#66 Her Feet In Paris
Following a life-altering accident, our protagonist, Lewis, can only remember one thing and it’s so specific that it both helps and hinders his memory. Happy reading!
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#66 Her Feet In Paris
I have this memory from before, and I just can’t shake it.
It’s summer and we’re in Paris, for what reason I don’t know. Presumably just a holiday. Perhaps a long weekend. It’s mid-morning and we’ve made espressos and are sitting out on the balcony of our rental apartment.
“It’s so hot,” I remember her saying. Or perhaps that was me.
We get bottled water too. She’s reading a thriller and has just given me a lengthy description of her theories about how the book is going to end. I’m sitting on the edge of my chair applying sun cream for the day, while watching the little human ants amble along the streets below. There are flowerpots and plants lining the outside ledges of the windows opposite. An old woman opens her window down the way and leans out to smoke a cigarette. A black cat lies in the sun licking its paws and rubbing its head on the lower rooftop beside us. Her feet are rested up on the railings of the balcony beside me, her left foot crossed over right, and her right foot’s toes curled around the metal rail. Her toes work up and down, kneading.
That image is so real for me. I lift up my camera and photograph the people down below, framed by her feet in the foreground. I think it’s a good shot, but I’ll have to wait till we get home and send the film off to be developed.
That image of her feet, perhaps the one in my camera, perhaps only what I saw when I was there, is haunting me. Every day I wake up, I see people, they ask me questions, and I just think about that moment. I hear the sound of the sea, for some reason, the lapping waves of the sea, and I hear the honking of Parisian cars, their motors rumbling along the Champs-Elysees, the clinking of glasses and bottles at bars and humdrum of chatter. I smell Parisian cigarettes and wines.
The people who come to see me, they’re doctors. They ask me questions like do you remember this, do you remember that, but all I can think about is her feet in Paris. I tell them that, and they look at me gravely and say, can you remember anything else? Can you remember what happened?
It’s very frustrating when they ask questions like this. I can’t help but feel that they’re asking the wrong questions. And besides, if I could remember other things they should know, don’t they think I would tell them?
After many days of this questioning by doctors, while I sit in this uncomfortable bed with tubes and wires wrapped all around me, I finally ask: where is she?
“We can’t talk about that right now. Please stick to our questions.”
But I persist. “Where is she? Is she here? Can I see her?”
Their answers are very frustrating. “You need to focus on the accident. You need to tell us simple things, like where you were when it happened, how fast you were driving, how much you had had to drink and what. Can you remember how it happened?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That’s how I respond. That’s what I keep saying. Because I don’t know anything, other than that something bad has happened to her. That’s what I know because I feel it. And, as a feeling, it hurts.
The following day, the doctors return. “What do you remember about the accident, Lewis?”
“I don’t remember anything about any accident. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can you please just tell me what happened to her?”
The doctor strains his lips, rubs his eyes. “I’ll be back later,” he says.
I lean back, and realise I’m in a hospital room. There’s the blue scrubs of nurses walking past, the beeping of machines behind curtains from different patients. There’s a card next to me, on the side. I turn over and face the wall, where a single chair rests with a blue cardigan on it. That blue cardigan, I know, is important. But I can’t think how.
I close my eyes, and hear the sounds of the sea, and think again of that scene in Paris. Then the scene cuts, and we’re on a ferry. That’s the sound of the sea. The water at the back of the boat, churning in our ferry’s wake. Seagulls careen overhead, squawking.
“Hello, Lewis.” A hand reaches into my hand and grips my thumb and fingers, as though testing they’re real.
I open my eyes. There she is. Her face. Her freckles. Her dark hair. I don’t know what to say, I can’t really say anything. Thick tears slide down my cheeks, and I can’t contain a smile. Neither can she.
“Do you remember what happened?” she asks.
I can’t speak so I shake my head. I don’t know what happened. All I know is something did, and it’s changed me forever.
“Do you remember me?” she asks.
This time, I nod. Of course I remember her, her soft feet on the balcony railing and her freckles, spread wide by her smile.
