What She Forgot

by Margaret Lashley

  Deanna had been so excited she nearly squealed.

  Larry smiled at the memory, then plucked the photo from the wall and studied it. It was uncanny how the passerby who’d taken the photo had captured the fragile longing in both his and Deanna’s eyes.

  They’d needed each other.

  His wife and daughter taken from him, Larry’s love for them had become a lonely, morose beast roaring inside him. He’d needed to let it out before it tore him to shreds. That day, the day they’d met, Larry had allowed himself to fall in fatherly love with Deanna.

  As a psychiatrist, he was well aware his affection for Deanna was transference. But he believed his intentions were of the highest possible order. And the poor young woman had been in dire need of the attention. Deanna Young had displayed all the outward tells of an orphan. Eager to please. Fearful of rejection. Aching to belong. Longing trapped inside a hard shell that, instead of protecting her, somehow made her even more vulnerable.

  Her thesis, like all good writing, had revealed plenty about its author between the lines. Deanna was bright. Articulate. Her arguments were sound. And she had the willingness to face hard truths and strip them bare.

  A thesis, in and of itself, was a search for answers. And Deanna had certainly been searching. But the answers she’d sought could only come from within.

  Larry knew she’d have to learn to trust herself before she could fully trust anyone else. He also knew such discernment required a touchstone—a baseline of internal certainty against which to discern falsehoods. He’d decided to willingly become that touchstone for Deanna.

  He would be her “new normal.”

  He’d taken her on board knowing she was smart enough. His only hesitation had been whether or not she would be able to overcome her own damaged history.

  At the time, he’d thought so. And, after eight years as her supervisor and therapist, he still held that belief. Deanna had made tremendous progress over the years. But she still had further to go. She was a master of repression—she could stash away unwanted, painful memories better than anyone he’d ever known. From that, Larry surmised Deanna’s childhood must’ve been horrific. Even after careful coaxing over eight years, she’d only been able to recall snippets here and there.

  Larry had hired Deanna not knowing much about her. But he’d come to know one thing for sure: Deanna Young had been taught to doubt herself at an early age—and her teacher had been a master manipulator.

  Chapter Five

  DEANNA SAT IN HER OFFICE staring at her computer screen, grateful for the warm, numbing effect of the gimlet in her belly. She needed to email her mother’s obituary to The Tampa Times before two o’clock if she was to meet the newspaper’s deadline for the Sunday edition.

  She drummed her fingers on the chrome desktop and chewed her bottom lip.

  How do you squeeze a lifetime into a few lines?

  Deanna pictured the last time she’d seen her mother. It had been four months ago, in June. Her mother had been standing at the front door of her house in St. Petersburg, a vodka gimlet in her boney hand. She’d been seeing Deanna off, waving languidly with her other hand, the cigarette between her fingers wafting smoke into her face.

  Her mother’s silvery-blonde hair had been teased into its usual helmet, held down with a headband that coordinated with her bell-sleeved mini dress. The skin above her knobby knees had been wrinkly, and her face had seemed sadder and older than usual.

  A faded, disco-queen, Deanna thought. A sad ending for a once-promising woman.

  It wasn’t meant as a harsh criticism, but more of a reality check. Deanna saw her mother’s death as a mixed blessing. As far as she could tell, her mother had hated being alive. In fact, Deanna was fairly certain her mother had believed her life had ended nearly forty years ago, when Deanna had managed to worm her way out of her unwelcoming womb.

  Deanna’s mother had never told her that directly, but it was impossible to ignore the inference. Her mother never ceased her bitter mumblings about how, back when she was young, getting pregnant was the death knell of a girl’s acting career. Pregnancy had forced Deanna’s mother into marriage and motherhood, reducing her once-glamorous life to the dull, endless tedium of the upkeep and care of her interloping daughter.

  Deanna’s fingers stopped drumming on the desk. For once, she was glad she didn’t have time to ruminate. She opened a file and began typing the obituary.

  DEANNA WOBBLED DOWN the hall of the office building on Eighth Avenue. Woozy, she blamed it on the gimlet and an empty stomach. She knocked on an office door. Dr. Laurence Filbert opened it.

  “Melody’s dead,” Deanna said woodenly.

  Larry studied her face and frowned. “I’m so sorry, Dee.” He reached out and gave her a bear hug. Deanna didn’t resist.

  “Thanks, Larry,” she said, squeezing him tight before breaking off the hug. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know before I left.”

  “I’m sorry you have to begin your vacation on this news.”

  Deanna shrugged. “It’s kind of apropos, if you think about it. It’s just like Mom to spoil all the fun.”

  Larry locked eyes with Deanna. The two exchanged a glance much deeper than words.

  “Are you okay?” Larry asked.

  “Yes,” Deanna said too quickly. She forced a smile. “Really. It’s okay. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

  Deanna turned to leave, then turned back. “Do you mind if I ... uh ... read you the obituary I wrote? I don’t want to seem too ... I don’t know. I’ve never had to ....”

  Larry smiled warmly. “Sure. Come in. Have a seat. Let’s hear it.”

  “Thanks.” Deanna sat in a leather chair and pulled up the file on her laptop. “Ms. Melody Young of St. Petersburg, Florida passed away peacefully in her sleep on November twenty-first. An actress, she was best known for her role as Spidey Hawkins in the 1980 cult classic, Tarancula Now. Services will be held at—”

  “Hold on a minute,” Larry interrupted. “Tarancula Now?”

  Deanna winced. “It was a movie. An awful movie. About a blood-sucking, radioactive tarantula.”

  Larry’s brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about it?”

  “What’s to tell? My mother played the idiot blonde who can’t run without falling down. It’s not exactly a proud family moment. Tarancula never made it to the big screen, obviously. Now it’s one of those awful B-movies people love to hate. You know. Riff Track gold.”

  “Oh.”

  Deanna shook her head. “Can you believe it? Thanks to shows like Elvira, Mom actually still has ... had fans.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish. Just a few weirdos. But they made the People of Walmart look normal.”

  “Criminy.” Larry shook his head and nodded toward Deanna’s laptop. “Okay. Go on.”

  “Services will be held at three-thirty on Sunday, November twenty-third, at Gilchrist Funeral Home.” Deanna looked up. “That’s it.”

  “You didn’t mention her age.”

  “No. She would’ve hated that, even though she was only just about to turn sixty.”

  “Sixty? That’s so young. Did she really die peacefully in her sleep?”

  Deanna bit her lip. “That’s what I’ve been told. Though, just between you and me, she might have had some help with that. The lady who took care of her told me she found an empty prescription bottle by her bed.”

  Larry’s brow furrowed at the implication. “Oh. Geez Deanna. I’m sorry. What was the script?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t aware she was taking anything.”

  “Text me when you find out.”

  “I will.” Deanna got up to leave. She spied the photograph of her and Larry on his credenza and a hint of a smile curled her lips.

  “Wait,” Larry said. “One more thing. You forgot to mention you survived her.”

  Deanna shot Larry a quizzical look. “That seems inconsequential for her obituary. Besides, I’m not completely sure that I
have.”

  Larry laughed. “I’m not giving you an opinion on the state of your mental health, Deanna. What I meant is that your mother is survived by a daughter. You.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why didn’t you mention yourself? Intentional omission or Freudian slip?”

  Deanna shrugged. “I just didn’t think about it. Anyway, maybe it’s better that the Tarancula freaks don’t know I exist. Hopefully, they’ll dry up and blow away. Quit leaving their little gifts at Mom’s house.”

  “Gifts?”

  “Yeah. Birthday cards for Spidey Hawkins. Cheap holiday figurines. Letters requesting autographs. That kind of crap.”

  “I see. But what about other relatives? Shouldn’t they be mentioned?”

  “As of this morning, Larry, you’re the closest thing to family I’ve got left.”

  Larry smiled softly. “I’m honored you feel that way.”

  Deanna smiled and jingled a set of keys at him. “Great. Then, will you feed my fish while I’m away?”

  Chapter Six

  AS THE PLANE CIRCLED above Tampa International Airport, Deanna peered out the small, oval window. Silvery, mushroom-shaped clouds threatened the landscape below with rain.

  Cumulus nimbus clouds. Unusual for November, she thought, and squirmed in her seat. She felt as unwelcome as the brewing storm—a vulture arriving too late to the feast.

  Deanna and her mother had long ago picked the bones of their relationship clean of anything worth savoring. Now that her mother was dead, there was nothing left for them to hurt each other over. The funeral would put both her mother and the life they’d endured together to rest, once and for all.

  “Heading home for the holidays?” the old woman sitting beside her asked. Earlier, to Deanna’s relief, the elderly lady in polyester grandma clothes had nodded off right after takeoff. She’d snored softly the entire flight from New York City, and only awakened when the pilot announced their imminent arrival in Tampa.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “To see your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. How wonderful for you!” The woman smiled with delight, her eyes shifting to the right, accessing happy snippets of memories. “My dear mother passed away over twenty years ago. I still miss her. There’s nothing like a mother’s love.”

  Deanna sorted through the repertoire of smiles she saved for such occasions. She picked one and showed it to the old woman. The old lady smiled back, unaware she’d cut Deanna with her casual comment. Deanna envied the old woman’s naivety. She actually believed being loved by one’s parents was guaranteed.

  “Yes. Nothing like it,” Deanna said and leaned back in her chair. As she braced for landing, a faded image of the pink, stucco mansion she’d grown up in flashed across her mind. Just like every façade of perfection, it had been an illusion. A house of smoke and mirrors. And glass.

  Especially glass.

  Melody, Deanna thought as her knuckles turned white. Her mother had trained her from birth to call her that. As a result, Deanna had spent her formative years thinking Melody was her sister, not her mother. Only when Deanna had been enrolled in first grade had she learned the truth.

  Deanna blushed with embarrassment at the thought. Memories had a tendency to imprint more vividly in the mind when accompanied by strong emotions. Humiliation had burned that day into Deanna’s memory banks like a cattle brand.

  She’d been wearing her favorite pink dress. A gift from one of her mother’s boyfriends. She couldn’t remember which one. In art class, Deanna had drawn a picture of two crude stick figures—each with a circle for a head and four lines (arms and legs) poking out of a pyramid-shaped triangle that was supposed to be a dress. One figure was taller than the other, and, in Deanna’s mind, prettier. Deanna had colored a cloud of golden hair around both heads with a yellow crayon.

  Proud of her masterpiece, she’d presented it to her teacher like a tail-wagging puppy, hoping for a bit of praise. A smile—a head tousle, perhaps. Maybe, if she was lucky, the teacher would tell her she was a good girl ....

  “Who’s this?” her teacher had asked.

  Deanna had pointed to the smaller of the two figures. “That’s me.”

  “And the other?”

  “My sister, Melody.”

  The teacher had snatched the drawing from between Deanna’s tiny fingertips. “You don’t have a sister.” She’d laughed at the drawing. Not a jovial, pleasant kind of laugh. A scorn-filled one.

  Just like her sister’s.

  But Teacher said she didn’t have a sister ...

  Deanna recalled the paralysis and confusion she’d felt. She’d stared, silent as a stone, as her teacher did the unspeakable. “Attention, class,” she’d barked, then tapped on her desk with a silver pen until every student’s eyes were on her—then on Deanna ....

  “Class, Deanna thinks her mother is her sister. Now isn’t that silly?”

  The teacher had held up Deanna’s drawing for the whole class to see.

  Then came the avalanche of laughter, filling Deanna’s ears like a million roaring lions.

  Her masterpiece was a forgery. An obscenity! Proof positive that little Miss Deanna Young was stupid. So stupid she didn’t even know her own mother was her mother!

  Deanna sucked in a breath, her face burning from the memory of that day over thirty years ago. The same sick, dizzy feeling came over her as it had then, when her world had spun faster and faster until she could no longer stand. Everything had gone black. She’d awoken lying in a puddle of urine—in front of all her classmates. Humiliated to the core, she’d been forced to wear the emergency outfit kept in the closet for pee-pants babies—a uniform for losers—like her.

  Deanna bit back her anger as she recalled going home that day ... putting her hand on the brass doorknob ... opening the front door. Melody—no, Mother—catching her sneaking to her room wearing the pee-pants outfit.

  “Where’s your good pink dress? Don’t tell me you ruined it!”

  “No, Melo—” Deanna had begun to cry hysterically. What was she supposed to call this woman who was not her sister? Between gasps and sobs, Deanna had confessed her mistake. Melody—no, Mother—had laughed at her. A cackling, sadistic laugh Deanna could still hear sometimes when she was alone in the dark.

  “Good grief, Deanna!” her mother had said. “Where on earth did you get the idiotic notion we were sisters?”

  Deanna sat back in the airplane seat and let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding. She’d had no answer for her mother that day. She had no answer today. And now, what did it matter? It was too late for answers. All Deanna had known for sure was that she’d been a silly, stupid little girl who’d made up things—just like the stories she’d made up about the man behind the glass.

  Warren.

  How many times had she heard her mother curse his name?

  The plane’s wheels bounced roughly as they touched down on the tarmac. The sudden jolt sent Deanna crashing back to the present. She gripped the armrests as the plane taxied toward the terminal. The old lady sitting next to Deanna took her hand and squeezed it.

  “It’s okay, dearie. We’re almost there. Home sweet home.”

  Home sweet home, indeed, Deanna thought, forcing another smile at the old woman. For her, home had meant one person—Melody. Two if she counted Warren—the man who lived inside three picture frames.

  But she’d quit counting on him decades ago.

  Deanna had been ten when she’d discovered Warren was her father. She’d been thirteen when she found out he was dead. Until then, she’d imagined her father had run away. Deanna hadn’t blamed him. She’d only wished sometimes that he had come back and taken her with him ....

  An obnoxious ping sounded. The plane had come to a standstill. The seatbelt sign blinked out.

  “Do you have a bag in the overhead?” Deanna asked the old woman.

  “Yes. A red one.”

  “Let me get it for you.” Deanna stood and pu
t her hand on a bag. “This one?”

  “Yes. Thank you! Aren’t you a dear!”

  “Not a problem.” Deanna set the bag in the aisle and stepped back to let the elderly woman ahead of her. “You have a nice holiday.”

  The old woman beamed. “You, too, honey.”

  Deanna grabbed her own carry-on from the overhead bin and took her place in line behind the old woman, joining the slow, impatient shuffle down the aisle toward the plane’s exit door.

  If she hadn’t had an appointment to keep, Deanna would’ve been in no hurry to get where she was going. Her childhood home, the once-glorious mansion on Coffee Pot Bayou, was little more than a ghost ship now—a hollow echo chamber full of garbled memories and tangled dreams.

  “Thank you for flying Southwest Airlines.”

  Deanna nodded absently at the smiling pilot, his face a blur, replaced by the image of Warren. With Melody gone, he alone would be waiting for her at the house.

  Finally, he and she could have some peace.

  Melody had rarely ever spoken of Warren, leaving Deanna’s childhood imagination to construct her father virtually from scratch, based on three images that sat in frames on a table by the front door.

  While Melody had been busy drinking, sleeping, reading magazines, or watching old movies on TV, Deanna had spent untold hours examining every detail the pictures revealed of her mysterious father. There were moments when he’d seemed so tantalizingly close. Yet, through no fault of his own, he’d remained agonizingly distant—separated from her curious little fingers by a thin layer of glass.

  Deanna’s lip curled slightly. She felt safer and lighter when she focused on recalling minute details from the photos. It was a trick she’d learned as a child—a way to calm herself when she’d awoken, afraid, in the middle of the night. Warren was there. Warren would save her ....

  One photo showed Warren smiling, his even, white teeth glowing like a string of pearls within rosy lips. He seemed proud—dashing even—with his thick, salt-and-pepper hair and his James Bond-worthy tuxedo. Mother stood beside him, looking impossibly blonde and gorgeous in a blue sequined ball gown, a matching feathered eye mask in her hand. A white sash across her torso read: Miss Sunshine City.