by Joy Fielding
Jane snapped the album shut, feeling tears rush to her eyes, refusing to let them fall. “Damnit, I will remember.” She reopened the book. “Of course I remember you, Mother,” she told the smiling photograph, happy to note that her mother looked suitably pleased. “And of course I remember my brother, Tommy. How are you, Tommy?”
A young man with fair hair and a slight gap between his two front teeth grinned back. He stood between the young woman who was Jane and the older woman who was her mother, his arms around both, looking proudly possessive. And yet, the next picture showed another young man, this one dark haired and closemouthed, in a similar pose, looking equally possessive of the women on either side of him. So, maybe this was Tommy.
She tore open another album, and found herself staring with wonder at a monstrously pregnant woman in a striped shirt and blue jeans, her hair pulled back to reveal an almost pudgy face, her jeans rolled up to expose a pair of hugely swollen ankles.
Instinctively, Jane stroked her stomach. There she was, the very picture of expectant motherhood, and here she was now, and she couldn’t recall a single minute of it. And there was Emily, pink faced and beautiful, with wisps of blond hair and little chipmunk cheeks, peeking out from beneath her baby blanket. Jane watched her daughter grow up before her eyes, one minute a baby cooing on the living room floor, the next a little girl diving fearlessly into a lake.
“You’re a beautiful little thing,” Jane whispered, quickly skimming the last album, chuckling with the realization that her daughter had obviously replaced her as her husband’s favorite model. Had she resented it? Had she been jealous of her only child?
She rubbed her forehead, feeling the threat of a headache behind her eyes. Please don’t turn out to be one of those awful, insecure mothers who hate their children. “Don’t do that to me,” she said, hearing the rumble of a vacuum cleaner above her head.
Paula was certainly a busy little lady. If she wasn’t cooking, she was cleaning. If she wasn’t cleaning, she was watering the plants. If she wasn’t watering the plants, she was making the beds. Or telling Jane it was time to take a nap. Or time to take her pills. Time to take a hike, Jane wanted to tell her, feeling encumbered by the woman’s efficiency. God, is that the kind of person I am? she wondered. Jealous even of the housekeeper? Scornful of her dedication and concern?
“No wonder I’m depressed,” she said. “I’m a miserable rotten person.”
Jane tried to picture the young woman pulling the long coil of the central vacuuming system from room to room. Judging from the hum, she was most likely in Michael’s study now, carefully seeing to his things.
How long had she known that Paula was in love with Michael? And how much had it bothered her? Could she really have held it against her? Wasn’t it only natural to be at least a little in love with the doctor who saved your child’s life, especially when the doctor was as easy to love as Michael?
Still, the woman made her feel uncomfortable. Could Paula have had anything to do with her amnesia? she wondered.
Sure, Jane thought. You tried to kill her and she’s getting her revenge by cleaning your house from top to bottom. The woman was devious, all right.
Jane returned the albums to their proper place on the bottom bookshelf, then wondered what to do. She could watch television, catch up on the doings of “The Young and the Useless,” but she was already feeling useless enough, so she decided against it. She could read, she thought, perusing the rows of hardcover books, wondering which books she had already read, curious as to whether she preferred fiction to biographies, romance to suspense. Michael had told her she’d majored in English, then worked in publishing. What exactly had she done? What kind of position had she held?
She wished Michael would get home so that she could ask him these questions, ask him whether he thought she should consult a psychiatrist, possibly even a hypnotherapist if he thought that might help. She wanted him to come home so that she could inquire about his day, tell him about hers. So that they could pretend to be living a normal life. Did he really have to be gone all day on this her first day back?
Back from what?
She wandered into the sunroom, understanding that it was to this room she came whenever she needed to think things through. She obviously had a wonderful life. What possibly could have taken place to make her want to throw it all away, to pretend it had never happened?
Her fingers grazed the leaves of the numerous plants, her eyes automatically checking to make sure they had enough water. Of course they did. Paula had seen to that.
I should be ashamed, she thought, sinking into one of the chairs and staring at nothing in particular. Here is this young woman with an illegitimate handicapped daughter, no money and few prospects, and she’s busy upstairs cleaning my house—she’s coping—while I sit here with a wonderful husband and a healthy child, up to my eyeballs in self-pity, not coping. Except hadn’t Dr. Meloff explained that hysterical amnesia was, in fact, a coping mechanism? A way of dealing with an intolerable situation brought on by great fear or rage or humiliation?
What could it be? she demanded silently, banging her fist against the side of the chair. How long was this going to go on? Surely, whatever intolerable situation she had run away from couldn’t be more intolerable than this!
“What is it?” she heard Michael ask from the doorway, and she jumped. “Are you all right? You’re not in any pain…?”
“I’m fine,” she told him quickly, the sight of him bringing her to her feet. “I’m so glad to see you.” In the next instant she was in his arms. “I missed you,” she whispered sheepishly. She was almost foolishly happy to see him.
“I’m glad,” he told her, kissing her forehead. “I was hoping you’d feel that way.” He pulled back, scrutinizing her from arm’s length, although he didn’t let go of her. “What’s the matter? Did something happen? Hasn’t Paula been taking good care of you?”
“It’s not that,” Jane said, wondering just what it was. “I guess maybe I was expecting too much. I don’t know. I guess I thought that once I got home, my memory would come back.”
“It will. Give it time.”
“How was your day?” she asked, and laughed self-consciously.
Once again, he folded her into his arms. “Busy. Very busy.” His hands smoothed the hair at the back of her neck. “I’m so sorry I had to run out of here this morning. I hadn’t planned to go to work at all today, but it was one emergency after another, and every time I phoned, Paula said you were asleep.”
The sound that escaped Jane’s mouth was halfway between a laugh and a snort. “I did a lot of sleeping today. I think it must be those pills.”
“The pills shouldn’t make you that sleepy,” he told her. “More likely you’re just more exhausted than you know.”
“I had such strange dreams.”
“More snakes?”
“No, thank God. This time it was only maniacs in red cars trying to run me down.”
He looked startled. “Tell me about it.”
She recounted the details of her dream, still as vivid as when she had first conjured them up.
“That wasn’t a dream,” he said softly when she was finished.
“What?”
“That really happened. About two years ago, I think it was.”
“Some lunatic tried to kill me because I told him his headlights weren’t on?”
“Some lunatic tried to kill you because you told him to fuck off.” He laughed in spite of himself. “You have quite a temper,” he told her, shaking his head in amazement. “We always said that one day it would get you into a lot of trouble.”
“It really happened,” she repeated, offering no resistance as he settled her into the sofa-swing and tucked the blanket around her.
“Don’t you see what this means, Jane? You’re starting to remember. Just give yourself time. Don’t get discouraged. Everything will work itself out. In the meantime, why don’t you rest a bit before dinner? Maybe something el
se will come back to you.”
Maybe something else will come back to me, she repeated wordlessly, seeing the red Trans Am racing backward toward her from behind closed lids. “You have quite a temper,” Michael had stated. “We always said that one day it would get you into a lot of trouble.”
ELEVEN
“WELL, hi! How are you?”
“Can I come in?”
Carole Bishop immediately backed into her front hall to let Jane enter. “Of course you can. Come in and have some coffee. How are you feeling?”
“Not bad,” Jane lied, feeling lousy. She followed Carole to her kitchen, situated, as was Jane’s, at the back of the house.
“I haven’t called because I didn’t want to bother you. Michael said he’d phone if there was anything you needed ….”
“There’s nothing I need.” Except my sanity, Jane thought. “I’m being very well looked after.” I’m being held prisoner in my own home, she wanted to say, but didn’t, knowing how melodramatic it would sound, how unfair a statement it was. In truth, she was being very well looked after. Michael couldn’t have been more solicitous, more caring. And Paula was busy cooking, cleaning, managing the household, seeing to Jane’s every desire. Except what Jane really desired was to be left alone, and this Paula wouldn’t do.
Almost a week had passed since Michael had brought her home from the hospital. In that time, she had done little but eat and sleep. When she wasn’t sleeping, she had to fight to stay awake, and when she was awake, she had to fight to keep from being depressed. The longer she stayed awake, the more depressed she became. The only way to escape her depression was to fall asleep. She’d even managed to sleep through an appointment Michael had set up for her with a leading Boston psychiatrist. Out of professional courtesy, Michael’s colleague had specifically cleared his calendar to make room for her, but when Michael had arrived home to pick her up—after rearranging his own schedule—he’d been unable to rouse her. Another appointment was set up for six weeks down the road, the psychiatrist unwilling to put himself out a second time. Surely in six weeks’ time, Jane prayed, she would no longer require his services. This nightmare would be over.
She’d had no more dreams. No more memories. She existed, if she existed at all, and she was beginning to doubt even this, in a complete void.
“I forget how you take your coffee,” Carole was saying.
“Black. And thank you for not remembering.”
Carole laughed. “Wait till you get to be my age. You’ll see that your condition is not unique. A little extreme, maybe. But not unique. There are days I can’t remember a damn thing. I have to write everything down. I have a million lists.” She walked to a small desk by the far wall and produced half a dozen slips of paper. “I have a list for everything. If I don’t write it down, I forget it.” She returned to the counter and poured Jane a steaming mug of hot coffee. “I make a huge pot in the morning,” she explained, indicating the coffee maker, “and just leave it on all day. It’s decaffeinated, so it doesn’t keep me up at night. Of course, they say it gives you cancer, but then, what the hell, so does everything else. Cheers,” she said, lifting her mug toward Jane’s and clicking it against hers, as if they were drinking champagne. She pulled up a chair and sat facing Jane. For several seconds neither woman spoke, taking the time to let their thoughts settle and their questions form.
Jane allowed herself the opportunity to casually take in the room. It was approximately the same size kitchen as her own, but it was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint, and she noticed that there were several burn marks scarring the countertops. The cane seats of the kitchen chairs were fraying, verging on collapse, and the linoleum floor was strewn with forgotten crumbs. In the background, she recognized the country twang of Dolly Parton emanating from the radio on the wall by the phone.
“You like country music?” Jane asked absently.
“I love it,” came the immediate reply. “How can you not love music that gives you songs like ‘I’m Going to Hire a Wino to Decorate Our Home’?”
Jane heard laughter, and was glad to realize it was her own. It had been days since she’d laughed out loud. Michael was gone most of the time, and Paula wasn’t exactly a joke a minute. Jane looked out the window to the backyard, saw the Bishops’ large dog chasing a squirrel, and half expected to see Paula lurking somewhere in the overgrown bushes.
It was almost two o’clock, usually a time for her to be napping. But she’d pretended to be asleep when Paula had come in to give her her medication, then snuck out of the house when Paula was in the bathroom, feeling like a naughty child. How long before Paula realized she was missing?
Carole’s house suddenly shook with the sound of footsteps cascading down the stairs. “I’m out of here,” a voice yelled from the hallway.
Carole was immediately on her feet. “Andrew, just a minute. Andrew, come in here.”
A teenage boy, all arms and legs and restless twitches, appeared in the doorway. He swayed, he bounced, he all but vibrated. There was not a muscle in his skinny frame that seemed to stay still. “What is it, Mom? I’m running late.”
“Don’t you say hello?” His mother indicated their guest.
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Whittaker. How ya doing?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Okay, Mom, gotta go.”
He was halfway into the hall before Carole’s voice stopped him. “Wait a minute. You were supposed to take your grandfather out for a walk.”
“Celine’ll do it.”
Jane heard the front door open and close.
Carole’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Sure. Celine will do it. And do we see Celine anywhere? No, Celine is at the mall and will no doubt be too worn out from shopping to take her grandfather for a walk, if and when she finally deigns to honor us with her presence. Do I sound bitter to you?” The question was only partly rhetorical.
“You sound tired,” Jane told her.
Carole smiled, returning to her seat. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Carole?” An old voice cut into the moment’s silence, like fingernails scratching against a blackboard. “Carole, where are you?”
Carole’s eyes closed, her head falling back. “Another quarter heard from. I’m in the kitchen, Dad.”
A frail, bent figure appeared in the doorway. Jane recognized the old gentleman, who managed to retain a certain dignity in spite of his stained shirt and oversized gray flannel pants, as the man she saw trying to escape from this house on her first night home. Her heart went out to him. She knew exactly how he felt.
“I’m hungry,” he said. “Where’s my lunch?”
“You just had lunch, Dad,” Carole reminded him patiently.
“No,” he insisted, “I didn’t have lunch. You didn’t give me my lunch.” He glanced suspiciously at Jane, as if she might have eaten his lunch. “Who are you?”
“Dad, this is Jane Whittaker. She lives across the street. She used to go running with Daniel. You remember her, don’t you?”
“If I remembered her, would I ask who she is?”
It seemed a logical question, and Jane found herself smiling. She liked Carole’s father, if for no other reason than they seemed to have a lot in common.
“Please excuse him,” Carole apologized. “He’s not always this rude.”
“Did you say something?” Carole’s father stamped his foot angrily, reminding Jane of Rumpelstiltskin. “If you’re going to talk about me, I’d appreciate it if you’d speak up.”
“If you want to hear the conversation, Dad, you should wear your hearing aid.”
“I don’t need my hearing aid. What I need is lunch!”
“You had lunch.” Carole gestured toward the front of his stained shirt. “There it is. And there. I thought I told you to go upstairs and change.”
“What’s the matter with what I’ve got on?”
Carole lifted her hands into the air as if a gun were being held to her back and she had decided to
give in without a struggle. “Not a thing. Heavy winter pants and mustard-covered shirts are all the rage in Boston this summer. Don’t you agree, Jane?”
Jane tried to smile. Mustard was preferable to blood, she thought, trying not to stare at the eerie grayness of the old man’s skin, which made him look as if he were covered in a thin layer of dust.
Carole’s father began nodding his head up and down as if he were taking part in a conversation only he could hear. Absently, he manipulated his dentures with his tongue, pushing them forward, then pulling them back, thrusting them in and out of his mouth in time to the country music on the radio, Glen Campbell wailing about somebody being gone, gone, gone.
“Just keep your teeth in your mouth, will you, Dad?” Carole looked at Jane. “He does it to annoy me.”
“Where’s my lunch?” the old man bellowed.
Carole took a deep breath and walked to the fridge. “What would you like?”
“A steak sandwich.”
“We don’t have any steaks. I can make you a salami sandwich. How’s that?”
“What did you say?”
“Sit down, Dad.”
Carole’s father pulled out a chair and sat down. “Make one for her too,” he said, his thumb directed at Jane. “She’s too thin.”
“No, thank you,” Jane said quickly, checking herself over. Like Carole, she was dressed for comfort in culottes and a T-shirt. “I’m not hungry.”
“He ate less than two hours ago,” Carole said, spreading mustard across two pieces of bread and cutting a salami into thin slices. She put the sandwich on a small plate and deposited it in front of her father.
“What’s this?”
“Your sandwich.”
“That’s not a steak sandwich.” He pushed the plate away from him like a spoiled child.
“No, Dad. It’s salami. I told you we didn’t have any steak. You’ll be having supper in a few hours anyway. Right now you’ll have to settle for salami.”
“I don’t want salami.” He shook his head in dismay. “Don’t get old,” he said to Jane, rising from his seat and shuffling proudly out of the kitchen. She heard his weighted footsteps on the stairs, then directly overhead, as he slammed the door to his room shut.