What’s in a Name?

            A year ago, Richard would have been at work. But now, two months and six days after his retirement party in the stuffy, sparsely decorated meeting room, he was spending his days on the back porch, absorbing the sunlight from the comfort of his favorite lawn chair. Not that he would remember how many days it had been, nor the quality of the decor. To him, it had just been a strange, fuzzy blur of waking up, eating, and sitting outside, staring off into the distance sleepily.

            The neighborhood kids used to play outside on days like this, when heat drove them out in search of sprinklers, spinning merrily in haphazardly manicured lawns. He remembered how one boy, Billy—or was it Bobby?—used to knock on the back door asking for ice pops. Richard had never had children of his own, but he was happy to humor them. Nowadays, no one ventured into his yard. Whether this was because of the alluring screens found indoors, or the passing years that made kids into teenagers who no longer cared to play, he didn’t know. He didn’t miss it too much, though; he liked his solitude. Just him and his chair, undisturbed and unburdened.

            The jingle of keys and the creak of the door reached his ears. His brow furrowed and he cocked his head to the side, listening. After a moment’s pause, he propped himself up with his elbow and swung one leg off the chair. A voice floated through the back door, shrill and sharp.

            “Richard! Come help me with the groceries, dear.”

            He swung his leg back into its groove on the chair and released his elbow, plopping down to a quiet protest of springs. The sound was a little louder than expected, but he pretended it hadn’t happened. Closing his eyes and sitting as still as possible, he focused on the sunbeams that warmed his face, caressing his cheeks lovingly. He imagined he was wrapped in a warm blanket, his lawn chair a bed reserved just for him. But the sound of clicking heels on the kitchen floor was hard to ignore. The paper bags rustled as they were placed on the counter. Then it was silent. He held his breath.

            “Richard, are you sleeping again?”

            He couldn’t help but jump a little; he hadn’t heard her come outside. Maybe she’d taken off her shoes. He thought that was a sneaky trick, but he knew when he was beaten. Stretching and grumbling as convincingly as he could, he peeled his eyes open and squinted upwards at the bearer of the voice. She was barely visible through the glare of the sun. “Oh, hi, honey . . . How long have I been out?”

            “Don’t ask me, I’ve been doing errands all day. Come on, I need help unloading the groceries.”

            He didn’t move. “Sweetie, you know how bad my back is . . . ”

            “Mine’s just as bad. Plus, if we split up the work, it’ll be faster.”

            She stood over him, watching. When he realized she wasn’t going to leave, he shook his head and slowly got up, glancing wistfully back at his chair before following her inside.

*

Dinner was fine. The two of them had very little variation in their diet nowadays; some bagged salad here, a chewy steak there, and maybe some tuna if it was a special occasion. That didn’t happen very often. They usually ate in silence, though a certain someone would pester Richard with painfully mundane questions that he wished she wouldn’t ask.

“So, what’d you do today?”

He traced his fork through his potatoes, leaving shaky divots in its wake. Why couldn’t she ask more engaging questions? He was convinced he could do better, yet he never tested that theory. “Nothing.”

“Oh.” When he glanced up, he saw she was watching him. “What kind of nothing?”

“Just sitting in the sun. It’s nice this time of year.”

“Yeah.” She seemed to be waiting, but he didn’t fill the silence. The scrapping of forks against ceramic took the place of conversation. He began to feel guilty; maybe he’d throw her a bone.

“Do you remember Billy?”

She stopped eating. “Who?”

Her confusion made him feel unusually embarrassed, but he wasn’t sure why. “You know, the ice-pop kid. Billy.”

She frowned slightly. “It’s Bobby, not Billy.”

“Oh.” He fiddled with his peas, rolling them over each other in small tidal waves of green. “Well, they’re pretty similar names.”

“I guess.”

*

Richard scraped the last of his mashed potatoes into the bin. It was practically overflowing, but he didn’t want to take it out. She had already started washing the dishes, just like she always did, but she paused as he put his plate on the counter next to the sink.

“Did you not like them?”

“Not like what?—Dear?”

“The potatoes. You didn’t finish them is all.”

He looked in surprise at his empty plate. “Oh, no, they were lovely . . . Dear.”

“Well, I’m happy to hear that.” She grabbed his plate and washed in silence. After waiting a moment to see if she was going to ask him anything else, he looked down and walked towards the door. Then the faucet turned off.

“Richard, we need to talk.”

He froze in place.

“About what, Sweetheart?” he said without looking back.

It was silent for a moment. He stole a quick glance back, and saw how her brow was furrowed and her mouth was open and trembling, as though a multitude of words were fighting to be the first one out.

“My name.”

His shoulders stiffened. “What about your name, my dearest?”

“You never say it.”

He turned a little more towards her so she could see the smile plastered on his face. “That’s silly, sweetie. When did I not say your name?”

“What? Do you not hear yourself? Just now. An hour ago. A day ago, a week ago! Now that I think about it, it could be as long as a couple months! I mean, sure, it’s all good and dandy to have pet names, but it stops being sweet when that’s all you call me!” Her hands were curled upwards like claws as if she was trying to grasp something that wasn’t quite there. “I’m a person, for God’s sake! I have a name!”

Richard’s plastic smile faltered. “Oh honey, I call you pet names because I love you. Simple as that!” He stepped back towards his wife and stiffly pecked her on the cheek. She grimaced and blocked him with her arms.

“Oh, this is ridiculous! You call that love?” She jerked her head away, refusing to look at him. “If you loved me, you’d listen to me when I said I didn’t like something! I know it’s cliché, but it’s true! How can you tell me you won’t listen to me because you love me? All I want is to talk, but you clearly don’t want to. I can see the way you act around me, don’t pretend I can’t. You didn’t even look at me when I started talking to you!” Her hands had waltzed wildly as she spoke, but then they stopped. She turned and looked straight at him. “What am I doing wrong?”

He had not been prepared for this. While she’d been talking, Richard had been subconsciously backing towards the door. Apparently it had slipped her notice too, but not anymore.

“Where are you going?”

His lips felt paralyzed. “I-I’m just going upstairs, sweetheart. I’m going to . . . sort some of the papers on my desk, is all.” He scuttled through the door, not even stopping as he blurted out a hurried “I love you, dear!” before vanishing into the dark hallway. She might have said something as he was leaving, but he pretended not to hear it.

*

Richard had a problem. He had tried to ignore it, but now he couldn’t. He hastened into his bedroom, fumbling in the dark to close the door silently but swiftly behind him. He didn’t bother to turn on the light. He stood there a moment, squinting into the darkness. Slowly, things began to come into view: the bed, the nightstand, the lamp, the closet door, the desk. He cautiously approached his office chair but didn’t sit in it. Instead, he dropped onto his bed, which was only a few feet away, sinking like a stone into the mattress. He felt especially heavy today.

Why couldn’t he remember?

Truth be told, her name had slipped his mind a long time ago. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but it was already too late when he noticed. Suddenly, he couldn’t remember what he’d been calling her all these years. He remembered her, but . . . was this not part of her? She’d said it herself: She was a person; she had a name. And yet there was something missing, something that had been there before but had long since melted away in the sun.

He slowly lay back, as though it would hurt him to do it too fast. He stared at the ceiling, at all its bumps and grooves and cracks. His mind desperately raced in circles, trying to find the thing he’d misplaced there.

Why didn’t he know? He’d known once; he’d known for a long time. He was certain of that. He’d tried to deny his blunder, to hide it by covering it in “honeys” and “darlings” and “dears”. She had given him puzzled looks when he called her “sweetie” at first, but she smiled like it was a welcome surprise, and he thought he was safe. But he’d been a fool. He hadn’t noticed when it started to sour, when the sugar coat began to crumble away. There in the darkness, he wished the world would disappear.

The door creaked open. Bright light washed over his face, but it wasn’t warm like the sunlight on the porch. A silhouette stood there, peering in at him. It walked over to the bed, slowly.

“Richard . . .” She paused. “I’m sorry if I overreacted earlier.”

He didn’t reply.

She waited a bit before saying anything else. “Can I sit?”

“If you want.”

She settled next to him gently, right by his head. He hadn’t left her much room, lying there in the center of the bed. She sat silently, and he stared at the ceiling.

“I’ve . . . just been very stressed lately. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” She shifted slightly. He wasn’t looking, but he could feel it. “I wasn’t lying when I said my name was important to me. I know the nicknames are supposed to be sweet, but . . . It just makes me feel neglected, you know? It’s just so impersonal.” She paused expectantly, so he gave in and said “Okay.”

She swelled and fell with a deep sigh. “Richard, I . . . I’m really worried. It almost feels like . . . like you don’t remember it. I thought you might be developing some sort of . . . condition, but you remember a lot of other things. Like Bobby, that kid who always wanted ice pops. And I guess I just don’t understand . . . why . . .” He heard her breath shake. “Why? Why me?”

His head spun. He couldn’t move. He was afraid of what the answer might be.

“Richard, please . . . please tell me you still know. Please just say it.”

He opened his mouth, but that was all. Her silhouette was faint in the low lighting; she looked like some alien being, like something out of a fever dream. Finally, he spoke. “Dear . . .”

They sat silent and still for an infinite moment.

When she finally moved, she moved with a swiftness and smoothness that startled him. One moment she was there, and the next she’d already risen and made it to the door. She paused, looking back at him for a moment. Though her face was shrouded in darkness, he saw streams of light reflecting down her cheeks.

“I’m going to go for a walk.”

And that was all.

Soon, he fell into a deep sleep. He didn’t even climb under the covers.

*

Richard woke up feeling refreshed. Sunlight streamed through the ineffectual blinds covering the window. He sat up and stretched, wondering why he was on top of the covers. It must have been a tiring day yesterday; that would explain why he felt so much better now. He didn’t remember what had been worrying him, but he was certain he was free from it now.

What to do now . . . Maybe he’d have breakfast on the back porch. It was quite nice this time of year. He remembered how the neighborhood children used to run through the yard, playing cops and robbers and hide-and-go-seek. He wondered how old that one kid, Billy—Bobby?—was. He hadn’t seen him in a while. Then again, he hadn’t had much time to notice before he retired. 

He strolled out of the bedroom and into the bathroom to wash his face. When he reached out to turn on the faucet, something fell into the sink. He frowned as he looked at the orange pill bottle. Was that his? He picked it up and read the label.

Linda Walberg

Zoloft

Odd. Maybe he did take Zoloft, but this certainly wasn’t his prescription. Maybe he’d picked up the wrong one by accident. They had the same last name, so it would be an easy mistake for the pharmacist to make. He shrugged. Maybe he’d take it back later. But what if it belonged to someone he knew? Maybe she was a relative of his? He wasn’t sure who, though. He lived alone, didn’t he?

He decided he’d work it out later. All he really wanted was to make a cup of coffee and to sit in the sun on his favorite lawn chair, enjoying the weather. After splashing his face, he strode downstairs, thinking to himself how much he enjoyed solitude.