“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes,” Albert said.
“The nurses explained the procedure to your satisfaction? Any questions?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“All right. I’m going to lean you back now. If you ever want me to stop, just tell me. You’re in control here.”
“This is my first time” Albert said. “I figured someday I’d come down here, but on the other side, you know? I never expected–”
“You don’t have to explain yourself. People come for all kinds of reasons. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Now, you’re going to feel a pressure at the base of your neck. It shouldn’t hurt. Done. How’s that?”
“It’s okay.”
“It says on your form you don’t have any particular event decided on. Is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. Let’s try a few medium range samples and work from there. I’ll just choose some promising looking ones. It’s sort of like that duck game at the fair, you turn one over and see what prize you–”
The phone is ringing on the other end and I’m trying not to breath and I just want to hang up and almost do. Hello? It’s her. Hi, Sara, I was just calling because you said you might need help on your homework–I’m lightheaded and painfully alive. Sure. I’m smiling, my teeth hurt, my insides hurt, and I’m happy, and–
“That one is surprisingly vibrant for being decades old,” the doctor said. “It has a nice immediacy and innocence. Some of the edge is dulled since you’re viewing it through older eyes. We could probably give you a hundred, a hundred-fifty for that one.”
“And I would lose it forever?”
“That’s how this works. Now that I have a baseline, I can see some other vibrant ones. How about–”
I lie still, utterly still, in darkness, my legs pulled up near my body. I listen intensely, hear the shallow breathing, wait still. Slowly, slowly, I lift my head, lift myself onto my elbow, the mattress squeaking. I pause. Still, the soft, regular breathing. Bit by bit, drawn out over long minutes, I lift myself over the body next to me, teetering over it as I slip out of the crib, where my son finally, finally sleeps, peaceful–
Albert blinked to clear his vision. “Why would someone want that one?”
“You’d be surprised what people will pay for. Great triumphs, thrills, danger, they’re the best sellers, of course, but some people just want to feel normal. And some of them want to comfort themselves, feel like they were good parents or workers or spouses.”
“And sad memories?”
“People want them gone, and there’s a lot of money in that. There are some clients who buy them too. Maybe they want to commiserate with someone in their tragedy. Maybe they want to beat themselves up for having a good life. I don’t ask. We humans are a strange bunch. We just want to feel connected, one way or another.”
“How much to take a sad memory?”
“Depends. Which one you want me to look at?”
“Never mind. I was just curious.”
“Next one then. This looks promising.”
The lights are off in the living room. I’m in the dark, lost, everything over, years wasted, ruined and bankrupt, deep fear and anguish brooding over me, enveloping me. My wife sits down beside me. She takes my hand. She just sits there, silent. Then she leans close, and she whispers in my ear. I can hear the sorrow. I love you. It’s going to be okay. I begin to cry, tears flowing out of the blackness that’s been drawing closer, heavier, and she holds me and she’s there in the abyss, solid, warm, real. I’m here. We’ll get through this together.
“I’ll give you $1250 for that,” the doctor says. “It’ll only take a few moments, and you’ll have your cash. I’ll give you $1300, even. What do you say?”
Dude, I was fighting not to tear up.
Thanks for the great compliment!