But where?
In the past
Or present
Or the swirling haze
Of mist
And autumn days?
Distorted View
I’m different. I remember everything—every single moment of my life.
I’m not a savant, just a regular guy—except, I have total recall of each lived experience—the joy, the grief, the sublime, the ridiculous. I know every sordid detail and every sin of my miserable life, and yet, I’m haunted by the memory of one perfect fall afternoon spent with Abigail gathering leaves…
But ironically, she has no memory of that day.
“She doesn’t even know you exist, David—she’s oblivious.”
“I know,” I whisper, “I know…”
I’m staring at red Maple stars dancing heel and toe across the walk. Brett and I are sitting in The Grenadier restaurant in High Park, and I’m somewhere in between now and the day we gathered leaves.
Abigail Warren is haunting me.
“You need to put it to rest, Pal. She’s just your favourite fantasy—that’s all—nothing more. And it’s eating you up.”
“I hear you,” I mutter, and I really do. I appreciate Brett and what he must be going through, being friends with a morose and moody guy like me—it would tax the patience of a saint. Despite our friendship, it can’t be fun cheering up a melancholic drunk, ordering me coffee until I sober up and then dropping me back at my deserted flat.
What am I expecting? Nothing much. It’s not a video game you put on pause.
Life goes on, the afternoon runs its predictable course, and by six I’m back in my attic garret watching a storm roll in over the lake and musing about the twists and turns of capricious fate.
I know when it all began to come apart—November 3, 2009 to be precise—the day Abigail left for Florida without me.
“Why can’t you come with me, David? The cottage is on the beach and you can write most of the day and we’ll sip wine and watch the sunset each night.”
She was pleading with me in her little girl voice, the one that always makes me melt—and I was wavering—I honestly was, but I just landed a book deal with Faber & Collins, and had two meetings scheduled for the end of the week.
“You go,” I said hugging her, my thumb smudging and tracing a tear trail down her cheek—I’ll try and make it down on the weekend and maybe we can stay past the tenth—maybe even spend another week.
She smiled up at me, eyes still blurry and chin trembling, and put on a brave face and boarded the plane—but nothing between us was ever the same.
I didn’t make it for the three days promised, or for that other week—there were a dozen more planning sessions and meets and greets. By the time all the schmoozing was done, I won a contract for an even better deal and lost the only woman I ever loved.
It was during that week in Sarasota when Abigail met Yuri, a day trader on the Toronto Stock exchange, and he swept her off her feet.
Lauree, Brett’s girlfriend, is still friends with Abigail, so every now and then word filters back to me and I get the updates on how’s she’s been. I know she and Yuri have a penthouse condo somewhere in Toronto, and I also know she’s unhappy—I’m not surprised. It’s also the story of my life.
I suppose she thinks I’ve moved on, but I haven’t. I own a loft in the Flatiron Building and a Bentley in an underground parking space, but happiness is relative, and I’m nightly tormented by memories as I obsessively relive our past.
For most people, the past is a fragile membrane, soft as gossamer and at the mercy of whims—but not for me. I have a perfect recall of every hasty word, every foolish faux pas I ever made, and every careless moment I let her slip away.
Some go to bed to dream—not me. I lie down to be tortured with images of what used to be and can never be changed. You'd think having a highly superior autobiographical memory would enable you to hold onto cherished moments but with me it only exacerbates the pain as I experience my life slowly coming apart.