Push Your Limits: Don't Trust Anyone

Chapter 4 Chapter 2 Chris's Secret Diary: November 11

Monday, September 11
The clock had just struck four o'clock, and it was beginning to get dark.Ben isn't coming home yet, but I'm still listening to the sound of his car while I sit and write in my journal.The shoebox was on the floor at my feet, and the tissue paper that wrapped the journal fell out.If he comes home I'll put the log in the closet and tell him I've been resting.It's a lie, but it's not a huge lie, and there's nothing wrong with wanting to keep your logs private.I had to write down what I saw and learned.But that doesn't mean I want someone else - whoever it is - to read it.

Today I met with Dr. Nash.We sat facing each other with his desk between us.Behind him is a filing cabinet with a plastic model brain on top, cut down the middle and split like an orange.He asked how I was doing.

"Okay," I said, "I think." That's a tough question to answer—the few hours since waking up this morning are the only stretches of time I can clearly remember.I met my husband, as if for the first time, though I knew that wasn't true, and got a call from my doctor who told me about the diary.Then he picked me up after lunch and drove me to his clinic.

"I wrote the journal," I said, "after you called. Last Saturday."

He seemed very happy: "Do you think it's useful?"

"I think so," I said.I told him about the memories I remembered: the woman at the party, the moment I found out about my father's illness.I was talking while he was taking notes.

"Do you remember these things now?" he said, "Woke up this morning and remembered them?"

I hesitated.The truth is I don't remember, or only some of them.I read the Saturday Record this morning - about the breakfast I had with my husband and the trip to Capitol Hill.It felt as unreal as fiction and had nothing to do with me, and I found myself reading the same section over and over, trying to glue it in my head, patch it, and the whole process took me well over an hour time.

I read what Ben told me about how we met and got married and lived, but I didn't feel anything.But something else stayed.Like that woman—my friend.I don't remember the details - whether it was the fireworks party, or being on the roof with her, meeting someone named Keith - but the memory of her is still there, this morning as I read Saturday's record over and over , more details emerged.Her vibrant red hair, her preferred black clothes, her studded belt, her scarlet lipstick, and the way she smokes—as if that's the coolest thing in the world.I can't remember her name, but now I recall the night we met, in a scented room filled with whistles, pinball machine "boom booms" and jukebox tips thin voice.I asked her for a fire and she gave me a match before introducing herself and suggesting I join her and her friends.We drank vodka and beer, and when I vomited almost all of it out later, she grabbed my hair to keep it from going down the toilet. "I think we're definitely friends now!" she said, laughing as I managed to regain my footing. "I wouldn't do that for just anyone, you know?"

I thanked her, and as if to explain what I had just done, I told her that my father was dead. "Fucking..." she said, and instead of being drunk and dumb, she quickly became compassionate—a transformation she had demonstrated for the first time in front of me, and she had done many times since. ——she took me back to her room, we ate bread and drank black coffee, listened to records, and talked about our lives until dawn.

Her drawings were piled all over the walls and at the foot of the bed, and sketchbooks were scattered about the room. "You're an artist?" I said, and she nodded. "That's why I'm in college," she said.I remember her telling me she was studying art. "Of course I can only be a teacher in the end, but people have dreams. Right?" I smiled. "What about you? What do you study?" I told her that I study English. "Ah!" she said, "do you want to write fiction or teach?" She laughed, not unkindly, but I didn't mention the stories I was writing in my room before I came here. "Don't know." I said instead, "I guess I'm like you." She laughed again and said, "Well, toast!" We toasted coffee and I felt—for the first time in months —Things are finally getting better.

I thought about it all, exhausted searching that memory hole for any tiny detail that might trigger a memory.But what about the memories with my husband?They are gone.Those accounts didn't spark even a lingering spark of memory, as if not only the trip to Capitol Hill hadn't happened, but what he told me hadn't happened either.

"I remember some things," I said to Dr. Nash. "Things from my youth, I remembered them yesterday, and they are still there, and I can remember more details. But I don't remember anything about what we did yesterday." .I don’t remember what happened on Saturday. I could try to create a scene that I described in my diary, but I know it’s not a memory, I know it’s just my imagination.”

He nodded. "Do you remember anything from the day before yesterday? Do you remember any of the little details you wrote down? That night, for example?"

I remembered the scene I wrote down before going to bed.I realized that I felt guilty for not being able to respond to my husband despite his kindness and thoughtfulness. "No." I lied, "Nothing."

I don't know what else he would do to make me want to hold him in my arms and let him caress me?send flowers?chocolate?Does he need a romantic opening every time he wants to have sex, as if for the first time?I realized how closed the avenue of temptation was to him.There was no way he could even play the first dance we danced together at our wedding, or recreate the menu we ate on our first date out, because I don't remember.I was his wife in any case; he shouldn't have to seduce me when he wanted to have sex, as if we had just met for the first time.

But wasn't there a time when I agreed to his request and even wanted to have sex with him?Was there ever a time when I woke up with enough residual memories to support the desire, so I was willing?

"I don't even remember Ben," I said. "I had no idea who he was this morning."

He nodded: "Do you want to remember?"

I almost laughed. "Of course!" I said, "I want to remember my past. I want to know who I am and who I was married to. It's all the same thing—"

"Of course," he said.He paused, resting his elbows on the desk and covering his face with his hands, as if deliberating what to say or how to say it, "What you told me is very encouraging, it shows that the memory is not completely lost, the problem is not storage, but reading."

I thought for a moment, then said, "You mean my memories are there, I just don't have access to them?"

he laughed. "If you understand it that way," he said, "that's exactly what it is."

I was frustrated and anxious: "So what can I do to remember more?"

He leaned back, looking at the papers in front of him. "Last week," he said, "the day I gave you the journal, did you write down that I showed you a picture of your childhood home? I gave it to you, I think."

"Yes." I said, "I remember."

"After seeing that photo, you seem to remember a lot more than when I asked you where you lived before I didn't show you the photo." He paused. "There's nothing weird about that. But I want to see what happens if I give you pictures from a time period you don't remember. I want to see what you can recall."

I'm a bit hesitant, not sure where this path will lead, but it's certainly a path I have to take, with no other choice.

"Okay." I said.

"Okay! Let's just look at one photo today." He took out a photo from the back of the file, walked around the desk and sat beside me, "Before looking at the photo, do you remember anything about your wedding?"

I already knew there was nothing there.As far as I'm concerned, my marriage to the man I woke up sleeping next to this morning never happened at all.

"No." I said, "No."

"Are you sure?"

I nod. "Yes."

He put the photo on the desk in front of me. "You were married here," he said, tapping it with his fingers.It was a church, small and exquisite, with a low roof and a small steeple.Totally unfamiliar.

"What do you remember?"

I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind.Saw water.my friend.A tiled floor, black and white.Nothing else.

"No. I don't recall ever seeing it."

He looked a little disappointed: "Are you sure?"

I closed my eyes again.dark.I tried to think back to my wedding day, to imagine Ben and I, one in a suit and the other in a wedding dress, standing on the grass in front of the church, but nothing happened.no memory.Sadness welled up in my heart.Like all brides, I must have spent weeks planning my wedding, choosing my gown, anxiously waiting for my size to be adjusted, finding my hairstylist, and thinking about my makeup.I imagined myself agonizing over the menu, picking out chants and flowers, all the while hoping that the day would live up to my insanely high expectations.But now I have no way of knowing whether it met my expectations.It was taken away, every trace wiped clean.Nothing remained but the man I married.

"No," I said, "nothing."

He took the photo. "According to the records of your early treatment, you were married in Manchester," he said. "The church is called St. I think it looks pretty much the same now as it did then."

"We don't have photos of the wedding," I said.This sentence is both a question and a statement of fact.

"Yes, lost. Apparently lost in your house fire."

I nod.Hearing him say it seemed to lend credence to it, to make it more real, as if his status as a doctor gave his words more authority than my husband's.

"When did I get married?" I asked.

"Mid-80s."

"Before my accident—" I said.

Dr. Nash looked uncomfortable.I don't know if I ever talked to him about the accident that made me lose my memory.

"Do you know what caused your amnesia?" he said.

"Yes," I said, "I talked to Ben the other day. He told me everything, and I wrote it down in the journal."

He nodded: "How do you feel?"

"I don't know," I said.The truth is I don't remember the accident, so it doesn't seem real.All I have is what it left behind, what it made of me. "I feel like I should hate the person who did this to me," I said, "especially because they haven't been caught yet, punished for making me like this, and paying for ruining my life The price. The weird thing is I don't hate, really. I can't. I can't imagine them, like they don't even exist."

He showed a disappointed expression. "Is that what you think?" he said, "Your life is ruined?"

"Yes." I said after a while, "Yes. That's what I thought." He was silent. "Isn't it?"

I don't know what I expect him to do or say.I guess I kind of wanted him to tell me how wrong I was, to try and convince me my life was worthwhile.But he didn't, he just stared straight at me.I noticed how amazing his eyes were.Blue with gray spots.

"I'm sorry, Chrissy," he said, "I'm sorry. But I'm doing my best, and I think I can help you, really. You have to believe that."

"Yes," I said, "I believe."

He put his hand on mine, on the desk between us.It feels heavy and warm.He squeezed my fingers, and for a second I was embarrassed, for him and for myself, but then I looked at his face and saw the sad expression, and realized that his action was a young The man is comforting an older woman, that's all.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I have to go to the bathroom."

When I got back he had already made the coffee, and we sat on either side of the table sipping our drinks.He didn't seem to want to meet my gaze, instead he turned over the papers on the table and stacked them awkwardly.At first I thought he was embarrassed about squeezing my hand, but then he looked up and said, "Chris. I want to ask you something. Two things, actually." I nodded. "First, I've decided to write about your case. It's very unusual in the field, and I thought it would be really beneficial to make the details of your case known to more people in the medical community. Would you mind?"

I look at the random piles of periodicals on my office bookshelf.Is this how he intends to advance his career, or make it more secure?That's why I'm here?For a moment I thought about telling him I wish he didn't have my story, but in the end I just shook my head and said, "Nevermind. No problem."

He smiled. "Okay, thank you. Now, I have a question. It's more like an idea, something I want to try. Do you mind?"

"What are you going to do?" I said, feeling a little nervous, but finally relieved: he was finally going to tell me what he thought.

"Well," he said, "according to your file, you and Ben continued to live together in the house you shared with someone in east London after you married." He paused.At this time, someone's voice came out of nowhere, and that person must be my mother.Living in sin—she made a tut-tsk and shook her head, which said all she hadn't said. "And then about a year later, you moved. You stayed there almost until you were admitted to the hospital." He paused. "This house is very close to where you live now." I began to understand the proposal he was hinting at . "I think we can start now and have a look on the way home. What do you think?"

what do i think?I have no idea.This is almost an unanswerable question.I know it's a smart move, and it might help me in ways that are hard to pin down and neither of us can understand right now, but I'm still a bit reluctant.It was as if my past had suddenly become dangerous, and it might be foolish to visit such a place.

"I don't know," I said.

"You lived there for years," he said.

"I know, but—"

"We can just go and see, not necessarily go in."

"Go in?" I said, "how—?"

"Here it is," he said. "I wrote to the couple who live there now. We spoke on the phone and they said they would be happy to let you look around if they could help."

I was taken aback: "Really?"

He looks away slightly—quickly, but enough to show that it's embarrassing.I wonder if he's hiding something. "Yes," he went on, "I don't bother with all my patients." I said nothing.He smiled. "I really think this might help, Chrissy."

What else can I do?
On the way to the house I had intended to keep a journal, but the journey was not long, and I had hardly finished reading the last entry when we stopped outside a house.I closed the journal and looked up.The house was much like the one we drove out of this morning—I had to remind myself that I was living there—with red brick and painted wood, the same oriel windows and manicured gardens.If anything, the house looks bigger and a window in the roof means it has an attic - my current home doesn't have one.I can't understand why we would leave this house and move to an almost identical house just a few miles away.After a while I reacted: memory.Memories of the good times, the days before my accident, when we lived happily ever after.Could have kept those memories, even if I couldn't.

Suddenly I was sure that this house would reveal something to me about my past.

"I want to go in," I said.

I stopped writing.I want to jot down the rest, but it's very important - too important to be rushed - and Ben will be home soon.He was running later than usual, and it was dark now, and the street echoed with the sound of people closing their doors when they got home from get off work.The cars were moving slowly outside the house—soon there would be Ben's car in the middle, and he would be coming home.I'd better stop writing now and put the journal away and hide it in the closet.

I will continue to write later.

*****
I was closing the lid of the shoebox when I heard Ben's key turn in the lock.He called my name when he came in, and I told him I'd be down soon, though I didn't have to hide at all that I was hiding something in the closet.I closed the closet door softly and went downstairs to meet my husband.

The whole evening passed very loosely.The journal calls me inwardly.During dinner I wondered if I could write in a journal before I put away, and when I was clearing the dishes I wondered if I should fake a headache so I could journal after I finished my chores.But when I was done tidying up in the kitchen, Ben said he had something to do and walked into his office.I sighed, relieved, and told him I'd go to bed.

I am here now.I can hear Ben - he's pounding away on the keyboard - and I admit it's reassuring.I've read the diary I wrote before Ben went home, and I can recall this afternoon again: standing outside a house I once lived in.I can start remembering my story.

It happened in the kitchen.

A woman—Amanda—opened the door after a buzzing buzz and shook Dr. Nash's hand in welcome. I was greeted with a look of pity and curiosity. "You must be Chrissy," she said, tilting her head and holding out a hand with manicured nails. "Come in!"

She closed the door after we entered the house.She is wearing a beige shirt and gold jewelry.She introduced herself and said, "You guys stay as long as you want, as long as you need, okay?"

I nodded and looked around.We are standing in a bright, carpeted hallway.Sunlight streamed in through the glass windows, illuminating a vase of red tulips on the long table.No one spoke for a long time, which made people feel a little uncomfortable. "It's a nice house," Amanda said finally, and for a moment it seemed to me that Dr. Nash and I were the tenants coming to see the house, and she was a real estate agent eager to close a deal. "We bought it 10 years ago. We like it very much. The house is very bright. Do you want to go into the living room?"

We followed her into the living room.The hall has a lot of space and good taste.I felt nothing, not even vague familiarity; what was in front of me could be any room in any house in any city.

"Thank you for letting us have a look," said Dr. Nash.

"Oh, that's nothing!" she said with a strange nasal sound.I pictured her riding a horse or arranging flowers.

"Have you done a lot of renovations since you've been here?" he said.

"Oh, there are some," she said. "You can see that?"

I look around at the polished floors and white walls, beige sofas, modern art paintings hanging on the walls.I thought of the house I left this morning; it was a very different house from the one before me.

"Do you remember when you first moved in?" Dr. Nash said.

She sighed. "I'm afraid I don't remember exactly. There was carpet, I think it was the color of biscuits. And the wallpaper. It seemed to have stripes, if I remember correctly." I tried to follow her. The way I imagined the room: nothing. "We also filled out a fireplace. Now I wish we hadn't done that, it was unique."

"Kriss?" Dr. Nash said, "Remember anything?" I shook my head. "Can we look around the house?"

We went upstairs and there were two bedrooms upstairs. “Giles works from home a lot,” she said as we walked into a bedroom at the front of the house.The room is dominated by a desk, some filing cabinets and books. "I think the previous owners must have used this as their bedroom." She looked at me, but I didn't speak. "This one is bigger than the other one, but Giles can't sleep here, it's too noisy from the street." There was a silence in the room. "He's an architect." I still didn't say anything. "It's a coincidence," she went on, "because the guy who sold us the house was also an architect. We met him when we were looking at the house. They had a great time. I think that's the connection we let him A few thousand yuan down." There was another silence.I wonder if she waits for people to congratulate her. "Gills is preparing to open up on her own."

An architect, I think.Not a teacher, like Ben.It is impossible for him to resell to this family.I tried to imagine another way for the room: a bed instead of a glass-topped desk, and rugs and wallpaper instead of striped panels and white walls.

Dr. Nash turned to me: "Do you remember anything?"

I shook my head: "No. Nothing, I don't remember anything."

We looked at another bedroom, bathroom.I couldn't think of anything, so we went downstairs to the kitchen. "Are you sure you don't want a cup of tea?" Amanda said. "It's no trouble at all. It's ready."

"No, thank you," I said.The room was harsh and angular.The kitchen components are white metallic chrome and the work surface appears to be cast from concrete.A bowl of limes became the only color in the room. "I think we'll be saying goodbye soon," I said.

"Of course," Amanda said.Her liveliness seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a look of disappointment.I felt guilty; she clearly hoped that a visit to her home would miraculously cure me. "Can I have a glass of water?" I said.

She immediately cheered up. "Of course!" she said, "Let me get you a glass!" She handed me a glass of water, and just then, taking it from her, I saw it.

Both Amanda and Dr. Nash disappeared.I am alone.On the countertop I saw a fish, not yet cooked, glistening wet, on an oval dish.I hear someone talking.A man is talking.It was Ben's voice, but somewhat younger than it was now. "White wine?" said the voice, "or red wine?" I turned and saw him go into a kitchen, the same kitchen—I was standing in this kitchen with Dr. Nash and Amanda—but it The walls were not painted the same color.Ben holds a bottle of wine in each hand. It's the same Ben, but thinner, with less gray hair and a beard.He is completely naked, with a half-erect penis that bounces comically up and down as he walks.His skin was smooth and wrapped tightly around the muscles of his arms and chest, and I felt the tide of desire rising.I see myself taking a breath, but I'm laughing.

"White, I think?" he said, laughing with me, put down two wine bottles on the table, and walked over to where I was standing.He put his arms around me and I closed my eyes and opened my mouth, as if involuntarily, I kissed him and he kissed me back, I felt his cock against my cock and my hand reached for it past.Even though I was kissing him, I still thought I had to remember this, this feeling.I have to make it into my book.This is what I want to write.

I fell into his arms against his body, and his hands began to tear at my clothes, fumbling for the zipper. "Stop!" I said, "Don't—" But even though I said no, telling him to stop, I felt like I'd never wanted someone so much. "Go upstairs," I said, "quick." And we left the kitchen, tearing our clothes as we walked, and headed upstairs to the bedroom with the gray carpet and blue patterned wallpaper, thinking, yes , this is what I should write in my next novel, this is the feeling I want to capture.

I stumbled.There was the sound of glass shattering, and the image in front of me disappeared, as if the reel of film had come to an end, and the image on the screen was reduced to flickering lights and flying dust particles.I open my eyes.

I was still there, in that kitchen, but now Dr. Nash was standing in front of me, and Amanda was just a few steps away from him, and they were all looking at me with worried and disturbed expressions on their faces.I realized I broke the glass.

"Chris," Dr. Nash said, "Chris, are you okay?"

I didn't answer.I don't know what it feels like.For the first time—as far as I can remember—I remembered my husband.

I closed my eyes and tried to recall that image again.I tried to see fish, wine, my husband with a beard, naked, his penis bobbing up and down, but nothing.The memory has evaporated without a trace, as if it never existed or was burned into a light smoke by reality.

"Yeah," I said, "I'm fine. I—"

"What happened?" Amanda said. "Are you all right?"

"I remembered something." I said.I saw Amanda's hand quickly over her mouth, and the expression on her face became very happy.

"Really?" she said. "Great! What? What do you remember?"

"Don't worry." Dr. Nash said, walking over to hold my arm, the broken glass crunching under his feet.

"My husband," I said, "here. I think of my husband—"

Amanda's face pulled down.that's it?she seemed to be saying.

"Dr. Nash?" I said, "I think of Ben!" I started shaking.

"Good," said Dr. Nash. "Good! Very good!"

Together they led me into the living room.I sat on the couch and Amanda handed me a cup of hot tea and a biscuit on a plate.She doesn't understand, I think.It was impossible for her to understand.I remembered Ben, and my younger self, and the two of us together.I know we're in love, and I don't have to rely on his words to believe it anymore.It's important, and she won't understand how important it is.

On the way home I felt excited, radiant with tension and energy.I looked out the window at the world—the strange, mysterious, unfamiliar world—and in this world I saw not a threat, but an opportunity.Dr. Nash told me he thought we really had a breakthrough.He seemed very excited.That's good, he kept saying.This is good.I don't know if he's saying it's good for me or it's good for him, of course it's good for his career.He said he wanted to arrange a scan and I said yes almost without thinking.He also gave me a cell phone and told me it was used by his girlfriend.It doesn't look like the one Ben gave me.This one is smaller, with a flap that opens to reveal the keyboard and screen.It's useless anyway, he said.You can call me anytime, anytime it matters.Take it with you, I will call you on this phone to remind you about the log.That was hours ago.Now I realize he gave me the phone so Ben wouldn't know he was calling me.If I called you one day and Ben answered, it might be embarrassing.This will make things easier.I didn't ask any more questions and took the phone.

I remembered Ben, and I remembered that I loved him.He will be home soon.Maybe later, when we go to bed, I'll make up for last night's rawness.I feel alive and full of possibility.

(End of this chapter)