by Joy Fielding
“You don’t have to apologize.” Her eyes were drawn to a cluster of photographs that rested along the top of the piano. Among them were three classroom pictures of young children arranged in neat little rows according to height, looking proud and happy for the photographer. ARLINGTON PRIVATE SCHOOL announced the small blackboard held by one of the boys in the front row. Undoubtedly her daughter was among these children.
“Do you know which one she is?” Michael asked, reading her thoughts, and coming up behind her. She felt his warm breath on the back of her neck.
Jane lifted one of the photographs into her hands, her eyes skipping quickly over the imp-faced little boys to concentrate on the more eager-to-please little girls. Would she recognize her only child?
“She’s the second one from the end,” Michael said, ending her agony, pointing to a delicate little girl with long light-brown hair and enormous eyes. She was dressed from head to toe in yellow and looked to be about three or four years old. “That was in junior kindergarten,” he continued, answering her silent question. “She was four.” He picked up the next photograph, pointing to the same little girl, older by one year, wearing pink and white, her long hair swept back into a ponytail. “Senior kindergarten.”
“She’s tall,” Jane remarked, hearing her voice crack.
“Always in the back row, I’m afraid. Things haven’t changed a lot since we were in grade school.”
She exchanged the first picture for the third and last, quickly locating Emily, now in grade one, wearing black-and-white checks, her hair loose and disappearing down her back, her smile not quite as broad as in previous years, her eyes more self-conscious and shy. My baby, Jane thought, thinking her a beautiful child, but feeling none of the maternal instincts she knew she should. Six-year-old Emily Whittaker was just a pretty face in a crowded class photograph. The realization saddened her, brought tears to her eyes. “Where’s this year’s picture?” she asked.
“What?” He sounded surprised, almost alarmed.
“Shouldn’t there be one more picture?” Mentally, she worked her way through the years. “There’s junior kindergarten when she was four, then we have senior kindergarten and grade one, which would make her five and six. But you said she was seven.”
“Yes, she just completed grade two.” His eyes scanned the top of the piano. “I guess we didn’t get a picture this year,” he said slowly, giving the matter careful thought. “She must have been away sick or something.” He shrugged, lifting a photograph of Emily sitting on Santa Claus’s knee into his large sculptured hands, which she noticed were trembling. “This was taken a few years ago. And this one,” he continued, handing her a large silver frame, “was taken last June.”
Jane found her eyes glued to the faces of the three smiling strangers who were her husband, her daughter, and herself. Her hands shaking, she allowed Michael to take the picture and lead her away from the piano.
“Do you want to lie down?” His voice was as soft as a blanket. She longed to curl up inside it.
Instead she shook her head. “You probably should show me the rest of the house first.”
His arm around her waist, he guided her out of the living room down the hall toward the back of the house. They passed a powder room and a row of closets before reaching the kitchen, a large sunny room whose entire south wall was windows. The kitchen, which overlooked a large garden, was decorated almost entirely in white: a round white table and four chairs; a white ceramic tile floor; white walls. The only color came from the abundance of trees outside and from the backsplash of tiles on the wall above the kitchen counter that contained, at irregular intervals, handpainted tiles of miniature red apples and watermelons.
“It’s lovely,” she said, moving directly to the floor-to-ceiling windows and peering out at the well-kept yard. She noticed a door on the right wall that led outside, and had to fight the urge to run to it, fling it open, and flee.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he said, his voice a smile. His arm moving to her shoulder, he led her through the kitchen door on her left toward yet another room. “Madame’s sunroom,” he announced proudly.
She stepped into a wonderland of glass and greenery. “We added this room about three years ago,” he explained as she turned circles in the center of the room.
“I’ve never seen such a beautiful room,” she told him, knowing this was true no matter what else she might have seen and forgotten.
His smile grew so wide that it seemed his entire face was involved. “You say that every time you come in here,” he said, sounding almost hopeful.
People in glass houses, she mused, deciding that no stones could ever have been hurled in this room. Nothing bad could have happened in a house with a room as beautiful as this.
The south and west walls were made completely of glass; the floor was covered in a mosaic of tiny white and black tiles; plants and potted trees were everywhere. Along the north wall—a wall that truly was a wall, the other side of which was the living room—was a white wicker sofa-swing with pillows of green and white. It was flanked on either side by similarly patterned low-slung chairs, themselves flanked by a variety of white wicker and glass tables.
Jane approached the swing sofa and sank down, feeling it sway with her weight. She rocked gently back and forth, wondering how she could have forgotten this paradise on earth. “My own private rain forest,” she said out loud, watching Michael grin approval.
“It’ll all come back to you,” he told her, collapsing into the chair on her right and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Just take your time. Try not to force things.”
“Did Dr. Meloff say anything to you about how long this condition might last?” She wondered if the good doctor had confided more in her husband than he had in her.
“He said that most cases of hysterical amnesia, if that’s what we’re dealing with, usually reverse themselves spontaneously, that it could be a matter of hours or days.”
“Or weeks or months.”
“It’s unlikely to go on for months, but it’s true, there’s no set timetable. Conditions like this usually right themselves when they’re ready.”
“But what caused this condition in the first place?” Her eyes shot frantically around the room, the plants and potted trees blocking out unwanted visions of blood and hundred-dollar bills. “It doesn’t make sense. I mean, I seem to be a woman who has everything: a nice house, a loving husband, a beautiful daughter. Why would I suddenly forget it all? What could have happened to make me want to pretend none of this ever existed?”
Michael’s eyes closed, the fingers of his right hand massaging the wayward bridge of his nose. When he reopened his eyes, he looked at her as if he were measuring her strength, as if he were wondering how much truth she could stand.
“What?” she asked. “What are you thinking about? What aren’t you telling me?”
Instantly, he was at her side, his sudden weight rocking the sofa-swing back and forth. “I’m thinking that it’s been a long, hard, puzzling day, and I’m tired. I’m thinking that we should let matters lie until we’ve both had a good night’s sleep. I’m thinking that there’ll be plenty of time to talk in the morning.”
“Then there is something,” she persisted.
He patted her hand reassuringly. “No,” he told her. “Nothing.”
The doorbell rang.
“Who could that be?” Jane asked.
Michael pushed himself off the sofa-swing and stood up. “I think I have an idea.”
Jane reluctantly followed him out of the sunroom, back through the kitchen, to the hall. She hung back as he approached the front door, watching from the shadow of the stairway as he opened the door and stepped back.
“How is she?” the woman asked, coming inside.
“Confused,” Michael told her, leading her into the living room. “She doesn’t remember anything about herself at all.”
“My God! Nothing?”
He shook his head.
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br /> “Is she lying down?”
“I’m right here,” Jane told Carole Bishop, recognizing the woman Michael had identified as their neighbor from across the street. She was still wearing her baggy Bermuda shorts, her dimpled knees peeking out from underneath them.
Carole Bishop looked to be in her mid-forties. She was short, no more than five feet two inches, and probably carrying around twenty unnecessary pounds, but she was one of those women for whom the words cute and perky were no doubt invented. As soon as she saw Jane, the color drained from her round face, her expression hovering uneasily between worry and fear.
Is she worried about what she should say? Jane wondered. Or frightened by what I might say?
“Michael told me about your amnesia,” Carole began, looking to Michael for support.
“I called her from the hospital and explained briefly what was happening,” Michael said quickly. “I asked her to drop by.” He raised his hands in the air in a gesture of helplessness. “I thought you might feel less threatened with someone else around.”
Once again, Jane’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude. “I don’t feel threatened,” she whispered, wanting him to take her in his arms.
“I guess you must be pretty scared,” Carole said.
“I’m more anxious than scared,” Jane qualified. “I just wish I knew why this was happening.” She began pacing, her feet wearing deep prints in the thick green carpeting. “I have a feeling that once I know that, the rest will fall into place.”
“You can’t remember anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, maybe I can help you out,” Carole offered, drawing Jane toward the sofa and sitting down. “My name is Carole Bishop. That’s Carole with an e. I’ve been your neighbor for—how long now?” She looked to Michael, who remained standing. “Three years?”
“About that.”
“About three years. When we first moved in, you came running right over with this wonderful chocolate cake you’d baked, said it was your specialty. Best chocolate cake I’d ever eaten, and God knows I’ve eaten more than my share. You even gave me the recipe, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve made that cake since then. Every time we had company, I’d make that cake.” She swallowed several times, looking into her lap before continuing. “Of course, I don’t have a whole lot of company since Daniel moved out. You’d be amazed at how fast some of your so-called friends desert you once your husband leaves. Daniel was my husband,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “You used to go running with him a few mornings a week. You don’t remember any of this?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I wish I could forget the s.o.b. that easily.” Carole sighed, a long, deep sigh that caused her ample bosom to shake. “He moved out the end of October. I tried to persuade him to take the kids with him,” she joked. “At least take the dog, I begged him. Or my father! But he said if I kept the house, I was responsible for its contents. So there you have it. You’re all up-to-date.” She ran her fingers through her short, curly blond hair. “Go ahead, ask me anything. Obviously, I’m not shy. I have no secrets.”
Jane studied Carole’s hands that were twisting in her lap, noting that the woman still wore her wedding and engagement rings. “I don’t know what to ask,” she said after a long pause.
Carole looked from Jane to Michael, then back to Jane. “I just want you to know that I’m here for you if you need anything, if you have any questions at all….”
“Thank you.”
“You were really more Daniel’s friend than mine,” she continued, unprompted. “But after he left, you were very supportive. You always had time for me. You let me come over and cry on your shoulder whenever I felt the need. So, if you need anything now, I hope you know I’m here for you.”
“Thank you,” Jane and Michael replied, a half beat apart.
“I could bring over some dinner,” Carole volunteered. “I have lots left over. When in doubt, eat, I always say.”
Jane’s eyes widened in alarm.
“What?” Carol asked. “Something I said?”
Jane became highly agitated, finding it difficult to sit still. Michael was immediately on his knees in front of her. “What is it, Jane?”
“What you just said,” Jane told them, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a mad scramble so that they were barely recognizable, and it became necessary to stop, take a few seconds to reformulate her thoughts, and begin again. “When I was at the Lennox Hotel, and I didn’t know what to do with myself, I remember thinking, ‘When in doubt, eat!’ It was like I heard this little voice prompting me, saying ‘When in doubt, eat!’ And I wondered where that expression came from.”
“My legacy!” Carole said with appropriate irony.
“That’s great,” Michael told Jane, then gently stroked the side of her head. “It means everything’s in there, all locked up for safe-keeping. We just have to find the proper keys.”
Jane smiled agreement, feeling light-headed with sudden optimism.
“I’ll just run home and put some dinner together,” Carole began.
“Not for me,” Michael said quickly. “I couldn’t eat a thing.”
“Me neither,” Jane confirmed. Although she felt hungry, she was too excited to eat.
“But thank you,” Michael continued. “The offer is greatly appreciated.”
“Well, you can always call me if you change your mind. I’ve got plenty of food.” She laughed, a harsh sound totally devoid of mirth. “My kids eat every meal like they’ve never seen food before, and somebody forgot to tell my father that old people are supposed to lose their appetites, not to mention our dog, who thinks he’s human and consequently won’t eat anything that he doesn’t see us eating, so I cook enough for the entire neighborhood. Oh well, I shouldn’t complain. The kids are off to camp soon, and at least everybody’s healthy. If you get hungry later, you can always let me know.”
“We will,” Michael told her, rising to his feet, signaling the end of the conversation by walking to the front door.
Carole Bishop took Jane’s hands in her own. Her strong voice became a whisper. “You’re in good hands,” she confided. “You couldn’t ask for a better husband.” She fought back the sudden appearance of unexpected tears. “Everything will be all right, Jane. Just let Michael take care of you.”
Jane sat perfectly still as Carole joined Michael in the hall.
“You’ll call me if you need me?” she heard Carole ask before the front door closed.
“She seems very nice,” Jane said as Michael reentered the room.
“Yes, she is.”
“It must be very hard for her, having to look after both her father and her children.”
“A true member of the sandwich generation,” Michael said.
Jane nodded, recalling an episode on Donahue that dealt with exactly that—women sandwiched between the demands of their children and the needs of their elderly parents. Was she a member in good standing of this same group?
Her father had died when she was thirteen years old, Michael had told her at the hospital. But what about her mother? Did she still live in Connecticut or had she decided to move to the Boston area to be closer to her only daughter? Or maybe she’d preferred the sunnier shores of California and was busy sandwiching her brother Tommy.
That made more sense, she decided immediately. If her mother lived anywhere in the vicinity, Michael surely would have called her to come over, not Carole. “Does my mother still live in Connecticut?” she asked, watching Michael sink into a nearby chair and stare blankly out the window. “Michael?” she asked again, thinking maybe he hadn’t heard her. “Does my mother still live in Connecticut?”
He shook his head, folding his hands together and bringing them toward his mouth.
“Michael?”
He looked directly into her eyes and she understood immediately that her mother was dead. Even so, she found it necessary to say the words. “My mother’s dead, isn’t she?
”
He nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“How old was she?”
“Sixty-three.”
“That’s very young,” she remarked, feeling no emotional connection to the woman who had birthed her and was now gone.
“Yes,” he agreed simply, saying nothing further.
“How did she die? Cancer? A stroke?”
“No.”
“What, then?” She pushed herself to the edge of the sofa, anxiety growing in the pit of her belly.
He hesitated only a few seconds. “She was in an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“A car accident.”
“A car accident,” she repeated, thinking of the accident they had seen on their way home, recalling the strange way Michael had looked at her, as if waiting for some sign of recognition on her part, as if weighing her reaction. “Tell me about it.”
He took a deep breath before beginning. “Your mother was spending a few weeks with us. Actually, we’d been trying to persuade her to move to Boston, but she kept insisting that her bridge club back in Hartford couldn’t get along without her, so that was that. End of discussion. You could never win an argument with your mother.” He paused, smiling at the memory. “Anyway, she decided to drive into Boston one afternoon, do some last-minute shopping at Filene’s Basement before she went back to Connecticut, and you—” He halted, then began again. “You were busy with Emily that day, some project at her school, I think it was ….” He stopped again, began a third time. “So, she took your car….”
“My Honda?” Jane asked, picturing the silver Prelude in the garage, needing details to lend reality to what she was hearing.
“No. You had a Volvo. Dark green,” he expanded without further prompting. “Anyway, she borrowed your car and off she went.” Again he stopped, temporarily unable, or unwilling, to continue. Jane wasn’t sure if he was trying to spare her, or himself, the pain of what was coming next.
“Go on.”
“It happened just a few blocks away. She hadn’t even reached the highway. Some guy ran a stop sign and plowed into her at sixty miles an hour. She died instantly.” He moved from his chair to her side, and she saw his eyes were filled with tears.