Push Your Limits: Don't Trust Anyone

Chapter 5 Chapter 2 Chris's Secret Diary: November 11

Tuesday, March 11

It's afternoon.Soon Ben will be home from another day of get off work.I sat with the journal in front of me.Someone - Dr. Nash - called me at lunchtime and told me where to find it.I was sitting in the living room when he called and at first couldn't believe he knew who I was.Look at the shoebox in the closet, he said finally.You will find a notebook.I didn't believe him, but he stayed on while I was going through the shoebox, and he was right.There is my journal, wrapped in tissue paper.I took it out as if holding a fragile object.No sooner had I said good-bye to Dr. Nash than I got down on my knees by the closet and read.every word.

I'm nervous, though I don't know why.In my mind the journal was forbidden and dangerous, though perhaps only because of the apparent care with which I hid it.From time to time, I looked up from the log over and over again to check the time, and when I heard the sound of a car outside the house, I quickly closed the log and put it back in the tissue paper.But now I am at peace, and I sit on the oriel window in my bedroom and write in my journal.Somehow, there's something familiar about it, as if I've sat in this place a lot.I could see down the street, leading at one end to a line of tall trees with a park behind them, and at the other end to a row of houses and a busier street.I realized that despite my decision to keep the log a secret from Ben, nothing terrible would happen if he found out.He is my husband.I can trust him.

I re-read the section of my journal describing the drive home yesterday, and the excitement I felt then has faded away.Now I feel content and peaceful.Cars flow by.Occasionally someone walks by, a man whistling for a while, or a young mother takes her child to the park and leaves after a while.In the distance a plane is descending to the ground, seemingly motionless.

The house opposite was empty except for the whistler and an unhappy barking dog, and the street was quiet.The turmoil of the morning fades away as doors close, people say goodbye and engines crank up a symphony.I feel all alone.

It started to rain.Large drops of rain splashed on the window in front of me, hung for a while, and later drops clung to them and began to slide slowly down the pane.I put a hand on the cold glass.

I've been cut off from the rest of the world long enough.

I read a passage visiting a house where my husband and I once lived.Were these things really written yesterday?They don't look like they came from my hands.I also read The Day I Remembered.Kissing my husband - in the house we bought together a long time ago - I can see it again when I close my eyes.The picture is dark and scattered at first, but then the image starts to glow and fade, suddenly becoming almost unbearably clear.My husband and I were tearing at our clothes.Ben put his arms around me, and his kisses grew more urgent and deeper.I remembered that we neither ate fish nor drank; instead, we stayed in bed after sex, our legs entangled, my head on his chest, he stroking my hair, cum in my Slowly dry out on the belly.We did not speak.Happiness surrounds us like clouds.

"I love you," he said.His voice was very soft, as if he had never said these words.Even though he must have said it many times, the words still sound fresh.Prohibited and dangerous.

I looked up at him, at the short beard on his chin, the line of his lips and the bridge of his nose. "I love you too." I whispered into his chest, as if the words couldn't be said out loud.He took my body close to his and kissed me lightly, on my forehead, my eyebrows.I closed my eyes and he continued to kiss my eyelids, almost brushing them with his lips.I feel safe and at home.I felt as if being here, next to his body, was the only place I belonged, the only place I wanted to stay.We lay in silence for a while, hugging each other, body to body, breath intertwined.I feel like silence might make the moment last forever, though that still isn't enough.

Ben broke the spell. "I have to go," he said, and I opened my eyes and took his hand, which felt warm and soft.I brought it to my mouth and kissed it, and it smelled of glass and earth.

"Leave now?" I said.

He kissed me again: "Yes. It's later than you think. I'll miss the train."

I felt my body shake.Separation seems unthinkable and unbearable. "Stay a little longer?" I said. "Take the next train?"

He smiled. "I can't, Chrissy." He said, "You know that."

I kissed him again. "I know." I said, "I know."

I took a shower after he left.I wash slowly, lather on the soap, and feel the water run over my skin, like it's a new feeling.In the bedroom I put on my perfume, put on my pajamas and dressing gown, and go downstairs to the dining room.

It was dark in the room.I turned on the light, and on the table in front of me was a typewriter, loaded with blank paper, and next to it was a thin stack of papers, face down.I sat down in front of the machine and started typing. Chapter 2.

At this point I stopped.I couldn't think of what to write next, or how to begin.I sighed and put my fingers on the keyboard.The keyboard feels natural, cool and smooth under my hands, matching my fingertips.I closed my eyes and started typing again.

My fingers dance across the keyboard automatically, almost without thinking.When I opened my eyes again, I had already typed a single sentence.

Liz didn't know what she had done or how to undo what she had done.

I look at this sentence.It was there, literally, in black and white.

Rubbish, I thought.I am very annoyed.I know I can write better.I've done this before, two summers ago, when words poured from under my fingers and stories spilled onto the page like confetti.But now?Now there is a problem.Language has become hard and rigid.

I took a pen and drew a line on the sentence.I felt better after deleting it, but now I have nothing again; no way to start.

I stood up and lit one from the pack of cigarettes Ben had left on the table, took a deep breath, held it, and let it out.For a moment I wished it was marijuana and wondered where I could get some next time.I poured myself something to drink - straight vodka in a whiskey glass - and took a swig.It must not fail.Writer's opium, I think.How the hell did I become such an old-fashioned guy?
Last time.How did I do it last time?I went to the rows of bookshelves that fronted the dining room wall, and with a cigarette in my mouth, I took a book from the top shelf.There must be some clue, in this book.Right?
I put down the vodka and turned to the book.I rested my fingertips on the cover, as if the book was fragile and fragile, and touched the title: To the Early Birds, signed by Chris Lucas.I opened the cover and flipped through the book.

The image disappears.I opened my eyes.The room I was in looked drab and gray, but my breathing was choppy.I vaguely remember being surprised to discover that I was a heavy smoker at one point, but the addiction had been replaced by something else.is that true?I wrote a novel?Is it published?I stood up; the log slipped from my lap.If that's true, then I've had a meaningful life, with goals, ambitions, and accomplishments.I ran down the stairs.

is that true?Ben didn't say a word to me this morning, not at all about the writer.I read in the journal this morning about our trip to Capitol Hill, where he told me I was working as a secretary when the accident happened.

I peruse the bookshelves in the living room: dictionaries, atlases, a DIY guidebook.Some hardcover novels, from their condition, I guess unread.But there's nothing I've written, nothing to suggest that I've ever published a novel.I searched here and there, almost insanely.It must be here, I thought.must be here.But then another thought occurred to me.Maybe the images in my hallucinations are not memories but an imagination.Maybe, when I couldn't recall and depend on a real past, my consciousness created a past by itself.Maybe my subconscious decided that I wanted to be a writer because that's what I've always wanted.

I run back upstairs.The bookshelves in the study are full of file boxes and computer manuals, and when I scouted the house this morning I found no books in either bedroom.I stood for a while, then saw the computer in front of me.It's silent, black screen.I know what to do, though I don't know how I know.I turned on the computer, it was activated under the desk, and after a while the screen lit up.There was a blast of music from a speaker next to the screen, and an image appeared.A picture of Ben and me, both smiling.A dialog goes right across our face.Username, said above.There is also a dialog below.password.

In the hallucination I just saw, I was touch typing, and my fingers seemed to jump on the keyboard instinctively.I put the blinking cursor on the box labeled "Username" and put my hands on the keyboard.is that true?I learned to type?I put my fingers on the raised letters.They move effortlessly, my little fingers looking for the keys they belong to, the other fingers falling into place.I closed my eyes and started typing without thinking, listening only to my own breathing and the click of the plastic keyboard.After typing, I looked at my results and the things in the dialog box.I expected to see some nonsense, but what I saw startled me.

The deft brown fox leaps over the lazy dog.

I stare at the screen.Yes, I can touch type.Perhaps what I see in the hallucinations is not an imagination but a memory.

Maybe I really wrote a novel.

I ran into the bedroom.It doesn't make sense.For a moment I was almost absolutely convinced that I was going crazy.The novel seemed to exist and at the same time it seemed not to exist; it seemed to be true and it seemed to be entirely imagined.I can't recall it at all, the plot or the characters, or even why it got the title, but it still feels real, like it's beating inside of me like a heart.

But why didn't Ben tell me?Didn't leave a copy in the room?I pictured it hidden in the house, wrapped in tissue paper in a box in the attic or cellar.Why?
I have an explanation.Ben told me earlier that I was a secretary.Maybe that's why I can type: that's the only reason.

I took my phone out of my bag, didn't care which one it was, and didn't even really care who it was.My husband or my doctor?Both seemed equally foreign to me.I snapped open the phone and flipped through the menus, and hit the call button when I spotted a name I recognized.

"Dr. Nash?" Someone answered the phone, and I said, "This is Chrissy." He started talking, but I cut him off. "Look, have I ever written anything?"

"What did you say?" he said.He sounded confused, and for a moment I had the feeling: I was horribly wrong.I don't know if he even knows who I am, but then he says, "Kriss?"

I said it again: "I just remembered something. I was writing something, many years ago, I think when I first met Ben. A novel. Have I ever written a novel?" "

He didn't seem to understand me: "A novel?"

"Yeah," I said, "I seem to remember wanting to be a writer, when I was very young. I just wondered if I ever wrote something. Ben told me I was a secretary, but I was just thinking— "

"Didn't he tell you?" Then he said, "You were working on your second book when you lost your memory. Your first book was out, and it was a successful attempt. I can't say it was a bestseller." book, but it was certainly a success."

Those words collided with each other.a novel.A successful publication.It's true, my memory is real.I don't know what to say, what to think.

I hung up the phone and went upstairs to write a journal.

*****
The clock by the bed reads 10:[-]pm.I figured Ben would come to bed soon, but I still sat on the edge of the bed, writing in my journal.I talked to him after dinner.I was restless in the afternoon, walking from room to room, looking at everything as if seeing it for the first time, wondering why he didn't let go of this little success, why he wiped out everything so completely. evidence of?This matter cannot be justified.Was he ashamed?or embarrassment?Did I write about him, about our life together?Or for some other, worse reason?Something shady that I can't see right now?
Before he got home, I had made up my mind to confront him directly, but now?It seems impossible now.Doing that felt like I was accusing him of lying.

I tried to put on a casual tone. "Ben," I said, "what did I do for a living?" He looked up from the newspaper. "Do I have a job?"

"Yes," he said, "you were a secretary for a while. We were just married then."

I try to keep my voice calm: "Really? I have a feeling that I once wanted to write, you know?"

He folded the papers together and gave his full attention to me.

"a feeling?"

"Yes. I distinctly remember loving books as a child and seeming to vaguely remember wanting to be a writer." He reached across the table and took mine.His eyes seemed sad and disappointed.Too bad, they seem to say.Very unlucky.I don't think you can do it anymore. "Are you sure?" I insisted, "I seem to remember—"

He cut me off: "Chris," he said, "please, you're just imagining..."

I haven't spoken all night since then, just listening to the voices in my head.Why did he do this?Why is he pretending I never wrote a word?Why?I listened to him snoring softly on the sofa.Why didn't I tell him I knew I had written a novel?Am I really so distrustful of him?I already remember how we used to lie in each other's arms, whispering our love for each other as the sky was getting dark, but how did we get from that sweetness to this point?

But then I started imagining what it would be like if I actually found one of my novels from the back of a closet or some high shelf.What does that mean to me?Except it would say to me: Look how hard you've fallen.See what you could have done before a car took it all away on an icy road, now you're nothing more than a cripple.

That would not be a happy moment.I saw myself becoming hysterical - far more than this afternoon, because today's awakening is at least step by step, at least I still have a longing for memory - screaming and crying.The result could be a disaster.

No wonder Ben might have tried to hide it from me.Now I picture him removing those books, throwing them into the metal grill, and deciding what to say to me: How can I reshape my past so that it is less unbearable; what a story.

But it's over now.I know the truth.The truth about myself that was withheld, but re-remembered.And now it is clearly recorded in the journal, no longer exists only in my memory, but has been left forever.

I find that this book, this journal that I am now writing—and I am proud to recognize that it is my second—can be dangerous as well as inescapable.It is not a novel.It may reveal things that are best kept hidden, secrets that should never be seen.

But my pen is still writing on the paper.

(End of this chapter)