A Slow Burn

Written by Jordan Nishkian

You feel that the street Sophie is driving you down should be familiar; and little things are, like the faded posters in the dry cleaner window and the pastel awnings of the gelato shop.

After getting into her car at the hospital parking structure, Sophie told you that you’ve been living in the city for almost five years—one year on Fourth Street and the rest at the apartment she’s taking you to now. While she told you this, she studied you and your movements, relieved when you slipped your arm under the seat belt and buckled in.

Most of the thirty-minute ride has been quiet, punctuated only by Sophie’s occasional sniffling and the rattle in her AC vent. You want to ask her so much, but the questions crowd and bottleneck at your teeth, barricading themselves and burrowing into your tongue.

“Are you doing okay?” she asks while slowing at a yellow light she could have made.

“I think so,” you answer, but her eyes remain on the busy intersection.

The only sound comes from the clicking of her blinker. You take inventory: Sophie’s coat sleeves have ridden up her wrists, bearing a small star tattoo on her left. She picks at her indigo nail polish and at the plastic Honda emblem on her steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, you see the backpack that she called your “go bag” and two large plastic bags of rumpled clothes on the back seat.

In the same mirror, you catch the swollen, butterfly-bandaged gash on your cheek. The bruise had radiated closer to your eye, which you first discovered in the hospital bathroom when you were finally able to wash off the streaky, stubborn remnants of eyeliner.

You glance over to Sophie’s tired face; she’s been kind, but sad. You’d probably be sad too if you had a better grasp of things.

The light changes to green and she turns onto your street, rolling by scenes that start to scratch at the tough, sticky scabs of your memory. It’s a residential street, probably one that used to be a really nice part of town before people had to put up chain-link fences and orange cones in potholes. Some painted stucco exteriors of the Spanish revival styles echo the bright, original colors of the neighborhood, but most have opted for fresher, neutral topcoats, accented by contrasting woodwork and various foliage. It’s eclectic but comfortable.

“Don’t pick, you’ll leave a scar,” Sophie says. You remove your fingers from your cheek and avert your attention to the small apartment building she’s parked across from. “We’re here.”

Sophie twists and leans into the backseat, and you follow suit. She grabs the backpack, leaving the two plastic bags of clothing for you. In one of them, you see a flannel shirt, dark jeans, and a tank top that looks like it’s been cut open. Resting in the seam of the bag is a cracked cell phone with a green case. The sleeve of a light grey sweatshirt in the other bag catches your eye. You think it’s your favorite, but the blotches of dried blood won’t ever come out.

“Hey, Ari,” Sophie’s gentle voice snaps your gaze back to her, “you don’t have to carry those in. I can take care of them for you.”

“I feel like this is important.”

She nods. “Well, there are important things in there. Probably should get rid of the clothes. But, really, I can go through them, wash up the things worth keeping, and give them back to you.”

You see her eyes start to well up.

“No, that’s okay. I can take care of it.”

She nods again and steps out onto the asphalt, swinging the backpack over her shoulder. You take the bags and close your door in time with hers, then follow her across the street to a worn walkway. The apartment building is an unfortunate shade of gold with red clay shingles and two unruly pillars of sweet-smelling jasmine at the entryway, but it looks like it has good bones.

A man with an unkempt beard waves at you from the third story balcony, and you wave back.

“I don’t know his name,” you whisper.

“That’s alright,” Sophie answers, “I don’t think you ever did.”

The two of you continue up the pathway and pause at a tall black gate with a keypad. Sophie asks if you remember the code.

You stare at the numbers, trying to piece together a possible pattern from the buttons that are the most worn down. Instinctively, you snake your hand through one of the bars to pull the handle on the opposite side.

The door swings open and you look over. “Was that okay?”

“That was perfect,” she responds, rubbing your back a little.

“Thanks,” you say, disconnecting from her hand to take a look around the foyer. “Do you think I can try leading the way through here?”

“Of course.” She retracts her arm, leaving you room to look around. It’s a simple layout, with a staircase on your left side, mailboxes to your right, and a modest, open-air courtyard straight ahead with a quiet, trickling fountain and a few more pillars of jasmine.

The sound of your footsteps bounces off the surrounding apartment walls, and you study the personalities of each door. Number 3 dons a faux-flower wreath with blue and purple daisies, Number 6 has a doormat with a flourishing “Hello,” and Number 8, the door your feet have taken you to, features a small yellow frame around the peephole, like that one show.

“Do I like this show?”

“It’s Ash’s favorite—” Sophie’s breath catches, “was.”

Another silence is filled only by her ragged, stifled sniffling.

You feel like you should comfort her, but your bones don’t move. They’re paralyzed by the looks of betrayal and abandonment riddling her face, whether she meant them or not. All your body will let you do is turn away from her and face the door.

On instinct, you pat down your body, seeking your keys. You look at Sophie, then at the plastic bags you’ve tucked under your arm.

“I have a spare.” The words rush out of her mouth as she fumbles with her crowded keyring.

“Thanks,” you respond, letting her pass you. The mix of powder fresh deodorant and coconut shampoo prods at your memory.

You remember Sophie telling you at the hospital that she’s a friend. You also remember overhearing a conversation between her and the doctor before they noticed that you woke up. Apparently, she’s the closest thing you have to a family. You learned that you were in a car accident, that you were unconscious for two days, and that someone named Ash was pronounced dead shortly after arrival.

The only thing worse than hearing all this was not understanding it. And the only thing worse than that was watching Sophie lean close to you and hold your hand—transforming from a relieved, damp-eyed friend to a confused, pale stranger.

The lock to your apartment door turns and she looks over her shoulder to you. “Ready?”

You nod, trying to push aside the heavy thought that all of this should feel like more.

The door opens, creaking after it swings halfway. This could be familiar. The doctor said to be mindful of triggering sounds, smells, and involuntary responses. So far, the only thing out of the ordinary is your absence of memory regarding people—but you’re getting a sense from Sophie that there weren’t too many people in your life to begin with.

You had hoped that the smell of your apartment would bring back a rush of memories; that your eyes would flood and you would be able to feel something other than disappointment and confusion. But, after years of living here and only being gone for a few days, you must be too used to the smell of the walls, the collection of dark-wicked candles, and the pile of clean laundry on the couch, still waiting to be folded.

After setting down the plastic bags and taking a few tentative steps, Sophie files in behind you, letting the backpack drop softly onto the floor. You feel her hopeful eyes at the nape of your neck. Even though her back is pressed against the door frame—presumably in an effort to give you space—you can’t help but feel smothered.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

Mouth tight, you begin to wander the room. It looks like it’s a one-bed one-bath apartment with an ample living room and a small kitchen. The sad taupe carpet is covered at the foot of an orange velveteen couch by a vintage Berber rug. You recognize it as a Morrocan wedding rug, along with the vague memory of buying it out of a small pink building in Palm Springs. All of the furniture looks like it’s been thrifted—even the mid-mod media console that’s been filled with DVDs of black and white classics. You scrutinize over titles like Casablanca and The Philadelphia Story. Is that what you liked?

The coffee table, fashioned to look like an antique luggage chest, seems to be the hub of daily life in the apartment. An open laptop, a notebook, and an uncapped pen lay haphazardly on the top. On one of the chest’s mismatched coasters is a glass with the pink, sticky residue of lip gloss circling the rim. It still has some water in it.

Maybe it’s not Sophie. Something about this space feels like a heavy, damp blanket you can’t kick off.

“Do you know why we were out?” you ask.

Sophie shakes her head. “Maybe just dinner? It only happened a couple of miles away.”

“Were we hit?”

“T-boned. They think the guy ran the stoplight.” Sophie fades into a distant, fixated lull.

“Is he okay?”

She blinks. “Who?”

“The guy.”

“I don’t know. I think he died, too.”

You turn to a corner with a tall bookshelf topped with a trailing ivy plant. Eyes scanning the shelves, the collection of bindings feels close to you. You recognize your favorites, and which of them you still needed to read. The Japanese word tsundoku, collecting unread literature, comes to mind. You glance at the ivy plant that trickles halfway down the bookcase. It seems underwatered, probably because you’ve been gone. You touch a leaf between your thumb and forefinger: soft, wrinkled, curling in at the edges.

“Sorry I didn’t take care of your plant,” Sophie says from across the room. “There were so many other things—”

“It’s really okay.” You look back at her. She seems halfway present from when she was in the car with you. Her dyed red hair is greasy at the roots, and specks of mascara have collected in the fine lines under her eyes. “I’m sure you’ve done more than enough. And I know I’m probably not showing it well right now, but I really appreciate it, Sophie.”

Her face bears a sad, forced smile.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Sophia.”

Another moment of emptiness. Your tongue tries to juggle the right words. “I’m really sorry, Sophia—”

“It’s fine,” she says, holding up her hand. “It’s an easy mistake. I understand.”

You nod and turn away from her, grappling your attention onto a collage of framed photos scattered throughout the room. Most of the photographs that mottle the beige walls are of you and, you’re assuming, Ash. Again, the array of brass frames look to be collected from second-hand stores. The two of you are smiling, hugging, kissing in all of them, from laughing in front of the Eiffel Tower to you proposing at the Grand Canyon.

Your focus darts to your unadorned finger, then to Sophia, whose red, welling eyes are already on you. “We were getting married?”

“Yeah, that was a little over a year ago. I took the photo.”

“Did we have a date?”

“Um, yes, but I think you were planning on eloping, actually,” she answers, and you hear her voice catching. “I saw two tickets to Ibiza on the fridge. The flight’s for tomorrow—I’m sorry.”

A nail-bitten hand covers her gaping mouth in an attempt to stifle a long, excruciating wail. The other hand joins at her face as she tucks her chin into her chest, curving her spine and shriveling into a shuddering, shrinking ball.

The sounds of her sadness echo inside of you and a slow burn builds in your throat. A strange chill pricks across your skin and forces you to move toward her, hand outstretched like approaching a timid stray. You’re pained by how unnatural you look, how empty you feel.

Your hand makes it to her shoulder, but you feel your elbow stiffen, keeping her body at arm’s length from yours. Is this how you’ve always been?

At first, her cries become louder, with longer gaps of airlessness between them, but soon, her hand, wet and smudged with mascara, grips the top of yours. Within her next breath, she’s wrapped around you, letting her tears pool into your collarbone. You feel her open mouth, hot air sucking in and bellowing out of it. Wincing from her body pressing into your bruised ribs, your arms hover out to the side, and as they float, you take another look around the room, leaping from photo to photo. A close-up of your hands intertwined, one of you carrying Ash on your back: in every one, you’re holding each other. You must be capable of this.

You lower your arms and place your hands on Sophia’s back, smoothing out her tangled hair over her jacket.

“I miss her so much,” she whispers into your chest.

“I know.”

“You would too if you remembered.” She squeezes you tighter. “You loved her so much. She was your everything.”

You swallow the growing lump, and Sophia pushes you back, hands on your shoulders, so she can look at you. Her eyes, face, and hair are all the same color now, and the tears have washed away any remaining foundation she may have had on. “You’ll get her back, I know you will.”

“Yeah” is all you can manage.

She takes away her hands to wipe her face with her sleeves.

“Do you want to use the bathroom?” you ask. “I’m sure there are tissues and stuff—”

“No, no, I’m okay. I actually have to get back home to feed Rufus and let him out,” she explains, beginning to get her voice back to normal. “But I can come back later if you want.”

“Thanks, but I’m alright here. I think I need some time alone to process it all, you know?”

She nods, curving her mouth into a small smile. “I’ll come by tomorrow to check on you.”

“Sounds good.”

“Okay, let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do,” you answer, feigning a smile in return. “Thank you again.”

She turns and lets herself out, and you can see her hesitate before letting the latch close fully. It does, but you wait to hear her shoes clop away from your apartment before turning the locks.

Tipping your head back onto the door, you breathe in the new silence. Your refrigerator hums and fills the space with white noise, and the only interruptions are an occasional, muffled sentence from your neighbors.

You open your eyes and make your way to the back of the couch, lifting the tear-stained t-shirt off of your body. You shuffle through the pile of laundry for a burgundy pullover you like and slip into it. It’s roomy, comfortable, and barely hurts when it tugs at the bandages on your swollen cheekbone.

When you brush the hair out of your face, you find yourself looking into a mirror near the center of the wall. The face staring back scares you—not because you’ve forgotten what you look like or because of the cuts and bruises—but because it’s unrecognizable from the face inside the frames.

On the periphery of your reflection hangs a photo of you with your arms around Ash’s shoulders, kissing her cheek, both of your eyes closed and happy. Sophia’s words tug at the front of your mind.

Your arm lifts and your fingers begin to reach for her image, greeted only by the cold touch of glass.

You study her face for a moment longer before your feet begin to move, carrying you to the refrigerator to remove a printed-out ticket from beneath a kitchen magnet.