by Heidi Lowe
"Music must have been really important to me," I reasoned one day, after a long session at the keys. How else would I have stored whole concertos in my unconscious memory?
By the time I wrapped up for the day, the room was never empty. Patients and visitors alike wandered in to hear me play, and I would turn around to find a small audience. The applause always made me blush.
The boy from the first evening, Orion, didn't miss a session, was always among the spectators.
"Hi," I said to him, when everyone else had filtered out of the room.
"Hey." This was the first time I'd seen him in a wheelchair. He had an even more ghostly pallor than usual today. My heart broke just watching him. Whatever was wrong with him didn't seem to be improving.
"Any special requests before I go? I have to warn you, though, I don't know any songs."
His laugh was weak. He shook his head. "Did you really lose your memory?"
I nodded. "Yeah, and it kinda sucks. But hey, I get to be anyone I want now." My intention was to make light of my situation, put a positive spin on it. Because, truth was, whatever I was going through paled in comparison to his troubles.
"How do you remember how to play?"
I shrugged. "Beats me. Probably the same way I remember how to walk and talk: it's second nature. Who knows? Nice wheels." I gestured with my head to his wheelchair, doing my best to sound cool and hip.
"Oh, this. I don't need it all the time. Some days I get pretty weak."
"What are you in for?"
There was a darkness beneath his eyes, shadows that wouldn't budge. Organ failure of some sort. I was certain of it.
"Liver damage," he said simply, as though he'd had to tell this story a million times, and it just slipped off his tongue.
"You need a transplant?"
He nodded slowly, even though it looked like it pained him to. "There's no match."
"I'm sorry," I said.
He smiled sadly, trying to put on a brave face. "It's all right. I had a great childhood. If I never make it to adulthood, at least I have that."
Was he trying to make me bawl my eyes out? How could he be so blase about the prospect of his demise?
"You shouldn't think like that. You have to have faith."
He rolled his eyes playfully. "Yeah, yeah, that's exactly what Nurse Tiff says."
Nurse Tiff – Tiffany, the lovely woman I'd met on my first evening in the therapy room. I'd seen her a couple of times since then, and we'd exchanged hellos in the corridor. I'd been working up the courage to ask her if she could take over from Nurse Misery. I knew I would never have the balls to do it, however. It wasn't very good etiquette.
"You should listen to her, she knows what she's talking about." I recalled my own brief conversation with her, and how she'd calmed my nerves about my uncertain future.
"She's been saying the same thing for eight months. She doesn't believe in sadness."
I chuckled, which made Orion laugh. But then his words hit me. Eight months? Had he been in hospital that long?
I was about to inquire, when a raised, irate voice outside startled us.
I looked at Orion questioningly, only to see him roll his eyes again. "Mrs Howlett's back."
He rolled himself out and I followed him. At the reception desk, a flamboyantly dressed woman of about seventy was getting into it with Nurse Misery. The woman, who I gathered was the aforementioned Mrs Howlett, had on the biggest, furriest purple and red coat, yellow stockings, and wispy hair that she'd dyed bright pink and hadn't bothered to brush or style.
"We do this dance every fortnight, Mrs Howlett," Nurse Misery said with a sigh. "We can't take your blood if you've been drinking. You know the rules."
"I'll have you know," Mrs Howlett began, voice loud and booming, pointing a wobbly finger at the nurse, "not a drop of alcohol has crossed these lips. What do you think I am?"
Nurse Misery folded her arms, gave a who-are-you-trying-to-fool look.
"Okay, okay, I had one drink. Just the one. And I added water–"
"It doesn't matter. We can't do it. Come back tomorrow."
"You won't be saying that when I drop dead from hypertension!"
"Should have thought about that before you poured that stuff down your throat."
"Blasphemous!" Mrs Howlett yelled, so dramatically I thought I'd walked into a pantomime. "You're the devil! I've always said it. Why else is your hair red?" She swayed to the nearest chair and collapsed into it, scowling at the nurse. "Where's Nurse Tiff anyway? She knows how to speak to her patients."
Scribbling something onto a paper, her back turned to the disgruntled woman, Nurse Misery said, "You're not one of her patients, or did you lose fifty-five years when I wasn't looking?"
It took a moment for me to realize what she meant by that, and then it hit me: Nurse Tiff was a pediatric nurse. That was her connection to Orion. Of course. I'd seen her with a couple of other kids. Duh!
"What's that all about?" I whispered to Orion, through the corner of my mouth.
"She does this all the time," he said, amusement in his voice. "Causes trouble because she has nothing better to do. They usually just let her hang around until she gets bored and goes home."
"Why is she asking for Nurse Tiff?"
"Because she's the only person Mrs Howlett actually likes. She usually calms her down."
"Nurse Tiff sounds like a miracle worker..."
As if she'd heard her name being spoken, she came striding out of a nearby room. Every time I saw her she was in a good mood.
"Hello," she said with the biggest, whitest smile. Her teeth sparkled beneath the lights. She always wore her hair the same – one tight French braid. She always looked so neat, her blue overalls never creased or stained.
Her life must be perfect, I mused. For her to smile like that, every day, and be so put together, she was probably happily married to the most handsome man in town, and their children were probably adorable. Watching her only made me sad for the life I'd lost. Perhaps I was just like her.
"Mrs Howlett's here," Orion said to her, in that here-we-go-again tone.
Nurse Tiffany didn't sigh, as I'd expected, but instead did a little laugh, shook her head, then approached the woman.
"Causing trouble again, I see," she said with not an ounce of malice.
"I wouldn't be me if I didn't," Mrs Howlett said, her whole countenance having changed to a friendlier one. The transformation was uncanny. Like butter wouldn't melt.
"It's all right, Pat, I'll take it from here." This was to Nurse Misery, who simply grunted a response, then went on her way. "Let me guess, whiskey?" She sat down beside her in one of the empty seats. Orion and I just remained in place, watching them. I was eager to see this conflict resolution, though I had no idea why.
"You know how I am with needles. I know it's silly, and it's just a little prick..." Here she leaned in and whispered, though not nearly quietly enough, "Which was one of the reasons why I divorced my last husband. Wink wink." She let out a throaty cackle.
"Hey, I said no indecent jokes before five PM," Tiffany said with a laugh of her own. "I'll make a deal with you. You come back tomorrow, sober, and I'll do it myself. I'm not supposed to, but I'll make an exception just this once."
"You say that every time. You're so good to me."
"I know." Tiffany patted her on the thigh. Then she noticed me again, standing and watching. A smile broke out. "You could do something for me."
"Anything."
Tiffany beckoned me over, and I hesitantly joined them.
"This is Abigail," she started. "Are you still looking for a place to stay?"
I nodded, not sure where this was going, or if I would have liked it when it got there. I swallowed.
"Mrs Howlett here owns a guesthouse in town. If it's okay with you, Mrs Howlett, maybe Abigail could check it out, stay there until she gets sorted?"
Mrs Howlett gave me a dubious, appraising look, as though I'd sprouted horns. "Well I suppose
I could let her stay. She looks non-serial killer-like."
I placed my hand on my heart. "I solemnly swear that I'm not a serial killer. At least, not that I can remember."
This made Tiffany chuckle, though Mrs Howlett didn't get the joke.
"Okay, so that's settled. Thank you, Mrs H." She helped her up, they said their farewells, then the woman departed.
"Thank you for thinking of me," I said when she turned back to me.
She waved a dismissive hand. "It's nothing. Hey, and don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the place. It's not the tidiest place in the world, but it is...homely. Oh, and there's a piano."
"Well I'm sold."
"When are they releasing you?"
"A couple of days," I said.
She'd really saved my ass. Just yesterday the doctor informed me that I was well enough to leave the hospital – to return to the real world; a new and frightening world where I knew no one, and didn't have any means of fending for myself. They gave me a number to call, a local charity and homeless shelter who'd agreed to donate some clothes and give me a bed for a few nights. Yeah, you can imagine how appealing that sounded to me. I'd spent the whole time agonizing over it, praying for an alternative. Nurse Tiff, like the heroine she was, had come to my rescue, saving the day.
"I'll stop by your room later with the address and directions." She patted me on the arm as if to reassure me. "See, I told you not to worry."
Could she have been an angel sent from above? A guardian angel tasked with keeping me out of trouble while I navigated my way through this new landscape?
"Okay, Mister, I promised you a chess rematch. Let's go," she said to Orion, took hold of his wheelchair, and wheeled him away down the corridor.
SEVEN
Saturday, May 3, 1997
It's the second day of my fast. I'm doing this thing called intermittent fasting. It's where you don't eat for at least twelve hours, after which time your body goes into fasting mode, and you start burning fat. I'm pushing myself and doing sixteen hours of fasting a day. Gotta say, it's a lot easier than I thought it would be. Skipping breakfast and lunch means I have more time to do other things...like cry over my failed relationship! No, I'm happy to report that it's been exactly one whole month since I did that. Does that indicate that I'm fully over Diana now? Working on it. I still made myself scarce when she came by to get her things. I half expected her to be waiting for me, knowing the hold she has over me, just to tempt me with those bee stung lips. She would have let me see her tongue ring, speak in a way that it kept showing, just to remind me what I was missing.
Grrr! I know I'm a game to her. It's always been that way. New Year's resolution (yes, I know, I know, we're in May): don't date smooth-talking assholes with tongue rings. Luckily, Oakwood isn't exactly renowned for that sort of thing. I'm still one of the few lesbians (out ones at least) in this place.
You'll be pleased to know that after throwing the tattooed vixen Sarah's number in the trash, I fished it out, called and left a message. It took me a whole weekend to decide what to say, until I finally settled on: Hey! It's Tiffany. We met the other night, while you were at work. How's it going?
Pathetic, I know. What was I supposed to say?
I didn't expect her to remember me or call back, but later that evening she did, and we've been talking ever since. She's twenty-four, moved here from Denver about five months ago, and dreams of buying and running her own women-only bar one day. She seems nice enough, but almost every other word that comes out of her mouth is a curse word, and she gets very creative with them. She speaks like someone who grew up with Fagin and the Artful Dodger!
Maybe I shouldn't be so picky. It's as Mom always says, "Your dad was a little rough around the edges when we met, but he had a million other qualities, one of which was being able to make me laugh whenever I was upset."
I'll keep an open mind with Sarah. My parents have taught me that.
In other news, remember that intercity bus that crashed? Well, you wouldn't believe what's happened. There was a woman on it, and she woke up with no knowledge of who she was or where she came from. Retrograde amnesia. It's like something out of the Twilight Zone. She doesn't even remember her own name. I can't imagine how that would feel to not know who I am. I guess you could look at it from a different perspective. Like, if it happened to me, I could forget all the hurt and pain Diana and all my other exes caused. In some ways losing one's memory might be a blessing. Maybe this woman, Abigail (I said she looked like an Abigail, so that's what she goes by now), was running from her old life, trying to escape a past replete with destruction and chaos. Haha, I've been reading too many Nora Roberts books!
No, she doesn't seem the type. I know that she's good, that she has a good heart. I feel it when we speak. She gives off this energy. I don't know what it is. Whoever she was before probably didn't differ much from who she is now.
And no, I'm not crushing on her! Not only would that be inappropriate, I'm almost 100% certain she's as straight as a ruler. That does not, however, mean that she isn't attractive. Beautiful, in fact, in a kind of lost little lamb way. She has these big brown eyes that always look curious, dreamy. Someone has surely snapped her up. There was no ring on her finger, though, but it easily could have slipped off in the accident. Either way, I'm sure someone will come looking for her eventually, will claim her as theirs. Then she'll get her memory back and forget all about this little town in the middle of nowhere.
Until then, she's staying at Oakwood's only guesthouse that doesn't allow guests: that's right, Mrs Howlett's abode. Don't ask me how I did it, but I managed to twist Barbara Howlett's arm and get a room for Abigail a few days ago. I've been having sleepless nights ever since. As nice as old Barb is to me, she's someone best taken in small, infinitesimal doses. Subjecting anyone to her for long periods of time is akin to torturing them.
I should go and see how Abigail's settled in. Yeah, it's the right thing to do. Make sure Mrs Howlett hasn't driven her to suicide! I'm convinced some of her husbands went out that way.
Yeah, so it's settled. I'll stop by the guesthouse, say hello, bring a plant or something. Isn't that what people do when someone's just moved into a new place? I kind of feel sorry for Abigail. She doesn't know a soul here, doesn't have anyone.
Oh, I bought a scratch card yesterday, just because. What can I say, I felt lucky.
Didn't win anything.
EIGHT
"And this is Georgie. See, he's wearing that ridiculous stetson again. That was just before I stole it to wash it. He had this thing about washing it – thought it was bad luck. When I returned it to him, clean, smelling of lavender and goodness, he never wore it again."
A photograph – that had become yellowed with age – of a good-looking, bearded man in a white stetson, sat nestled behind the plastic sleeve of a photo album. The third one we'd made our way through that afternoon. On the coffee table, stacked high, leaning ominously, were a dozen or so more albums, bursting with seventy plus years of Mrs Howlett's memories. Whatever she couldn't remember she had a picture for. If she'd forgotten someone, she could be certain they were right there among the pile.
We'd spent the last couple of hours going through her life, her loves – of which there were many – in the living room of her guesthouse. In a way, we'd bonded over it. There weren't many who would have found other people's photos fascinating. But seeing as I didn't have any memories of my own, beyond those I'd made since waking up in Oakwood, I wanted to live vicariously through hers.
"You've lived a colorful life," I said, once we broke for coffee and cake, the latter of which she'd baked herself. A vanilla sponge that tasted divine. Gobbling it up, I got crumbs everywhere. She didn't seem to mind.
"Delores will have that cleaned up in no time," she said dismissively. Delores wasn't her maid, but a large tabby cat who only acknowledged you if you were feeding her.
"It's as I say, life is supposed to be colorful. Some of the photos might be black and white
, but my life was far from it."
"And you were really married six times?"
She nodded with pride, her pink hair wild and free. "Would have been seven if he didn't go and get himself killed in a scuba diving accident. I told him not to try it." She shook her head. "Lester would have made a terrible husband, anyway. Wanted to do everything for himself, didn't need me for anything. As a woman, you want to feel needed, you know?"
I wasn't sure, but I nodded in agreement anyway. How would I know anything about interdependence?
"And this place, you said one of your husbands left it to you in his will. Did you run it together?" I was curious about the guesthouse, about why she still kept it if she didn't allow people to stay there. She'd confessed that I was the first guest she'd had in six years. She didn't like people very much. If she hadn't explicitly said so, it would have been apparent within minutes of seeing her interact with strangers. I was still flabbergasted that I'd managed to win her over, almost without trying, simply by being a good listener.
"Oh no, nothing like that. He bought it as an investment when we were married. A terrible investment, mind. And just to spite me, because I was so against the purchase, the mean bastard left it to me. Instead of selling it and moving back to my old hometown, I decided to keep it. But as a middle finger to him, I don't let anyone stay here."
I frowned but said nothing. Her actions likely made all the sense in the world to her, even if they baffled the hell out of me.
But I wasn't complaining. She'd allowed me to stay there rent free. Having the place virtually to myself had its perks. Twelve bedrooms, only two of them occupied, and an old baby grand piano in the spacious living room meant I could play in peace. I'd already started composing a sonata, seeing as there wasn't much else to do, besides watch television and read. I kept hoping that the playing would trigger a memory or two, but it hadn't thus far.