Tory Henwood Hoen

A funny, heartfelt, late coming-of-age story that examines the role of memory in holding us back—and in moving us forward—for fans of The Collected Regrets of Clover and Maame. Call it inertia. Call it a quarter-life crisis. Whatever you call it, Cricket Campbell is stuck. Despite working at a zeitgeisty wellness company, the 26-year-old feels anything but well. Still adrift after a tragedy that upended her world a decade ago, she has entered early adulthood under the weight of a new burden: her father’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis. When Cricket’s older sister Nina announces it is time to move Arthur from his beloved Adirondack lake house into a memory-care facility, Cricket has a better idea. In returning home to become her father’s caretaker, she hopes to repair their strained relationship and shake herself out of her perma-funk. But even deeply familiar places can hold surprises. As Cricket settles back into the family house at Catwood Pond—a place she once loved, but hasn’t visited since she was a teenager—she discovers that her father possesses a rare gift: as he loses his grasp of the past, he is increasingly able to predict the future. Before long, Arthur cements his reputation as an unlikely oracle, but for Cricket, believing in her father’s prophecies might also mean facing the most painful parts of her history. As she begins to remember who she once was, she uncovers a vital truth: the path forward often starts by going back. With laugh-out-loud humor and profound grace, Before I Forget explores the nuances of family, the complexities of memory, and how sometimes, the people we know the best are the ones who surprise us the most.

A Novel

Before I Forget

Emma Hak-Kovacs

"It will be bittersweet, leaving here. But it's just a place. There are plenty of other places to live, things to see, jobs to do, people to love. Life is long, Cricket. The best things are still ahead of us, I promise. "

When I was nine or ten, some trees were cleared in the wooded area behind the house to afford a better view of the pond. A series of dry stumps remained, and from them, I created a world. I transformed the clearing into a fast-paced animal hospital, where stumps became operating tables and recovery rooms.

Someone was always in crisis, and as head surgeon, it was up to me to save them. Though I specialized in treating exotic mammals (ocelots, lemurs, reindeer), I would take any patient who came through the door: ponies, stoats, dragons.

The hospital was well-equipped. In the hollow of a tree, I had hidden the receiver of an old rotary phone, whose curly wire hung loose, not connected to anything. A large rock functioned as the front desk, where frantic patients explained their plights. I had somehow acquired a vintage doctor's bag that I stuffed with supplies (bandages, string, kitchen tongs, knitting needles). A crumbling rock wall was my of-fice, where I was not to be disturbed, except in the case of emergency-and there was always an emergency. A skunk might need stitches, an alligator might need a C-section, or a zebra might need a tail amputation. There were quieter days, too: routine checkups for dogs and cats, the braiding of horses' manes, the clipping of lions' claws. I did it all while managing a sizeable imaginary staff, who were all incredibly deferential. All but Alex, my promising but unruly protégé who happened to be a squirrel.

"For Christ's sake, Alex," I would bark into the tree phone. "This is the third time you've been late this month. I see so much potential in you, but I can't work with potential alone."

Alex hated to be held accountable, but it was necessary. I spent long hours in the hospital, high on my own authority.

Now, when I visit the clearing, all I see are stumps. miss my imaginary world, just as I miss my childhood self.

"You know, you taught me to swim right here," I say. 

His face is tilted up to the sky. "Is that right?" 

"Yep" I say as I tread water. "It took a while. You were very patient with me." 

I've already told him all this a few times this summer, but he doesn't hold the information long before he forgets. Even a brief conversational lull can wipe the slate clean. It's not lost on me that I now have the power to control our shared narrative, to pick and choose which aspects of the truth I want to unearth or bury. Our family story is mine to craft now. If l don't like the version I relay to him today, I can always tweak it tomorrow. The truth, whatever that is, seems more fungible than ever.

As I watch my father watching the water, I am hit with a future-ache about the time when he will no longer be here. I've heard it called anticipatory grief, but that's too clinical for me. There's no adequate label for this feeling of something eating away at you, the growing realization that someday you will be devastated -so why not start now? Get ahead of it. Beat your heartbreak to the punch.

It was thrilling to have someone I loved see me at my best — and to reflect back both who I was and who I could become. Somehow, Seth's love for me ignited a feeling of love toward myself. When he delighted in me, I delighted in myself. When he laughed at my jokes, I believed in my own hilarity. If I ever had a best self, she flourished that summer — and Seth was the primary witness.

It's still cold, but the sun is becoming more assertive, slowly winning its battle against the last vestiges of stubborn snow. A few patches lie here and there, but the ground is softening, and the busy birdcalls in- dicate that we are on the edge of a new season. One morning, I awake to hear the pond groaning. The ice is thawing, and as usual, it is protesting as it goes. It feels like a victory to have made it to this side of winter, but if I'm honest, it's not really spring that I have been waiting for.

On our drive home, my father hums softly as I roll down the windows to let in the last gasp of summer. There is a particular richness to early September, when the sunlight is broad and lazy. Everything is holding on to life, but not as resolutely as it did in the earlier months of the season. Even the birdsong that sparkles through the canopy is a little off-tune, as if the birds are relaxed and tipsy after a spring and summer of diligent work (nest building, egg laying, chick rearing). It's the end of the party, and all of na- ture is stumbling home, spent and satisfied. A breeze rustles the ferns along the road, and every once in a while, I get a quick whiff of decay, a reminder of the inevitable.

It's an interesting idea: the regenerating heart. After all, we do go on, no matter how much we shudder with grief. And maybe our hearts don't ache because they're scarred or broken or because something is wrong. Maybe they ache because they are shape-shifting. Like the growth spurts of our youth, they make us quake with change; but once weathered, they leave us stronger and even more ourselves. Not our final selves, or our best selves, or even our improved selves, but just our next selves. As I now know, we are always between selves. It doesn't mean we are lost -- it means we are growing.

Before I Forget quotes

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