I roll it into the ground, but I don’t start filling in the hole right away. I just stand there, staring down at it. It helps if I imagine that this thing I’m burying is all of the shit that’s inside of me. I’m a firm believer that if you want to reach self-actualization or enlightenment, or whatever that really good place is called, you have to kill a part of yourself.
It’s kind of like that scene in The Empire Strikes Back when Luke Skywalker is visiting the little green guy, and he goes down in that hole in the ground and fights the guy in the black cape. Well, after Luke kills him with his light sword, he looks down into the black mask and sees his own face. It’s like he had to kill a part of himself to become a better human being.
That’s similar to what I’m doing here. It’s very metaphorical.
Chapter 25
phones Brad ~ swigs vodka ~ mulls over his amnesia and the impending automobile accident ~ into the ravine
I almost forget to call Brad. It’s not that he’s an essential component of what I’m getting ready to do, but it may expedite my rescue if someone misses me.
So I call him up, and he doesn’t even say hello or anything.
Just answers, “Where in the hell have you been?”
“I had a late night.”
“Another late night?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been calling you all morning, and it’s two o’clock now. You still want to get some work done today?”
“That’s why I’m calling you.”
“Are you fucked up?”
“No, of course—”
“’Cause don’t even come to my house if you are. I’m not in the mood to fuck around. We have real work to do. I talked to Tom yesterday, and he’s ready to see it. Like next week.”
“All right. I’m on my way. See you in five.”
Brad hangs up.
On my way out, I stop by the bar and open another bottle of vodka. I take four big swallows and head for the door, eyes watering.
The vodka kicks as I tear down Laurel Canyon. I’m feeling so happy about everything, and it’s not just the alcohol. I told you about how I’d been forgetting things lately. For instance, a few minutes earlier, when Brad mentioned that “Tom was ready to see it,” I had no idea what he was talking about. I don’t know Tom from Adam. And apparently, Brad and I are writing a screenplay, but I couldn’t tell you what it was about. And at Rich’s party last night, I didn’t know anyone who seemed to know me. Even my childhood has become a fog. For instance, I know for a fact that I grew up in the mountains near Missoula, Montana, but I have these inexplicable memories of a small town in North Carolina.
Perhaps the most frightening aspect of my amnesia, is that I’m beginning to doubt my acting ability. I’m an Oscar winner. I have the statue to prove it. But if I’m forgetting things as rudimentary as where I was born and who my friends are, how can I be sure my acting hasn’t lapsed? And I’m supposed to read for the lead role in the new Harvey Wallison picture next week? You don’t walk into that situation wondering if you can act.
The top’s down on my Porsche, and the warm Pacific sun rains down through the trees.
I smell the forest all around me.
The ravine is just ahead, but instead of sailing on over, I bring my Porsche to a stop in the middle of the road, take a deep breath, and buckle my seatbelt.
My heart pounds.
It’s a steep descent into that ravine. I hear a car climbing the hill below, and it occurs to me that I should do it now.
Close my eyes.
Punch the gas.
When they find me, I’ll be bruised but intact.
Maybe a broken bone or two, a few cuts, a bump on the head.
I’ll lay down there until someone finds me. I hope it doesn’t take long. At least Brad is expecting me. That was exceptionally clever on my part.
The doctors will scan and probe and test and scan again, but they won’t find anything to explain my amnesia. They’ll be perplexed as to why I don’t remember a thing about this life, or any other.
But my condition will be accepted. I was in a car wreck. No one will question that. And everyone will fall all over themselves to teach me about my beautiful life.
The other car is close. Another ten seconds, and it will be too late.
I jam my foot into the gas and accelerate toward the edge.
Then I’m falling, flipping, trees and shrubs and sky rushing by, the windshield cracked, a life passing before my eyes that is not mine.
MONTANA
Chapter 26
the thawing lake ~ tea with Pam ~ reads his paper ~ debates whether to ask Pam about who he was ~ Montana sky
My nose itches, and the lake is still half-frozen. I heard the ice splintering again last night. The remnants of this past winter—the iced lake, the snowpack on the mountains—seem artificial on a morning like this, when the trees are budding and a sweater is sufficient to keep a body warm.
I hear Pam walking back through the grass. She sets a tray on the folding table beside me.
“My nose itches,” I say.
She rubs her index finger under my nose.
“Thank you.”
“I made tea for us.”
She fills our teacups.
The sun just reaches over that fin-like mountain at the other end of the lake.
“Did you bring my sunglasses?” I ask her.
“Sure did.”
She sets my cup of tea in front of me and puts on my shades.
I drink tea, even hot tea, through a long, skinny straw.
Pam sits down beside me in the grass with her cup.
They tell me she’s only my nurse, but she feels more like a sister. She doesn’t sport nurse clothing. She wears jeans and a wool sweater. She’s attractive.
“That man called again this morning,” she tells me, and I ask which man she’s referring to. I still have to be reminded of things a lot. That may never change.
“The man who called yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.”
“What does he want?”
“To see you.”
“What did you say his name was?”
“Bo Dunkquist.” From the way she says his name, I can tell that she’s had to answer that question several times.
I don’t know if I know him. I don’t know much of anything really. For instance, right now there’s a piece of paper in my pocket that tells me who I am and how I came to be this way, but I couldn’t tell you what’s written on that paper. And when I say “this way,” I mean paralyzed from the neck down and scarred from third-degree burns over seventy percent of my body. That I do remember. The scarring part especially. Sometimes, I forget that I can’t move, but I never forget what my face looks like, all smooth and hairless. I’m glad I don’t forget, because it’d be an awful thing to have to see for the first time, day after day after day.
But don’t feel sorry for me please. I’m not in any pain now, and I have no memories of when I was.
“I want to read my paper,” I say. This woman, whose name I’ve forgotten, reaches into my pocket, pulls it out, and unfolds it for me. It’s sort of funny—I remember that I have this paper, but I never remember what it says. You’d think if I could remember the one thing, I could remember the other.