well, I have three of my own. That and opera and cooking keep me from being too introspective. Well, I’d better go. I’m due in court in half an hour. See ya, Doc.” He paused at the door. “By the way, I’m following up the French connection with the passport and immigration authorities. If Bea is French, we’ll soon know who she is.”
8
B ea felt like an amateur in the game of life. She knew how to do everyday things, even what music she liked, and how to cook. Nothing fancy, but she was capable enough, and she remembered recipes, many of them French. She remembered the familiar faces of TV personalities, the names of authors whose books she enjoyed, movies she had liked. But she didn’t know where she had seen those faces before or where she had read those books or in what movie houses in what towns she had seen the films.
“Don’t worry about it,” Phyl told her. “It will come to you bit by bit. Remember you are on R and R leave here, rest and recuperation. I just want you to get strong again and enjoy life.”
But even though Phyl sounded confident, Bea wasn’t at all sure that her memory would return, because every time she tried to cast her thoughts back she came up against the same blankness. It was as though her mind were covered by the same black cloud as the child on the steps of the pink villa she had dreamed about. Because she was convinced it was only a dream. If that villa had ever existed, she would have rememberedit. And if she were the child, she would have known who she was.
She had not told Phyl that. Phyl still thought it was a breakthrough. And certainly the fact that she spoke French as easily as she spoke English was a remarkable discovery. And it was good Parisian French, the experts had deduced from her accent, though she didn’t recall ever being in Paris. It was the only definite thing from her past. Unless it was not a true memory but just a second-nature reaction, something locked into the computer part of her brain that never disappeared, like knowing how to cook.
Phyl had said that it might be an asset that would prove useful later, though she refused to say why. Anyhow, Bea did not want to think about later. She didn’t want to think beyond the moment.
She had been at Phyl’s a month and had rarely left the apartment, but this evening Phyl said she was taking her shopping. Bea didn’t know whether she was looking forward to it or not. The idea of the crowded stores and people staring at her cropped head, of making choices, walking in the street, eating in a restaurant terrified her.
Real life terrified her.
She liked it here, in Phyl’s beautiful apartment. It was big, light, uncluttered.
Safe.
Mahoney rang from downstairs to announce his arrival. He had gotten into the habit of dropping by from time to time. “To check on the cat,” he said.
“To visit
Phyl
, you mean,” Bea said, teasing him. She laughed at his embarrassment. “Come on, Detective Mahoney, admit it. I can’t blame you, she is gorgeous. And wonderful. And generous.”
“And an occasional pain in the ass.” Mahoney grinned, letting the kitten clamber up his leg, claws clinging to his jeans. He scooped it up and sat it in the palm of his big hand, and it stared arrogantly around, claiming its victory.
“And anyway, how do you know I’m not workingundercover, pretending I’m here to see Coco when in reality I’m checking on you? Seeing if you’re holding out on me and have remembered everything?”
“I’m not holding out,” Bea said seriously. “I really can’t remember a single thing about the past. Not even”—she hesitated, and a flash of fear crossed her face—“not even who tried to kill me.”
The door slammed as Phyl breezed in, home early to take Bea shopping. Since Bea had moved in, Phyl’s whole life had changed. Here she was, the dedicated loner who kept her emotions to herself and valued her privacy and independence above all, sharing her home with the victim of a
8
B ea felt like an amateur in the game of life. She knew how to do everyday things, even what music she liked, and how to cook. Nothing fancy, but she was capable enough, and she remembered recipes, many of them French. She remembered the familiar faces of TV personalities, the names of authors whose books she enjoyed, movies she had liked. But she didn’t know where she had seen those faces before or where she had read those books or in what movie houses in what towns she had seen the films.
“Don’t worry about it,” Phyl told her. “It will come to you bit by bit. Remember you are on R and R leave here, rest and recuperation. I just want you to get strong again and enjoy life.”
But even though Phyl sounded confident, Bea wasn’t at all sure that her memory would return, because every time she tried to cast her thoughts back she came up against the same blankness. It was as though her mind were covered by the same black cloud as the child on the steps of the pink villa she had dreamed about. Because she was convinced it was only a dream. If that villa had ever existed, she would have rememberedit. And if she were the child, she would have known who she was.
She had not told Phyl that. Phyl still thought it was a breakthrough. And certainly the fact that she spoke French as easily as she spoke English was a remarkable discovery. And it was good Parisian French, the experts had deduced from her accent, though she didn’t recall ever being in Paris. It was the only definite thing from her past. Unless it was not a true memory but just a second-nature reaction, something locked into the computer part of her brain that never disappeared, like knowing how to cook.
Phyl had said that it might be an asset that would prove useful later, though she refused to say why. Anyhow, Bea did not want to think about later. She didn’t want to think beyond the moment.
She had been at Phyl’s a month and had rarely left the apartment, but this evening Phyl said she was taking her shopping. Bea didn’t know whether she was looking forward to it or not. The idea of the crowded stores and people staring at her cropped head, of making choices, walking in the street, eating in a restaurant terrified her.
Real life terrified her.
She liked it here, in Phyl’s beautiful apartment. It was big, light, uncluttered.
Safe.
Mahoney rang from downstairs to announce his arrival. He had gotten into the habit of dropping by from time to time. “To check on the cat,” he said.
“To visit
Phyl
, you mean,” Bea said, teasing him. She laughed at his embarrassment. “Come on, Detective Mahoney, admit it. I can’t blame you, she is gorgeous. And wonderful. And generous.”
“And an occasional pain in the ass.” Mahoney grinned, letting the kitten clamber up his leg, claws clinging to his jeans. He scooped it up and sat it in the palm of his big hand, and it stared arrogantly around, claiming its victory.
“And anyway, how do you know I’m not workingundercover, pretending I’m here to see Coco when in reality I’m checking on you? Seeing if you’re holding out on me and have remembered everything?”
“I’m not holding out,” Bea said seriously. “I really can’t remember a single thing about the past. Not even”—she hesitated, and a flash of fear crossed her face—“not even who tried to kill me.”
The door slammed as Phyl breezed in, home early to take Bea shopping. Since Bea had moved in, Phyl’s whole life had changed. Here she was, the dedicated loner who kept her emotions to herself and valued her privacy and independence above all, sharing her home with the victim of a
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