Erased From Memory by Diana O'Hehir

and his face pinks up again as he says it.
    I think, Oh, a girl who took pot. A girl who got pregnant? A girl who went to the Virgin Islands for a divorce? Romance, interesting. I love stuff like that. I’ll be here for the rest of the week. I can get this story out of him.
    Danielle. My father mentioned a Danielle sometime or other.
    I hand up his stack of papers.
    “I was only there a year,” he says.
    I decide his story isn’t true. Whatever it is. I’ll find out.
    He’s still standing, looking irresolute. This idiot doesn’t want to talk, but he’s standing with his feet glued to the floor. Definitely, Danielle was important.
    “A year is long enough,” I say, pulling the conversation back on its trolley. “You’ll remember some of that med training. What could Mr. Broussard have died of? Twice?”
    “The nine-one-one guys said he had very low blood pressure,” he offers finally in a strangled voice.
    “And what would cause that?”
    “Shock. Trauma. Blood loss.”
    “He wasn’t losing blood.”
    “Internally.”
    I try to imagine the man struggling around for a whole afternoon with something bleeding inside, not telling anyone, bumping into walls. “Wouldn’t that make you sort of crazy?”
    “What are you? Madame Hercule Poirot?”
    I say, “Oh, shit,” and try to organize myself for an exit. Now if he had just accused me of being Tempe Brennan or Kinsey Milhone or any one of the other thousand successful woman sleuths of the last fifty years. I am caught in the listening equipment and can’t get up.
    “Egon left a printed welcome on my dresser,” I say. “It talks about our distinguished roster of scholars. It lists you and Rita and my father. Everybody’s history gets reviewed and their publications listed. You’ve got tons of those. And your field is Egyptian history. Specifically the history of the Middle New Kingdom. Dr. Scott Dillard, Memphis State University, Memphis, Tennessee.”
    He interrupts, “I’m at Yale now.”
    “Oh, is that better than Memphis State?” (Actually, Memphis State gives a degree in Egyptology; I checked that in Google, too.)
    Scott stares. We’ve had a brisk exchange of insults this afternoon. I wonder if he has a sense of humor. Not about his career, I betcha.
    I have finally gotten myself loose from the wires and am struggling up with my book. “We’re going to have a good time, aren’t we,” I ask, “talking about our work histories and our study histories and our articles? Of course, I’m not listed in Egon’s welcome document; I’m not a scholar, just the daughter of a scholar. They don’t make a category for that. But it’s very important, too. Don’t you think?
    “Incidentally, did you know him?” I ask.
    “Did I know who?” Scott stares and the muscles in his tan cheeks flex. I suspect that he’s perfectly aware that I mean Marcus Broussard.
    “You’re not exactly making sense, Lady Blues Enthusiast.”
    “See you at dinner.” I leave feeling that I’ve learned a couple of things, but I’m not sure what.
     
 
I’m on my way down the hall toward Daddy’s room when I run more or less head-on into Rita. I brace myself, preparing for another hysterical confrontation. But no such thing. Rita smiles. She says, in a high, little-girl voice, “Oh, hey, sorry.”
    “Huh?” I ask, amazed.
    “I mean, hey, I ran right into you.”
    She is clutching a large purple orchid in a clay pot. She wears a silk turquoise shirt with a sequin outline of a swan on the front. Her hair is newly moussed, her face is washed; she sports one turquoise earring and a delicate smile. This Rita is a new person and not hysterical. Dressed, coiffed, trimmed. Changed, you could say.
    In fact, an altered and reconstituted Rita. Remade and a bit scary for that reason. Because it’s been only a few days since I last saw her, screaming “Help,” and accusing my dad of murder. And here she is, someone who has altered her entire outer envelope. She wears a