The Secretary Experience

They three women cleaned and slowly my house began to smell fresh. They kept the windows opened after they cleaned them, letting in some warm, fresh air.

The youngest girl tackled the refrigerator. She pulled everything out, throwing away everything that had gone past its expiration date. Watching her throw out the spoiled food depressed me. It had all been fresh when I'd gone into work that morning and now it had all exceeded its usefulness, and watching it go into the trash left me feeling a tad melancholy. I had missed so much, the evidence filling two large trash bags.

The young girl pulled out the drawers and the shelves, washing them in the sink with bleach. When she was done the refrigerator was pristine again. I guess I was wrong. It was salvageable after all. If my refrigerator was going to be okay, then maybe Bonnie was right, and I would be as well. It was something to consider.

"Thank you, George," the leader of the three-woman-crew said as they were leaving. "Hope you get to feeling better."

"Thanks," I said. I searched for my wallet and pulled out a few twenty-dollar bills.

"No need, it's been taken care of."

I started to ask how and then thought better of it. I already knew the answer. Bonnie. She didn't miss much. 'Oh, you told me a lot of things,' she had said. And I'd shown her even more. Things I hadn't wanted to reveal. Not to her. Not to anyone. Even the three cleaning ladies respected my wishes that they stay out of my walk-in closet. Bonnie was bright and far too observant. I suppose that made her good at her job.

The cleaning crew left. I went to the fridge. Inside were two beers, a bottle of honey, a small plastic tub of mustard and an eight-pack of double-A batteries with two of the batteries missing. That was it. That was all that had survived my run in with a drunk driver on the day that I'd been fired. Still, it was a far better outcome than how my parents had achieved. Wasn't it?

I walked to the living room, a cold Heineken in hand. I sat on the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table next to the remote control that was now sitting there instead of on the floor. The windows were once again open, and a soft breeze blew in from the outside. My home smelled clean and it looked good. The cleaning crew had been great. I'd have to see if I could hire them out regularly.

I finished both beers, making the refrigerator even emptier than it had been. My stomach growled and I had nothing to eat. It was too early for Bonnie to arrive for dinner and I didn't have a car to go get anything to tide me over. I'd have to take care of that soon. It dawned on me that Bonnie had already thought about it. I smiled thinking I'd test that theory.

I checked the pantry. I had a few cans of green beans, peas, corn, and mixed vegetables. I was hungry and it was better than nothing. I struggled to use the can opener on a can of corn but after a few false-starts I was able to open the can and pour the contents into a pan. A little heat and some salt and pepper later and I was sitting alone on the couch, eating a can of corn for a belated lunch right out of the saucepan. I felt my mood darken at the reality of it.

I washed the two dishes and put them away.

I sat on the couch, flipping through the channels, not finding anything that held my attention, until Bonnie returned seven hour later.

*****

"So how are you getting along, George?" Bonnie asked the moment I invited her in.

I shrugged, holding up my twin casts. "Well enough."

"It'll get easier," she said sounding confident. "Are you hungry? I hope Thai is okay."

It was okay and it was good. I sat at the dining room table while Bonnie went through my cabinets. She found the plates and the silverware easily, as if she already knew what cabinet or drawer held what. Had she looked through them when she was here earlier? I didn't think so but seeing her move about my kitchen with such fluid ease made me doubt my memory. From where I sat it looked like she knew where everything belonged.

Bonnie opened the small Styrofoam containers and dished out a helping of pad Thai and a generous serving of Thai Basil chicken. Between the two items she set out a dollop of jasmine rice. My stomach was growling even louder than it had before I'd made my sad lunch of whole kernel corn.

Bonnie set the two plates down and then made two glasses of ice water. She took a seat and began to eat, watching me with her focused gaze. She was studying my movements, making sure that I was okay by myself. She watched as I lifted my right arm to my mouth, my elbow locked in place by the cast making it easy. The pad Thai was tasty, the Thai Basil delicious. My nose began to run. When I sniffled, Bonnie laughed.

"Maybe I should have gone mild," she said, "but I think it's better the spicier it is."

I took a sip of water, "I usually get Thai hot," I said.

She smiled, "me too but since I didn't know."

We continued to eat. We chatted about her job and when she asked about mine, I felt my cheeks flush. I wished I could blame it on the food, but I couldn't; it was a bout of shame that brought the color to my cheeks. "I'm between jobs," I admitted, I hefted my broken body parts, "and I guess it'll be a while till I look for another one."

"How are you doing for money?"

I didn't need to answer that question, did I? I had millions of dollars across multiple bank and investment accounts. Maybe she didn't realize it because I lived in a modest house, but I didn't need more. I didn't want a thirty-room mansion with a swimming pool and a pair of tennis courts. No, my simple three-bedroom, two-bath house with a built-in office was more than simple enough for me. "It's nothing to worry about." I said.

The same Fate or God or Universe that had caused my extended hospital stay spoke up again the moment I said that because at that moment the lights went out.

*****

When you don't pay your electric bill, they turn off the power. That was why my lights went out. We finished eating in the gloom and then I watched as Bonnie showed me exactly what she did and how good she was at it. She was on her phone and ten minutes after we finished eating my power was back on, my cable and cell phone bills were current. I surprised Bonnie when I admitted my house was paid in full. "That must be nice."

I shrugged.

Bonnie watched as I did the dishes. Finally, sitting on the couch, she asked again if I needed her to stay.

"No," I said. "I'm good."

She considered that. "Okay. How about we go shopping. Get you something for that refrigerator that you thought was a lost cause. I'll head home after that. You have my number; call me at any time."

"I do?" I couldn't recall Bonnie giving me her phone number.

Her head tilted, "You don't remember, do you?"

I shook my head.

"Nothing to worry about," she said, trying to put me at ease.

I felt the frown on my lips; I kept forgetting things. Had Bonnie given me her number? It was programmed into my phone, so she obviously had. When she'd skated through the kitchen, grabbing silverware and plates I knew without remembering that she'd peeked into my cabinets and drawers during our tour. What else was I forgetting? I felt frustrated just asking myself that question. How do you cope with not knowing what you've forgotten? If you forget something did you even know it in the first place? I let out a little groan.

Bonnie moved next to me on the couch. "George," she said, taking my hands. I could feel her tantalizing warm palms against my fingers. "Listen to me. Brain injuries like you had can be bad. Real bad, but like I said, the brain is an amazing thing. Here, let me show you something." She got up and grabbed her purse before returning to the couch. She reached inside and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. I watched as she drew a triangle. Inside the triangle, taking up three vertical lines she wrote a few words. She held it up, "what does this read?"

I looked. The word "Paris" was written on the first line. "Paris in the spring," I said.

She smiled. "Try again."

I studied her drawing. Paris was alone on the first line, at the narrowest part of the triangle. The next line down held the words "in" and "the." I said it again, "Paris in the spring."

"Strike two."

The bottom line, written on the fattest part of the triangle held the words "the" and "spring." Once again, I read it aloud, "Paris in the spring."

"Strike three. But you're proving my point. Read it aloud, one line at a time. Slowly."

"Paris," I read the first line. "In the," I said, reading the middle line. "Shit," I said, feeling stupid. "The is listed twice."

She was still smiling, "And the brain got rid of the extra word. It knew it wasn't needed. You'll be fine, George. Scouts honor."

"Were you a scout?"

"Nope," she stuck out her tongue.

I glanced at her little drawing again. She said the brain knew to discard the extra word. I thought the brain could be tricked. Still, the brain was an amazing organ and she was the expert. At least I thought so when I hired her even if I couldn't remember doing so.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get you some groceries. Tomorrow we'll have to see about getting you a rental car until we can make your insurance claim." I guess she had thought about it after all. She got up, glancing around my spotless house, "They did a good job, didn't they?"

They had and I admitted as much. Bonnie was all smiles. "Told ya!"

She watched as I locked up the house. An hour later, the groceries put away, Bonnie wished me a good night, reminding me once again to call if I had any problems.

"I will. I promise."

"Good. Goodnight, George."

"Night."

And then she was gone.

Chapter 3

"I'm afraid you have the wrong number," the man told me on the phone. I verified that I dialed the correct number, but my mother didn't answer the phone. Instead, some stranger, sounding indignant that I had called so early, informed me that I'd dialed incorrectly. "Thanks," I said. I disconnected the call. Had my mother changed her number without telling me? That didn't sound like her. After three consecutive tries of using the number saved to my cell phone, and getting the same bitter man, I finally deleted the number from my mother's contact knowing I'd amend it later.

Dialing my father's number, I heard an electronic voice tell me that the number had been disconnected. That didn't seem right. How could both my mother and my father have their phone numbers either changed or disconnected? I was suddenly worried about them. I made plans to drive to lower Alabama to visit them once work let out on Friday. I deleted that contact as well.

I glanced at the clock, "shit." I was going to be late. I slipped on my jacket and raced to my car. I had a new Chevy; it was the only thing good about the accident. Bonnie had gone car shopping with me, surprised when I insisted- we'd buy a new one instead of getting a rental. I think we test drove about two dozen cars before I settled on a new Silverado the cobalt blue color of the deep ocean. The seats were both heated and cooled. I paid for it with a credit card making Bonnie roll her eyes and smile as if to scold me and cheer my success simultaneously.

I drove to work, crooning with Dolly Parton about a coat of many colors. Dolly was replaced by Faith Hill who was followed by her husband Tim. Tim and I sang about a heart not forgetting something like that. I arrived at the six-story building where I worked and parked in the back, far away from the other cars. I didn't want to park my new car near anybody else knowing they'd carelessly open their doors and ding my new paint job. It still had the new-car smell and the new-car shine, and I wanted to keep it that way as long as I could.

I walked into the office, waving to the people I knew and frowning at the new faces. There must be a lot of extra work coming, I thought, seeing all the fresh faces. The people I knew were looking at me with surprise or shock or amazement. Not a single face watching me gave me a smile. I found that odd.

Even odder was the strange woman sitting at my desk. She looked up at me, "can I help you, sir?"

I looked amongst the cubicles, confirming that I hadn't miscounted. The large room held about forty cubicles and mine was the fourth one down and sixth one in. I could hear the chittering of fingers dancing on keys; I could hear people talking into the phone and I could hear the anger in this strange girl's voice. "I think you're at my desk," I said. I began to smile but the look she gave me caused it to fade away.

She held my gaze, her lips taut, "No, sir, I'm not." She would be pretty if she wasn't wearing a sneer.

I heard a voice behind me, "George, what are you doing here?"

I left the pretty girl with the ugly glare and turned to Mister Howser. He was standing at the door to his office with his hands on his hips. He was shaking his head. "I'm sorry I'm late, sir."

His lips quavered slightly and then he stepped into his office, "Come in here, George."

"You're at my desk," I scolded miss angry face before making my way to my boss' office.

"George, is there someone I can call for you?"

I couldn't think of anyone or why he had even asked. "No, sir." I stood by his desk, looking at him and the clutter. On the carpet I could see the end of an ink pen. Blue ink. A perfectly formed circle made of coffee stained the calendar on his desk. Outside the office I could still hear the chattering of fingers dancing across a keyboard, I could still hear an occasional phone ring. It all seemed so loud.

He took his seat at his desk and bid me to do the same. "Are you okay?"

Where were these questions coming from? "Just wanting to get to work. I am sorry I was late, but I was trying to reach my parents. They're not answering their phones; my dad's has been disconnected. It's kind of weird." The questions Mister Howser was asking were just as strange.

"George, you don't work here anymore. You haven't for over a month."

He said it with such certainty but for the life of me I couldn't imagine why he'd say something like that even if he was trying to be funny. "Very funny," I said, knowing it had to be a joke. Sure, my job was easy, and I was just going through the motions, but still, the look on his face. It was full of pity more than anything else. "What do you mean, 'a month?'"

"Take a seat, George."

This time I sat.

"George, you were fired a month ago. Don't you remember?"

I opened my mouth to speak then shook my head. "No."

Mister Howser told me about that Friday a month before and how I'd been replaced. The surly woman hadn't been sitting at my desk. She was sitting at hers. "I'm sorry, George. Truly I am. Do you have anyone that can help you?"

I stammered out Bonnie's name. He waited, expecting more. Finally, "I'll call her."

I left the building, trying to absorb the news that I'd previously come to terms with. The wound was fresh. What bothered me, more than anything, was how I still couldn't recall being fired. That memory wasn't there, it was lost to the cosmos. That had me worried. I thought maybe I needed a doctor. Was I developing early onset dementia? Or was I suffering some lingering complication from my coma. Both thoughts made me tremble.

Bonnie answered on the third ring. She could hear right away that something wasn't right. She asked me what was wrong, and I could hear the compassion in her voice.

"I got fired over a month ago."

"I know," she said. "We've talked about it."

"Then why did I go to work today?"

It was the first time I heard Bonnie cuss. "Shit. Where are you now?"

"Sitting in my car, staring up at the building where I used to work."

"Stay there. I'm on my way."

I sat there, staring at the place I no longer belonged. I struggled to recall getting fired but the memory wouldn't come. I could almost see myself going to work the day before. Getting up, taking a shower, grabbing a McGriddle at the golden arches on the way into work. If I'd been fired a month earlier than why did I remember going to work the day before? Something was wrong. My brain was scrambled. Hadn't Bonnie and I talked about that? Was that yesterday or never and why were the two suddenly acting the same?

On the radio Lee Greenwood crooned about God blessing the USA. The lakes of Minnesota sounded far better than the outskirts of Atlanta where I was currently living. Maybe I needed a change of scenery. Lake Lanier was lovely, and felt even better in the heat of summer, but it wasn't feeling like home. Nothing was feeling right. And why had my parents changed their phone numbers without telling me. That made as much sense as going to work at a place you no longer worked.

Bonnie pulled up next to me. She got out of her car, a sporty little grey Nissan, and raced to my side. I opened the door for her. She looked a tad disheveled; her bi-colored hair, normally finely coiffed was mussed and it appeared that she wasn't wearing makeup. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"I think I should be asking you that."

I guess she had. "I don't know." Then, more honest, "no."

"Okay. Come on," she held out a hand, "let's get you home."

I started to protest, telling her that I could drive but she wouldn't let me. The timbre of her voice told me that she wasn't going to let me drive and that she was worried. Very worried if I had to put her tone to words. "Don't worry. I'll have someone bring your truck home."

I knew Bonnie well enough that if she said she'd have something done then it would be done. "Okay." I got out of the car and ten minutes later I was sitting in my living room with Bonnie sitting opposite me. She was talking on her cell phone.

She shushed me when I started to ask her a question. Finally, ending her call, she turned to give me her unwavering gaze. She was studying me. "Tell me what happened."

I told her about the strangeness of my parents not answering their phones. I told her about my altercation with miss crabby pants over why she was sitting at my desk. "Only it wasn't my desk. Not anymore."

"No. It wasn't."

It stung me then as much as it had a month earlier. I'd somehow been fired twice from the same job. Could things get much worse than that? As it turned out the answer to that was yes.

Bonnie and I chatted for about twenty minutes when there was a knock on my door. Bonnie got up to answer it, leaving me sitting befuddled and shamed on the couch. My memory was playing tricks on me; a side-effect of the trauma my brain took. How many more lapses of memory was I going to have to endure and what did it mean for my future?

"George, this is Doctor Gloria Helene. She's here to give you an examination."

"A doctor that makes house calls? I didn't know those still existed."

Doctor Helene was as skinny as spaghetti with straight black hair and thick, iron bound glasses. She was wearing a dark blue suit with a white blouse. A butterfly broach was sitting on her left breast, shining blue and green, yellow and red, in the early morning light. "Most don't," she confirmed. She gave me a soft smile, "but Bonnie's a friend of mine."

Gloria gave me a physical, probing my neck, looking into my eyes with some bright light on a silver post, all the while talking about my memory. She asked me to remember a short list of nouns and ten minutes later I was able to repeat the list back verbatim. The smile Doctor Helene gave me was genuine. "These lapses of memory, George," she began, "can happen. Do happen. It's nothing to be overly concerned about. I need to get you in for an MRI, however..." When I started to speak, she held up a well-manicured hand, "it's just a precaution. Bonnie will set it up."

Bonnie gave a nod. She didn't miss much.

"Good." Doctor Helene handed me her business card. On the back was a handwritten URL. "That website," she said, pointed to her own writing, "has some great memory exercises I want you to do."