Alone
• Jess Dryoff
It is worth noting what Elizabeth did not remember, given what she did remember. She did not remember the Aon her 5th grade history paper, or the tiny knot of shame that had tightened around her throat after realizing it was not an A. Elizabeth did not remember her middle school best friend, whom she had loved before her ambition pushed him away. She did not remember shuffling out of the library on a Friday night, as the triumphant cheers roared from the football field, nor the single black car that stood alone in the parking lot every night. She did not remember a single quote of Lincoln, or a single line of Cicero’s In Catilinam, or of Dante’s Inferno. Not one of these did she remember.
Emma Gamell Photo
Elizabeth did not remember her mother saying of her lack of sleep, “You can’t live your life like this forever Liz, something is going to have to give.” She did not remember Professor Green lecturing her class on how cases are won by wellprepared lawyers, not by crippled victims nor resilient defendants. Elizabeth did not remember the endless hours spent hunched at her desk, arguing both sides of fictional cases after hearing these words. Elizabeth did not remember the satisfaction of becoming the youngest partner at the 2nd largest law firm in the world, nor the pride she felt upon seeing her nameplate hung upon her office door. She did not remember the loneliness of eating chocolate ice cream at midnight in an empty apartment. Nor did Elizabeth remember watching a nurse gently pierce her skin with the needle, as she shuddered on the hospital bed, just days after she had been diagnosed with severe anxiety and depression. She did not remember shouting after the woman, “I swear! There is nothing wrong with me!” She did not remember deliberately taking an extra white pill to calm a heart which she had convinced herself wasn’t racing. Then two extra. Then three. She did not remember hating herself the night she lay naked on her bathroom floor, empty plastic bottle clutched in hand. She did not remember when she began to regard the ivy league degrees lining her office walls with despair and disgust or the drive home after resigning as managing partner. This is what she remembered. Warmth. A small living room. A wornout rose colored rug. The delicate crackling of flames kissing wooden logs. The thundering applause of a mother and father beaming down as their twoyear old daughter takes her first steps. Jessica’s story inspired by Tobias Wolff’s short story “Bullet in the Brain”
1