyon. She said Tony and she had gone there together soon after they’d married.
Then she said, “I’m hoping to go to my niece’s place in New Jersey for her twentieth wedding anniversary.”
“Hoping?”
“They don’t think I can handle traveling on my own.”
“Won’t your sister go with you?” I knew her sister, who lived in the neighborhood, cared deeply about her.
“She has another obligation that day.”
“You’ll be going by limo, right? So don’t you just get in the car and sit back until you arrive?” I figured I was echoing her own thoughts.
“That’s what I told them, but they think with my arthritis I won’t be able to wedge myself into the back seat.”
More likely, they were worried about her memory lapses, but I had no desire to contradict her.
“Would you like me to be with you when the limo arrives?”
“Thank you. It would reassure my niece. She means well, you know. She isn’t trying to discourage me from joining the family. I mean, I don’t think she’d do something like that. Only the last time, no one spoke to me.”
“The last time you were at your niece’s?”
“Different niece, but yes. I sat there and people said hello and asked how I was doing, but then they turned to someone else or went to the bathroom. I guess I don’t have a lot of interesting things to say. It’s what happens when you don’t have an interesting life.”
I smiled at her. “I always find you interesting.”
“But you’re a nice young man,” she said. I’m sixty-seven. “What’s your name, by the way? I don’t recognize you.”
“Peter.” I began the familiar explanation. Familiar to me, at least. “When you were a real estate broker, you represented Jane and me when we bought the house next door.” I pointed. “Right there.”
“Did I? I’ve been wondering who owns that place. It’s such a lovely building.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Next month I’ll be ninety-three,” she said.
“That’s a grand age.”
In reality, it was an age I dreaded, worried it meant diminishing health and confinement to a senior home. But Tatiana was independent. Independent enough. She didn’t venture far from her building, and her sister made sure she ate properly. Someone came in regularly to clean her apartment. Most important, Tatiana had kept up her gracious ways. It took something like courage, I thought.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” she said.
“I’m not offended, Tatiana. I’m sorry you must struggle with memory.”
“Everything’s hard now,” she said.
“I’d never know. You’re always so charming. If I’m in a bad mood, you cheer me up.”
“I wonder if I’d remember my Tony if he were still with me.”
“You remember your nieces.”
“They’re family.”
“Exactly. Tony was your husband. It hardly gets more family than that.”
Was that true? Close as I felt to Jane, would she recognize me if her memory went the way of Tatiana’s?
Tatiana said, “Did you know Tony opened a hardware store with his savings and ended up owning three by the time he passed away? I had no feeling for the hardware business, so I sold it to his best employee. I gave him a good deal, like Tony would have wanted, but it was enough to let me start over. That and the proceeds from the house. We had a house, you know, just like yours—not as pretty, but nice. This apartment here cost me what I got for it, but it’s the right size for one person. He looked after me. Tony, I mean.”
“You looked after him, too.”
“I did. He always had a meal to come home to. Always a clean house. Now I can’t even vacuum a one-bedroom apartment. Isn’t that crazy?”
“Vacuuming is one of my own many shortcomings,” I said.
“My father was another good man. He was born in Uruguay. Did you know that? But how could you?”
But I did know. “You told us all about him when we had you over for dinner to thank you for helping us find our new home. We waited to invite you until we’d fixed it up more to our liking. You were impressed.”
“I’m sure I was. What is your name again?”
“It’s Peter.” Then I said, “Tatiana, I should go.”
“I’m sorry I don’t remember you. You sound like a nice man.”
“It’s great that we talk here from time to time and enjoy each other’s company. You don’t have to remember. Well, so long as I do.”
She chuckled, but then said, “You’ll never lose your memory. You’re much too bright.”
“You’re as bright as me. The problem is that memory cells have lives of their own. It’s a shame their life spans don’t always align with ours.”
“Life spans,” she mused. “Why did Tony have to pass so young?”
I thought of that bromide about being glad we knew a deceased loved one for as long as we did. Trouble is, I’m not sure I believe it. I’m a better and happier person because of Jane, but if she were to die before me, I suspect her memory would become exquisitely painful. If, that is, I remembered her. Or if I survived her.
We were quiet for a while, and then I tried again to extricate myself. “Time to go, Tatiana. Jane will be unhappy if I’m late for dinner.”
“I mustn’t hold you up. I got mad when Tony said he’d be home at such-and-such time but didn’t get there for another hour. Why do we get so worked up over nothing?”
“Not nothing. Just different times in our lives.”
As I stood up, so did she. “Please don’t disturb yourself,” I said.
“I’ll walk with you to your door. You don’t mind being accompanied by an old lady with a cane, do you? It’s next door, right?”
She rested her hand lightly on my arm as we walked the twenty or thirty paces to my house.
“I hope you’re not cold,” I said. An evening breeze had picked up, but the air was still warm. The sky was streaked with lines of cloud against twilight blue.
She said, “Earlier, I was too warm wearing this jacket, but I’m comfortable now. I love being out. This is your house? I thought so.”
“You made it possible,” I said.
“I’m glad I could help. Wish I could remember, though.” She smiled.
“You were a great help and you’re a wonderful neighbor.”
Tatiana is courageous. That’s the only word for it. One day, scientists will discover courage cells. I’d lay odds on it. Tatiana’s had endured longer than her memory cells. I’m not confident my courage cells will survive as long.
“Tell me, how will you let me know when the limo is picking you up?”
“One o’clock on Thursday.”
So much for her uncertainty about the trip. Someone in her family must have arranged it. Curious what she did and didn’t remember. No hesitancy about the time of the pickup. A sign of how much she was looking forward to spending time with her family? Or dread?
“I’ll be outside your building’s entrance at twelve forty-five. How’s that?” I said.
“You’re very kind.”
I squeezed her hand. “Goodnight, Tatiana.”
I unlocked my front door. When I turned, she was walking back to her building. She reached the bench, but then kept going. My pulse raced, and I was about to call out to her when she turned into the building’s foyer. Tonight she was home safe. I felt—could it be?—grateful.
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