What She Forgot

by Margaret Lashley

“You know what they say,” Larry quipped. “You become like the four people you hang around most.”

  Deanna flinched as Larry’s words hit a target closer to her chest than she’d like to admit. She worried constantly about taking on her mother’s phobias—and whether such a thing was possible. Still, the relief of never seeing Bernstein again made Deanna feel as if she might float to the ceiling. She put her fears aside for the moment and put on a happy face.

  “So which are you, Larry? A narcissist, a sociopath, a pervert, or a psychopath?”

  Larry laughed. “I’ll never tell. So where you headed on vacation?”

  As Deanna began to speak, a light started blinking on her office phone. Another call was waiting. Deanna looked at the clock. Quarter past twelve, on the dot. She sighed. “St. Petersburg.”

  “Russia?” Larry asked. “Wow. You said you wanted to get away from it all, but that’s really getting away from it all.”

  “No. St. Pete. Florida. You know I’m going to visit my mother for the holidays.”

  “Oh yeah. That’s right.” Larry laughed again. “Are you sure you’re not Jewish?”

  Deanna finally succumbed to Larry’s good mood. The joke she told next didn’t feel so forced. “No. I’m a natural blonde. Besides—”

  Deanna’s office door creaked open. Sally stuck her head in and shot Deanna an apologetic grimace. “Sorry to interrupt. But there’s um ... a woman ... on the line. She says it’s urgent.”

  “Hold on, Larry.” Deanna covered the mouthpiece of the phone with her palm and whispered to Sally, “Tell my mother I’ll call her right back.”

  Sally shook her head. “It’s not your mother.”

  Deanna’s eyes widened with curiosity. She took her hand from the mouthpiece. “Listen, Larry. I’ve got to go. Mark your calendar. Bernstein every Friday for the rest of eternity. And don’t be fooled. He’s a great con artist.”

  Larry laughed. “Got it. Good luck and God speed.”

  “Same to you.” Deanna clicked the button to end the call, and shooed Sally out of her office with a wave of her hand. She punched the blinking line on her phone. “Hello, Dr. Young speaking.”

  “Deanna? It’s Linda,” a scratchy voice said.

  “Linda?”

  “Your next-door neighbor.”

  Deanna’s mind raced. She couldn’t recall anyone in her apartment building named Linda. “Pardon me—”

  “Linda Havenall.”

  Deanna almost slapped her own forehead. Nearly two years ago, Deanna had hired Mrs. Havenall as a sort of caretaker for her increasingly reclusive and obstinate mother.

  A long-time friend and neighbor of her mother’s, Mrs. Havenall had just retired from teaching and had offered to help out for free. Deanna knew her mother would’ve balked at being looked after like a doddering old woman, so she convinced Mrs. Havenall to accept a monthly stipend to watch after her surreptitiously, under the guise of old-fashioned friendship and neighborliness. Deanna’s mother suffered from agoraphobia, and would no longer leave the house except to putter in the back garden. Someone had to do the grocery shopping and make sure she was okay. Deanna was glad it was Mrs. Havenall, and not some stranger.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Havenall!” Deanna apologized. “It’s been one of those days. How are you? You sound hoarse. Are you ill?”

  “I’m fine, honey. But I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Bad news? What’s my mother done now?”

  Mrs. Havenall cleared her raspy throat. “She’s ... well, your mom’s passed away, Dee. I found her about an hour ago. I think she passed in her sleep.”

  A small blip occurred in Deanna’s thinking. Like a wink-out of electricity in the middle of the day. The kind that erases everything you wished you’d remembered to save in your memory banks.

  “What?” Deanna stuttered. “When? How?”

  “We’re not sure yet. But it looks like ... well, there was an empty prescription bottle on her nightstand ....”

  Deanna’s mind swam against a tidal wave of gray, grasping at thoughts as they rushed by in the muddled torrent. My mother dead? Suicide? How had I not seen it coming? We spoke every Friday. Was that not enough? Was I a bad daughter?

  “Deanna?”

  Deanna’s brain blinked on again, still not at full wattage. “Yes. I’m here.”

  “When can you get here, honey?”

  “I ... I have a flight booked for Sunday. Uh ... what day is it today?”

  “Friday.”

  “Oh. Right.” Deanna fumbled in a brown haze. “Is that too late?”

  “No. That’s okay. The ambulance just left to take her to ... uh.” Mrs. Havenall’s voice faded to a whisper. “The county morgue.”

  “Oh.”

  “Listen, Dee. Don’t you worry. I followed the instructions you left for me. I already called Gilchrist Funeral Home, too. They have the arrangements you and your mom set up last year. They told me they can handle everything from here. We just need to let them know a time for the viewing.”

  “That’s too much to ask of you, Mrs. Havenall. I’ll take the next flight out.”

  “It’s not asking anything, Dee. I made a few calls, just like you asked me to. There’s really nothing left to do. You already did the work to make sure your mom would be taken care of like she wished. There’s no need to rush back here. Why don’t you just take today and tomorrow to let it all sink in, and come on the flight you already have for Sunday. We can have the viewing then, if you want.”

  “That’s fine. But I don’t feel right leaving you—”

  “She’s gone, Deanna. There’s nothing you can do. Promise me you’ll take time for yourself and I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  “But—”

  “Doctor’s orders, honey. You’ve got enough to do just to get yourself here in one piece. I’ll handle any questions from Gilchrist. Anything I can’t handle, I promise I’ll call you.”

  “But ... if you’re sure ....”

  “Oh. One thing I do need from you is, well, an obituary for The Tampa Times. I’d do it myself but ....”

  “No. That’s okay. I’ll do it.”

  “Good. They’ll need it today. When’s your flight on Sunday? I’ll pick you up.”

  Deanna’s mind spun. She felt nauseated. “I’ll rent a car. I’ll need one anyway. See you Sunday ... around two?”

  “I’ll make the funeral service for three-thirty.”

  “Okay.”

  Deanna hung up the phone, feeling as if a part of her own life ended along with the call. Guilt overwhelmed her. Had she even thanked Mrs. Havenall for her help? She should have said more. She should have done more. She should have—

  I should have been there when my mother died.

  Sally stuck her head in the door. “You okay, Dee?”

  “My mother’s gone.”

  “What? She actually left the house?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Sally’s head disappeared behind the door again. She returned a moment later carrying two martini glasses, an ice-cold pint of Stoli, and a bottle of Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice.

  Deanna watched in a daze as Sally made two gimlets. It was their customary, Friday-afternoon cocktail after Deanna’s last client at one o’clock.

  “Wait. I can’t drink that,” Deanna said. “Mrs. Mendel will be here in half an hour.”

  Sally held the gimlet out to Deanna. “No, she won’t. I called and canceled.”

  “Oh.” Deanna took the gimlet and let her shoulders slump. “Thanks, Sally.”

  Sally raised her gimlet. “Here’s to your mother, Dee.”

  “To my mother,” Deanna whispered.

  She raised her drink to meet Sally’s. As their glasses clinked together, her secretary shot Deanna a sympathetic smile. “I know you two weren’t close. So, should I ask?”

  Deanna cringed. “Ask what, Sally?”

  “What’s in order for this toast? Is it condolences ... or congratulations?” />
  Deanna sighed wistfully. “That’s a really tough call.”

  Chapter Three

  MARCUS BLATCH TRIED not to stare at the young woman sitting across the table from him at the café. The sheer quantity of swirling, paisley-like tattoos covering her neck and arms made him dizzy. He wondered if she’d sat for them willingly, or if at some point she’d been imprisoned by a sadistic tattoo artist who’d only set her free after he’d run out of blank skin for a canvas. Based on the tufts of hair poking from the armpits of her sleeveless tank top, his money was on the former.

  Blatch bit his lower lip and wondered whether he was a prude, or if he’d somehow managed to get himself born in the wrong era. His moral code felt like a holdback from another time altogether—a time when people used logic and wit to get their messages across, instead of turning their bodies into human billboards.

  I’m only forty-two, for crying out loud, he thought as he stared at the young woman. He figured she couldn’t be more than twenty years younger than him, but he felt he had as much in common with her as he did a portabella mushroom. I’m too young to feel this old and out of date.

  Blatch ran his hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious of the gray lining his temples. He glanced at the amateurish résumé in his hand. He couldn’t tell if the name at the top of the page was correct, or if it was just another of the half-dozen typos he’d spotted with one quick glance.

  “So tell me, uh ... Shan-tee-nah? Do you have any—?”

  “It’s Shan-tee-qua,” the woman corrected, her lips twisted with bored indignation.

  “Pardon me,” Blatch said. “My bad,” he added, then wanted to kick himself for it. “You’re still in college?”

  “Yeah. So I need mornings off. And weekends.”

  “Right.”

  Blatch shifted his eyes back to the résumé photocopied on cheap printer paper. He might’ve given the woman a bit more credit if she’d sprung for recycled stock. Then, at least, he could imagine she might have some passion in life besides turning her epidermis into graffiti. He stared at the paper, pretending to study it, as he bought himself some time. He wanted to be courteous and find something he could honestly compliment her on before he let her walk. She had, after all, at least shown up on time ....

  He smiled and looked up at her. “Well, thank you for showing up on time today, uh—” His mouth hung open for a moment. He’d meant to say the girl’s name, but it just wouldn’t come. Doesn’t matter, he thought. With any luck, he’d never see her again. He smiled. “I’ll let you know if we choose you for the position.”

  Shantiqua shrugged. “Whatever. It’s my mother who wants me to get a job.”

  “Right.”

  As the young woman stood to leave, Blatch stood as well. To him, it was basic manners. But she eyed him oddly, as if he was up to something. Blatch stiffened, wondering if such social niceties were a thing of the past, as out of step as wearing a top hat, brandishing a buggy whip, or being 42 and saying “my bad.”

  He decided against shaking her hand and simply nodded. “Goodbye, then. Thanks again for coming.”

  “Bye,” she said, turning and shuffling away in her tie-dyed skirt and pink flip-flops.

  Blatch shook his head. Sheesh. The girl doesn’t even know how to dress herself properly. When I was her age, I’d already finished college and was working a police beat, on the fast track to lieutenant. He sighed and let his shoulders go slack. Hell, who am I to judge? Maybe the slow track would have been better. It might have saved me from....

  Blatch let the thought pass unfinished, and waited until the woman was out of his line of sight before wadding up her résumé and stuffing it into his half-empty coffee cup. As he watched the paper turn soggy and brown, he wondered what was becoming of the world around him. He might not know how to load a GIF onto his cellphone, but he knew flip-flops were meant for the beach, sketchy hotel showers, and washing his car. Not job interviews.

  “Anything else?” the waitress asked, breaking Blatch’s faraway stare.

  He smiled at the waitress. “No. Here’s a tenner. Keep the change.”

  She shot him a grin. “Thanks.”

  As Blatch headed south on Beach Drive toward his office downtown, he feared his latest career move had been a mistake. Ten years ago, when he’d taken his training to become a police officer, he’d thought it would be easy to tell the good guys from the bad. But day by day over the last decade, black and white had grown grayer and grayer, until everything around him seemed to be made of pewter.

  Every kid he met under twenty-five had at least one visible tattoo. And except for the business suits downtown and uniformed wait-staff in restaurants, nobody in St. Petersburg looked or acted as if they had a real job anymore. How was he supposed to weed out the weirdos when every other granny had purple hair, and grandpas smoked THC openly on the streets from odorless vapes?

  His time in law enforcement had taught Blatch that bad guys came in all shapes and sizes. And they hid behind all kinds of disguises—some of which included badges.

  At least now, by starting his own business he could choose his own work associates. But even that, he was finding, was turning out to be harder than he thought.

  Hardly anyone seemed to have any kind of passion in them anymore. And if they did, it was the wrong kind of passion altogether.

  Chapter Four

  DR. LAWRENCE FILBERT hung up the phone and blew out a sigh. He hated to admit it, but part of him was relieved that Deanna Young had finally relinquished Joel Bernstein into his care. The guy was a monster. And Deanna wasn’t cut out to be a monster’s keeper. She was still fragile from her own dark history.

  Still, when she’d come to him asking for a challenge, Larry knew he couldn’t coddle Deanna. She would’ve only gone to someone else for hard-case referrals. No. Deanna was the kind of person who had to find out things her own way, hard knocks be damned.

  She’d seemed so rattled over the phone, Larry thought. I wonder what happened in that last session. She said Bernstein was a con artist. Had he fooled her in some way?

  The idea of Deanna being afraid pinched his heart. His favorite pupil had taken on a task she wasn’t ready for and was now probably beating herself up about her failure. She was too full of hope to realize she was in a no-win battle. In Larry’s opinion, patients like Bernstein didn’t gain much from therapy. What they needed was medication. Larry pictured Bernstein and scowled. Strychnine would do the trick nicely.

  Larry studied the photo of his wife and daughter on his desk and eased into the inevitable pain that followed. It still struck him as uncanny the close resemblance Deanna shared with his daughter, Suzie. They had the same heart-shaped face. The same loose-curled, buttery-blonde hair. The same blueish-hazel eyes. The same shy, infectious smile.

  Suzie would’ve been about Deanna’s age, Larry thought, then shook his head in an attempt to erase the painful swell of memories building inside his skull like a thunderstorm.

  They came just the same. Blurry images fuzzing his mind. The chipped front tooth of the policeman moving up and down in slow motion as he spoke. The weird, underwater echoes of the officer’s voice as he spoke the unspeakable—“Your wife and daughter have been killed in a traffic accident.”

  Larry pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to release the next image in his mind—the horrific newspaper photo of the jackknifed semi-truck being pulled from atop Suzie’s red Mini Cooper. The article described the car as “flattened to a deadly eighteen inches ....”

  No! Larry swiveled halfway around in his chair until he faced the mahogany credenza on the wall. His eyes rested on another photo. It was of Deanna and him, the day they’d first met.

  Larry smiled as he recalled the young woman’s struggle to contain her odd blend of yearning and desperation. Hoping to secure her first job as a therapist, Deanna had interviewed with him eight years ago for a junior associate position. Back then, with the death of his family still raw inside him, Larry had been
feeling much the same way—yearning and desperate.

  Life had to go on, whether he wanted it to or not.

  And then she’d appeared before him. Ms. Deanna Young. A near doppelganger of Suzie. An exquisite, torturous gift from some sadistic god. Deanna had arrived in his life as fragile as she was beautiful—an orphan dumped on his doorstep. A lost kitten. But like so many rescue stories, in hindsight, it was no longer clear just who had rescued whom. He smiled, remembering their first exchange.

  “Mr. Filbert?” Deanna had said, extending a delicate hand. Then she’d suddenly withdrawn it and blushed profusely. “I mean, Dr. Filbert.” She’d pronounced his name Fil-bear, as if it were French. “I ... I’m Deanna Young.”

  “It’s Filbert, like the nut,” he’d said without offense. “I read your thesis. Are Psychoses Inherited or Merely Imitated? Interesting. A nice spin on the nurture or nature concept.”

  “Thank you,” she’d said breathlessly, and bowed her head slightly, as if she’d been complimented by royalty.

  Larry had been so caught off guard by her naivety and lack of pretentiousness that he’d nearly gasped. He’d liked her immediately.

  “Miss Young, you do realize that trying to untangle familial genetics from learned behaviors is like trying to unwind DNA and the entire societal construct, all in the span of a patient hour. Does that really sound like the way you want to spend your life?”

  Deanna had smiled. “Well, since you put it that way, how could I resist?”

  She has Suzie’s crooked smile, he’d thought. In that moment long ago, Larry had felt his tired heart perk up a bit. His shoulders had straightened inside his corduroy jacket. He’d studied the fearful, yet hopeful young woman. “I have to say, I especially liked the line, ‘When given enough repetitive exposure, any set of circumstances can become someone’s new normal.’”

  Deanna had grinned shyly. “One person’s nuthouse can be another person’s normal, and vice versa.”

  Larry had given her a rusty, but genuine smile. “Well then, Miss Young, welcome to the nuthouse.”