Her Last Memory

by C. A. Wittman

"I know. Yes, of course I am, but life is ever changing, Barbara. Nothing stays the same for all time, that would be stagnant, love. Next year you'll be going to college, starting your adult life. No, Erica's right. It's time I get on with it. And neither you or your mum should be bunking in that closet of an office while I take up all the good real estate."

  Everyone knew that Cuppa was head over heels, gobsmacked in love with Erica. She'd been content to sleep in a room upstairs and work as Erica's business partner just to be close to the heart of her desire. Back when their mom was herself, Dora was too vivacious, loud and demanding for Erica to be distracted by anyone else. If their lives were a movie, Cuppa would have been the supporting actor. She prepared meals for the family and cleaned the house. No one asked her to do these things, it was just what she did. Cuppa loved all of them and treated Barbara and her siblings as if they were her children. So she planned weddings with Erica and expected nothing more out of their relationship. Dora had never felt threatened by or jealous of Cuppa, because Dora knew she was the star in Erica's world. Everyone knew this.

  Barbara sipped more of her tea. Cuppa had made it just right. "Where will you go?"

  "Oh, not far. Don't worry, you won't be completely rid of me."

  "I would never want to be rid of you," Barbara said sappily just as Jesse emerged from his and Sara’s room, holding his latest drawing.

  "What are you talking about?" He asked.

  They fell silent as he eyed them suspiciously.

  "Cuppa's going to be looking for her own place," Erica finally said.

  "Why?" His voice rose to a squeal, bringing Sara out of their room. The stress of the last weeks had pinched her features into a nearly constant sour look. Jesse turned to her with dismay. "Cuppa's moving."

  Sara's eyes moved past him to the hallway that led to their mother's office. "It's because of her, isn't it?" Sara asked, mouth tight.

  Jesse whipped round to look at them, eyes wide. "Mom's making you move?"

  Cuppa held up her hand. "No, it's nothing like that. I just thought it might be nice to get my own place." Cuppa gave them a shaky smile, her voice trembling a little.

  "Yeah, right," Sara growled. "You're Cuppa. You can't go. She's making you go, isn't she?"

  "Sara," Erica spoke up.

  Barbara had never seen her sister like this. Sara had always been a serious child, but she had been just as close to their mother as Barbara and Jesse. This new energy coming off her was pure hatred.

  "Maybe Dora should go," Sara hissed. "She doesn't care about any of us, anyway. Always in her room, always moping around like some big stupid kid."

  "That's enough," Erica said sternly.

  Cuppa held out her arms to Sara. "Come here, little sprite. Come on."

  Sara's face was white, eyes so blue that they looked like hot jewels glowing in her skull. Sara stepped into Cuppa's arms, burying her face in the woman's shoulder. "Oh, little one," Cuppa crooned. "I'm not going far. Cuppa will be around every day, right as rain."

  Barbara half expected their mom to come out from behind her closed door. But she didn't. She must have heard them talking, yet stayed hiding to herself. Who was she anymore? Would Dora ever come back? Jesse stood clinging to his drawing, looking unsure about it all. Finally, he said,

  "I don't want Mom to go."

  "Your mum's not going anywhere," Cuppa replied, stroking Sara's back. "And for now, neither am I. We're just having a bit of a talk, nothing too serious. I haven't even started looking yet."

  "Don't go," Sara said in a muffled voice against Cuppa's shoulder.

  "Yeah," Jesse took a step closer. "Don't go, Cuppa."

  "Well, we'll see," Cuppa said with a sniff.

  Erica looked wrecked. Barbara could see that they wondered if the suggestion of Cuppa moving was just too much change right now. For one mean minute, Barbara thought, now you know how it feels. The others were too little to remember their parent's divorce, but Barbara wasn’t, and it had made her bitter for a while. But it was hard to stay mad with Erica. And Cuppa, well, it was like trying to hate a kitten. What was up with all the animal analogies?

  The sound of pattering on the roof took their attention away from the dramatic family dilemma playing out in the dining room. Moments later, the pattering turned into full blown rain, and Cuppa exclaimed, "Right. More tea, anyone?"

  This was followed by a unanimous yes.

  "I'll put the kettle on."

  * * *

  Later that night, Barbara lay on her bed, snacking on macadamia nuts and watching Netflix. Barbara popped a nut in her mouth, her mind wandering to her family as her eyes roamed her room and the shelves her dad put up years ago when he and her mom were still married. Her dad had made a little nook for her computer and tech appliances and built the shelves for all her books, gifting her with a box-set of the Dune series, saying that he and Grandma Barbara had read them all and used to discuss them. He often talked fondly of her namesake, and sometimes Barbara wondered what it would have been like to know Grandma Barbara. Her father always added that she was nothing like Ramani. Nobody was, Barbara thought wryly. The other room that Cuppa now lived in had been a guest room back in the day. Barbara remembered when Erica started coming over a lot, spending the night sometimes. Pausing her show, Barbara walked over to her bookshelf and skimmed her books until her eyes fell on the tatty paperback copy of American Murder. She pulled it out, flipping to the pictures in the middle. The photo of Barbara's mom and dad and their friends in front of the house was the same picture in the folder titled “Us” on the office computer.

  As she stared at the picture, an idea came to her. Barbara went downstairs to her mom and Erica's room and knocked softly on the door.

  "Yes," Erica said. They were sitting up in bed with their nightlight on, looking over a wedding magazine. They smiled tiredly at Barbara. "Come on in."

  Barbara took a seat on the bed and held out the book to Erica, whose eyes widened when they read the title.

  "Where did you get this?"

  "At the library."

  Erica sighed and set aside the magazine. They took the book from Barbara's hand, flipping through it, and then shook their head, part of their mouth rising up in a grimace. "The police came by and questioned my sister's boyfriend, Sweetness." They told Barbara the story of being pulled over in Culver City. "The Culver City police had his information and, you know, thought it was suspicious that he'd slowed down to pick up a white girl."

  "Really?" Barbara felt indignant.

  "The detectives weren't getting anywhere with how Taylor was murdered, so they came sniffing around our neighborhood and got that busy body, Keisha talking. She told them Sweetness had mentioned several times how skimpy Taylor's clothes were that day. The detectives thought Sweetness might have raped her and then come back to murder her."

  “I thought Darpan's semen was found in Taylor.”

  Erica rolled their eyes. “Right.”

  "So, what happened with Sweetness?"

  "Nothing. They brought him in, grilled him hard. But he had too many alibis. Plus, he'd gone to the liquor store on the corner that night, and there was footage of him going into the store around ten. Then he went to his friend Marcus’ and there were at least five other people at Marcus' house who vouched for Sweetness being there. So unless Sweetness drove like a demon to get to this side of town in time to murder Taylor, there was no way he could have committed the crime." Erica sighed and rubbed their eyes. "The lengths white people will go to find a black man guilty. Erica handed the book back to her. "You read this whole thing?

  "Yeah," Barbara said.

  "I've never even read it, and I'm sure Dora hasn't––I mean Serene."

  "What?"

  "Your mom, she hasn't read it."

  "You called her Serene."

  "She wants to go back to her old name."

  "Since when?"

  "Since today."

  "Barbara sat silently with this new bit of information. "Do you think
she'll get her memories back?"

  "More than likely," Erica patted her hand. "We just have to be patient."

  "Mom told me a few times that she used to get along okay with Ron and Maggie when she was younger. I was thinking maybe we ought to have them over for dinner with Dad and Carrie. It might help if she saw people from her past that she used to interact with a lot."

  "That seems like an explosive situation for so many reasons. You know how Ron is."

  "I can tolerate him for a night."

  Erica traced their finger over the wedding magazine, the skin puckered at the knuckles. "When do you want to have them over?"

  "I can go over there tomorrow and see about their schedule."

  "We saw Carrie earlier. She was on her way to make them soup and talk them out of taking a cruise," Erica said.

  Barbara perked up. "Is she going to be staying a bit?"

  Erica shrugged.

  "So you don't mind?"

  "Let's just say I'm willing to put up with some unpleasantness if it might help."

  Barbara stood. "Good night."

  "Good night, honey."

  * * *

  Barbara closed the door quietly behind her. As she passed the office, she heard a sound from her mom that she hadn't heard in a while: a hearty laugh. Barbara paused. The laugh was different, though, more girlish and a bit flirtatious. Heart hammering in her chest, she leaned toward the door.

  "Why did you buy that big old house then?" More laughter. "I can come over again? It's okay with Tera?"

  Silence.

  "They're okay. Yeah. They're okay."

  Her parents were talking. Barbara assumed her father was asking her mother about them. She stepped away from the door, her mother's girlish laughter ringing in her ears.

  48

  Serene - March 2020

  * * *

  Ramani's husband John was a short man with a full head of white hair and sharp, bony, gnome-like features. His mannerisms were very similar to Aarav’s. The quick steps he took when he walked, how he moved his hands a lot when he talked, standing a little too close during conversation. John greeted Serene when she arrived, informing her that Ramani was running a bit late, had gone out to the store to pick up some lunch for their visit.

  "Ramani doesn't cook much anymore," he added apologetically. "She should be home soon.”

  He brought Serene a mineral water and they sat on low furniture in a living room with too much fabric everywhere and whimsical, bright pictures that competed for attention, plants stuck in every spare nook, giving the room a slightly closed-in, swampy feel.

  Serene sipped her water while John studied her, fascination that he couldn't quite tamp down emanating from his bright brown eyes.

  "So I take it you don't remember me," he said.

  She shook her head no.

  John nodded and stroked at his short beard. "It's quite something, what you've been through," he finally said. "I can't imagine how difficult it must be to lose decades. How have you been adjusting?"

  "I've been adjusting the way a person adjusts when they lose twenty-four years of their life," Serene snapped. Why was she sitting here, talking to this man about her memory loss? It was just like Ramani to be late, to be unprepared, to leave it up to her husband to greet Serene––a man she couldn't recall knowing.

  John made an attempt to leapfrog Serene's sarcastic answer. "Yes. I suppose there's no easy way to navigate something like that. Um, your mother and I have been married for thirteen years." And then, awkwardly, "We met at a writer's retreat."

  Serene set her glass down on a coaster on the wooden coffee table.

  "Ramani writes?"

  John's face lit up. "Oh yes, she's a wonderful writer. Poetry mostly, very moving, and some of her personal essays––heart-wrenching and funny as hell."

  "What do you write?"

  "Oh, nothing like that. Fiction. Romance, mostly."

  "Romance?"

  He smiled. "People always get a little shock when I tell them that. There are quite a few men in the romance genre. A lot of them use pseudonyms, women's names. I write contemporary gay romance, male couples mostly, and I dabble a little in heterosexual relationships. I've built up such a following with gay romance, though, that it's what my readers demand."

  This revelation was not what Serene was expecting. Despite her irritation, she was intrigued by what this strange little man was telling her. "I worked as a psychotherapist for years,” he continued. “As a result, the couples in my books are all in therapy. Fictionalized, of course. They all see the same therapist, Marcy Grace."

  Serene found a smile forming on her lips and then laughed. "Do you––I mean––are you published?"

  "Oh, yes. I've written thirty-eight of these little gems in total. Hoping to reach forty by the end of the summer."

  "Thirty-eight books!"

  "Yup." He grinned. "But at the time that I met you, I had about three books under my belt, and you were doing some writing yourself."

  "I was?"

  "Yes. It was shaping up to be a thriller, about a little girl who lost track of her family at the beach and climbed into a car that she thought was hers to wait for her mom, dad, brother and sister. The family who the car belonged to came back and found her, but instead of trying to help her locate her own family, they kept her and drove away. Very intriguing. You gave me the first few chapters to look over and had been working on it here and there until about six years ago when you stopped."

  Serene was flabbergasted. "I wrote a story? But how did I do that? I don't even read."

  "Oh, yes, you do." John looked pleased that he had struck on something that captured Serene's attention. That he could help fill her in on the part of her past that she had yet to discover. "You picked up a love for reading after you had Barbara, you told me. All those hours spent around an infant's feeding schedule. The days were long, and you started reading your husband Steve's sci-fi books."

  The words husband Steve sent a pleasurable feeling shimmering through Serene's being. It felt right, not like when she was referred to as Erica's wife.

  "But then you discovered Ken Follett's espionage thrillers and moved onto Grisham and James Patterson. Although," John held up his finger, "if memory serves me right, your favorite authors are Liane Moriarty and Lisa Jewel. They write women's fiction. Your favorite book by Moriarty is––well, let me go get it. You gave me a copy years ago." He rose up a little stiffly and then walked with quick short steps out of the living room, returning moments later with a paperback book and handing it to Serene. "What Alice Forgot," John said. "Which, interestingly enough, is about a woman who loses her memory. She has a fall off an exercise bike at her gym and suffers amnesia for some weeks or months. It's been a while since I read it, so not too sure about the particulars anymore."

  Serene quickly read the back matter and was instantly intrigued. She looked up at John and their eyes locked for a moment. He took his seat. A comfortable silence lapsed between them as Serene digested this new information about her former life.

  "So," she said.

  John leaned forward. He had a way of snapping to attention and becoming completely focused whenever she spoke.

  "I was reading and writing when we met, but then when I became Dora, that all stopped?"

  "Ah, yes. You know, that was interesting."

  "Interesting?"

  "Well, Ramani and I disagree on the matter, but that switch you made," he snapped his fingers. "Ramani said you liked pretending to be this Dora person when you were little, but," he rubbed his lips together and pointed his index finger at his temple, moving it in tight little circles in the air, "you see, talking to you right now, I know you're not Dora––are you?" His eyes held hers and Serene felt her throat tighten. Slowly, she shook her head.

  "You are Serene now," he said softly. Then his voice returned to a normal timbre. "Dora… well, now, you can let me know if this conversation makes you uncomfortable in any way and we can stop, but now I've g
ot my therapist cap on." He gave her a crooked smile.

  "I want to know what you have to say," Serene said in a low voice and then grabbed her water, chugging the rest down.

  "Okay." John rubbed his hands together. "Through the grapevine, I heard that you are experiencing dissociative fugue. A kind of amnesia that can wipe out all of your memories of who you are, or a good portion of those memories, which accounts for the twenty-four years gone just like that. But the switch you made about six-seven years ago, I think. Now that. That was something different altogether. Not just a name change, a completely different personality in mannerisms, in interests. Out went the writing and reading. Suddenly you were drawing intricate pictures, stuff that takes years of practice to produce, and I thought, well, this is interesting. You and I always got on well, a lot in common with the books and writing. After you had Jesse, you suffered postpartum depression and I used to stop by to visit you from time to time, cheer you up. One day I stopped by, and that was when things were different. The house was spick and span, you'd cut your hair and straightened it, and I remember you had on this eye-popping bright purple lipstick. Whoa." John blinked at the memory. "And you were suddenly so confident, so loud," He frowned at the thought. "Yeah," he said eventually. "You got into running and were hanging out a lot with Erica. The next thing I knew, you and Steve were divorcing and you were marrying Erica, and I thought, I might be wrong, but you were displaying what we call in psychology dissociative identity disorder, or what was formerly known as multiple personality disorder."

  "I've been diagnosed with that," Serene said quietly.

  John lifted a brow. "Have you? I told Ramani several times that your change in personality was too drastic to be a lifestyle change. It made me wonder, too––this thing about being Dora when you were young. Do you remember that?"

  Serene nodded. "I would lose time."

  "Right." John made a face and shook his head regretfully. "I never could get Ramani to come around from this perspective that you were pretending to be someone else. She was so stuck on that, just wouldn't budge."