Amnesia

by Andrew Neiderman

  The waiter looked at Mrs. Masters, who nodded. He stepped away.

  “Please,” she told Aaron, “don’t get yourself upset. Everyone here knows you’ve been going through a difficult time. Everyone understands. Dr. Longstreet?” she said turning to her. “Tell him not to be concerned,” she ordered.

  “You’re doing fine, Aaron. Don’t get yourself worked up. Remember what I told you about stress,” Dr. Longstreet warned, raising her eyebrows for emphasis.

  He nodded.

  “Sorry,” he muttered and glanced at Megan.

  She was staring at him in a funny way, not angry or displeased with him as much as indifferent, as if he was someone else’s husband.

  Then she smiled.

  “Aaron’s just tired,” she declared. “He has had a big day, you know.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Masters said.

  “It might be better if we say good night,” Megan continued, her eyes still fixed on him.

  “Whatever you think best, dear,” Mrs. Masters said. “Dr. Longstreet?”

  “One can’t rush these things,” she agreed. “Proper rest is very important.”

  “We do want you to be strong and well enough to get a good start here, Aaron,” Mrs. Masters continued, patting him on the hand. He felt like a little boy. They were all looking at him that way, too.

  Megan stood up. Aaron understood he was being rushed away and rose slowly.

  “I hope I haven’t ruined everyone’s good time,” he said.

  Everyone chanted their “nos” and “ridiculous to say such a thing.”

  Mrs. Allan returned, the stains gone.

  “All is forgiven,” she declared. “Oh, are you two leaving?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Masters said. “It’s better Mr. Clifford not do too much too soon. His doctor says so,” she added, nodding at Dr. Longstreet.

  “Please, don’t think anything of this. See, no harmdone,” Charlene Allan said, sticking her breasts up and at him.

  He nodded and smiled. Megan came around and took his arm.

  “I’ll see you two out,” Mrs. Masters said, and they went to the front door, which opened before they reached it.

  “I’m sorry,” Aaron told her as they stepped out.

  “Don’t say that again, Aaron,” she snapped. “There’s no need for any apologies, and I assure you, no one in there thinks anything negative about you. Everyone is happy you’re part of our little community.

  “Megan will take good care of you. I’ll see you on Monday, dear,” she said, and she kissed Megan on the cheek. “Good night, Aaron. Sleep well,” she said and kissed him, too.

  Instead of the perfume he had inhaled when she had greeted him earlier, he smelled a sweet maple aroma that seemed strangely familiar. A man’s face flashed before his eyes. He forced himself to ignore it, nodded, and walked down the steps to their car. Megan opened the door for him.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Don’t treat me like an invalid,” he said sharply.

  “Of course you’re okay,” she said.

  He got in and she got in.

  Mrs. Masters had gone back into the house. He stared at the entrance as Megan started the engine.

  “It was a wonderful evening, wasn’t it, Aaron?”

  “Yes,” he said, still looking toward the house.

  “So many nice people, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And isn’t Mrs. Masters super special?”

  “How old is she?” he asked as they started away. “From what you were telling me about her, I envisioned a woman in her sixties.”

  “She’s in her fifties,” Megan said and smiled.

  “Terrific shape,” he said. “Lots of plastic surgery?”

  “Not that I know of,” Megan said. “Just good genes, I suppose. You can’t underestimate the importance of heredity when it comes to all that, Aaron.”

  “Right,” he said.

  “Feeling okay?”

  “Fine,” he said but sat back with his eyes closed.

  That aroma. That face.

  “But I do feel foolish about what I did at the table. I don’t know what came over me. I had this sharp pain and then these ridiculous hallucinations. The men . . .”

  “Stop doting on it, Aaron. You were told.”

  “I know. It was just so bizare.”

  He continued to massage his temples, keeping his eyes closed.

  “I’m sure when you get home, you’ll feel better,” he heard a man say, and his eyes snapped open.

  He turned quickly and looked back up the driveway.

  “Who?”

  “What, Aaron?”

  He didn’t speak.

  “Aaron?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Damn,” he quickly added. “If I don’t get better soon . . .”

  “You will. Just follow the doctor’s orders, Aaron.”

  “Right,” he said and squeezed his temples hard with his thumb and forefinger.

  Where was I? he wondered and struggled for the answer. Where had I been just before I found myself in Grand Central? If I can remember that . . .

  I can remember who I am, he thought.

  It was such a powerful thought, it gave him a chill.

  But strangely enough, it also gave him hope.

  . . . nine

  aaron did feel stronger and stronger during the week that followed. As Megan described an event or something significant in their past, the memory of it seemed to jell. He was growing more and more confident about himself every day. He looked better, felt stronger and far more relaxed. Megan took so much joy in every little improvement, too. They were continually celebrating something he said or something he recalled, and often the celebration spilled over to passionate love-making.He was more confident with that as well, now taking more of an aggressive role. Megan was pleased about it.

  “That’s my old Aaron,” she would tell him. By old Aaron she meant the Aaron of their first years together. She always made that clear, which gave him the distinct impression he had changed dramatically in their marriage and as a result their marriage had lost most of its spark.

  “You’re bringing it all back,” she told him when heasked her about that. “We’re both undergoing a resurrection here, Aaron. I’m so happy,” she said.

  That made him feel even better, prouder, gave him a sense of accomplishment which spilled over to his work.

  He spent much of the following week getting his office organized. Toward the middle of the second week she suggested they go out to buy another car.

  “I don’t mind dropping you off and picking you up every day, but it’s silly. Now that you’re no longer a commuter, we definitely need a second vehicle, Aaron,” Megan told him. “What would you like?” she asked.

  He shook his head and smiled. How ridiculous, he thought, when nothing jumped out. Most people who suddenly had the opportunity to acquire a new vehicle would have little problem with such a question. Most people daydream about a new car and see themselves behind the wheel. Where are my daydreams?

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ve been part of the public transportation system too long. Well,” he said after a moment, “something sporty, I suppose. After all, we have the Mercedes for family outings.”

  “Just what I was thinking, Aaron. I’d like to see my husband tooling around Driftwood in an expensive sports car. Let’s go look at the new Corvette.”

  “Corvette?” He thought for a moment. “Yeah, new Corvette. Why not? We can afford it,” he agreed. She had shown him their portfolio, and he knew the balances in their bank accounts. They were very well off.

  That afternoon they drove over to the dealership. Megan had already called the sales manager, whogreeted them herself. Her name was Adya Lund. She was originally from Morocco. She looked no more than in her late twenties and had short, styled raven black hair with eyes as black. Aaron was genuinely impressed with her knowledge of cars, engines, and all the bells and whistles.

  “How did you end up here
, selling cars?” Aaron asked when it came to sitting in the office and filling out the paperwork. They had chosen a white Corvette with black leather.

  “I ended up here when my husband was transferred from Newport, Rhode Island, but I’ve always been around cars,” Adya explained. “My father was a worldclass race car driver.” She laughed. Her eyes are dazzling, Aaron thought, like black diamonds. “We have an Italian lineage on my father’s side, and my grandfather used to swear to me that one of my ancestors was a champion Roman chariot driver.”

  Aaron nodded, glanced at Megan, and then looked back at Adya.

  “I must say,” he said, “you’re not my idea of a car salesman.”

  “That’s sexist, Aaron,” Megan chastised.

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Adya happens to be one of the most successful-car salespersons in the state,” Megan said. Up until then she had sat by quietly and listened with a smile on her face. “People come from everywhere to have Adya sell them a vehicle. I knew we’d get the best deal with the most important information.”

  “You’re too kind, Mrs. Clifford.”

  Megan’s smile widened.

  “Not at all, Adya. You know how we all feel about false modesty here.”

  “Yes, your wife is correct, Mr. Clifford. The truth is, I’ve done my best work here, and so will you,” Adya said.

  Twenty minutes later Aaron was sitting behind the wheel with Adya going over the dashboard and controls.

  “This phone is voice activated,” she explained, indicating the car phone. “When it rings, you just say hello. It will automatically lower the radio if it’s playing too loud, and you’ll be on. You don’t need to lift your hands from the steering wheel, and when you want to call home, just say home. Your number already has been programmed into the phone.”

  “It has? When was that done?”

  “While we were filling out papers, Aaron,” Megan replied for her.

  “Oh. Right.”

  “You understand all the other things on the dashboard, Mr. Clifford?” Adya asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Call me if you have any questions, Mr. Clifford, or stop by anytime.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ready?” Megan asked. He nodded. “Just follow me home,” she said. She made him put the top down even though it was a bit nippy.

  “It’ll put some color in your face, Aaron,” she said.

  Adya laughed. Her sexy eyes and ruby lips set in that dark skin stirred him, made him feel like a teenager. He revved the engine.

  “What fun,” Megan said. “Those mufflers sound more like some wild animal’s low growl.”

  “Aren’t you afraid all the young girls will come after me?” he teased.

  “No,” she said, “but not because you’re not a handsome sight in the car and out,” she said. “They just wouldn’t dare,” she added. She sounded very serious.

  Adya nodded.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t they dare?” he asked.

  “I’d put a spell on them and make them break out in pimples,” Megan quipped.

  Adya laughed harder.

  “Good luck with your car, Mr. Clifford. You wear it well,” Adya said.

  He thanked her and watched her walk back to the office—sway was more like it.

  “Did you really know about her or was that all flattery to butter her up for a better price when we were talking in there?” he asked Megan.

  “I got the lowdown first from Terri. Everyone knows everything about everyone else in this town, Aaron. So,” she kidded, “don’t even think of having a secret rendezvous with some other woman.”

  “Why, they know your thoughts here, too?” he retorted.

  She shrugged and smiled.

  “Let’s go home,” she said.

  As they drove Aaron realized this was the first time he had driven a car since the terrible case of amnesia hit him in Grand Central. He had no problem with driving, and it was truly exciting to feel the windwhipping his hair, listening to the radio and cruising behind Megan, who occasionally glanced in her rearview mirror and waved back at him.

  They drove past the pretty homes owned by people who obviously took pride in their property. The residential areas of Driftwood looked as if they had been designed after some scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting: America, folksy, family-oriented, backyards with swings and playground equipment, some with pools, all with patches of flowers and manicured gardens. The front windows were draped in flowered curtains or plain white ones, but all the houses had bright, clean glass catching the reflection of well-placed trees, bushes, and lawns that looked as if they were scissor-cut. Women and men talking quietly in driveways turned to see him pass, all smiling. No dark clouds loomed; no one looked affected by the paranoia that seeped into urban lives, sometimes insidiously, sometimes crashing in with the sounds of gunfire or screams in the night. He didn’t sense any distrust, suspicion, or fear.

  Megan’s right, he thought. This is an island, a precious little community with magic walls keeping out the lead stories on the six o’clock news, making it seem as if that America was across an ocean, or at least on the other side of some moat dug and filled by these people determined to raise their children in healthy climates, keep their streets and buildings free of graffiti, and their homes sacrosanct. No madness was raging here, no soulless, mindless, amoral young people lingering in the shadows, causing Grandma and Grandpa to shiver every time they stepped out of their homes.

  I feel good, he told himself. I’m happy, but Ishouldn’t be. Even with all this . . . a new career opportunity, a beautiful new home, a wonderful community, a great wife and beautiful child, I’m still, after all, in a state of limbo. I should be more upset. Where’s my anxiety? My frustration? Is Dr. Longstreet right? It would all pass if I just stopped thinking about it, worrying about it?

  He heard a horn and saw Debbie Asher driving a Land Rover out of a side street. She had a young girl in the front with her whom he imagined was her daughter. Debbie stuck her head out the window and called to him.

  “Nice car. Fits you!” she screamed.

  He laughed and waved back.

  As soon as he pulled into the driveway behind Megan, she stepped out of the Mercedes and came to him.

  “Don’t shut off the engine. Go to the school and pick up Sophie. She’ll be so excited, Aaron.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. No problem. You go to the main desk at the principal’s office and sign the pickup sheet.”

  “Maybe you should do it,” he suggested. “Or both of us!”

  “Aaron, it’s your car and it seats only two. You should get used to picking up your daughter. We don’t have just soccer moms here. We have soccer dads, too. And besides, you don’t want to stand out,” she told him a little more sternly than he expected. It almost sounded like a threat. She quickly smiled when she saw his face. “I mean, you don’t want Sophie to feel different from the other kids her age.”

  “No. Of course not. Fine,” he said. “Where’s the school again?”

  She gave him directions and he was off. When he walked into the building and approached the desk, the principal’s secretary turned from her filing cabinet and smiled at him. Before he had a chance to introduce himself, she said, “Why, hello, Mr. Cifford. Are you here to pick up Sophie?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but how do you know me? I haven’t been here before, have I?” he asked. He tried to make it sound like a statement, but it was really a question to him. Was he here before and didn’t remember?

  “No, sir,” she said widening her smile. “We have photographs of all the parents on file.” She flipped through a drawer and quickly produced his and Megan’s document with their pictures attached. He glanced at it. Of course, it was his picture, but he couldn’t recall when it was taken.

  “Oh,” he said. “Yes. Very good idea. Thank you.”

  “We think so,” she said. “And some people stay in your memory a littl
e better than others,” she added, blushing at her own little flirtation.

  He smiled and then turned to gaze down the immaculate hallway. The floors glimmered in the light of the afternoon sun coming through the glass doors and windows. There wasn’t a shred of paper, anything. The bulletin boards had announcements and schedules neatly organized. This is what a school should be, he thought.

  “It’s amazingly quiet,” he commented as he wrote his name on the sign-out sheet.

  “Just wait until the final bell and our little urchinscome tearing out of those rooms. You’d think they had been kept in dungeons, but I remember it was that way for me, too,” she said. “Wasn’t it for you?”

  He thought for a moment. School. There were some distant memories mixed with memories of college classes, older students, basketball games, the sound of cheering. He was on a team, yes. He played basketball. I was the play maker. There was a chant ringing in his head.

  We’re from Fallsburg and couldn’t be any prouder, and if you didn’t hear us, we’ll say it a little louder.

  “We’re from Fallsburg,” he said.

  “Pardon?” the secretary replied.

  He didn’t hear her or answer.

  “Everything all right, Mr. Clifford?” the secretary asked him.

  “What? Oh, yes, sorry. What were you saying?”

  “I was just reminiscing. Nothing much,” she said. “I’ll call Sophie out so you can make a smooth getaway before the actual floodgates open,” she offered.

  He laughed and watched her go to the intercom.

  “Mrs. Walker. Could you please dismiss Sophie Clifford? Her father’s come for her.”

  He heard a muffled voice say okay, and moments later he saw a door open and Sophie come timidly up the hallway toward him, her arms cradling her books. She walked very slowly, almost stopping. He imagined her hesitation was because he was backlit and his face was in complete shadows.

  “Hi, Sudsy,” he said when she drew closer. “Mommy sent me to get you so you could ride in our new car.”

  She paused and looked up at him as if she was actually deciding whether she wanted to go with him or not. It took the light out of his smile.

  “Okay?” he followed.