a shrill demand for “Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes!” Meg’s little sister, Molly, liked to get up at six.
Meg’s lack of memory didn’t bother her so much anymore. About four months ago, she realized she possessed a deeper, instinctive knowledge of things if she was just willing to listen to her inner voice. For example, she couldn’t remember her mother’s name, age or general description. But the minute her mother had burst into the hospital exam room and wrapped her arms around Meg’s trembling shoulders, Meg had known that this woman loved her. She felt the same way about her father and Molly. And when they brought her back here she’d definitely had a sense of coming home, even if she couldn’t have given a street address.
Sometimes, little things got her going. A song on the radio would shake the cobwebs in her mind. She would feel a memory stirring, rising up, like a word stuck on the tip of her tongue. If she tried too hard, however, strained her mind, the thought would disappear almost immediately. She’d have to wait for the song to air once more, or the scent to ride the wind, or the déjà vu to return.
Lately, she’d been working on not working so hard. She focused on her inner voice more. She let the moments of semiclarity linger like a fog in front of her eyes. She spent long periods of time thinking of nothing and everything. Post-traumatic amnesia was the mind’s way of coping, the doctors had told her. Forcing the issue only created more trauma. Instead she should rest, eat healthily, and get plenty of exercise. In other words, take good care of herself.
Meg took good care of herself. These days, she didn’t have anything else to do.
Now she heard the sound of voices, closer, down the hall. Hushed voices, the way people spoke when they were fighting and didn’t want others to hear. Her parents, again. She’d gone to sleep listening to the same sound.
Her Uncle Vinnie kept coming by. Yesterday he’d been here until almost ten at night, speaking low and furiously with her father. Her mom didn’t approve of Uncle Vinnie. Her mom didn’t like him coming over so much, and obviously didn’t like whatever he and her father had been talking about.
Meg herself didn’t get it. Uncle Vinnie had a loud, booming laugh. He smelled of whiskey and stale cigars. His head was nearly bald, his stomach bursting huge. He looked to her like Kojak crossed with Santa Claus. How could you not like Kojak crossed with Santa Claus?
Meg waited on the other side of her door until her parents’ voices finally faded away. Molly was still downstairs. Probably now decorating the floor with bits of pancakes. Her mother had probably returned to her. Her father had to get ready for work. Meg crossed the hall unnoticed and crept into the upstairs bathroom, where she took a long, steaming shower.
She needed to get moving if she was going to be at the rue de l’espoir by eight.
Twenty minutes later, clad in jeans and a T-shirt, her long, damp brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face freshly scrubbed, she went galloping downstairs. By now her father had probably left for work, which made it easier for her, easier for him. One year later, he couldn’t look at her without seeing a rape victim. And Meg couldn’t look at him without seeing him look at her as someone who had been raped.
Her mother was easier. She had cried, she had raged and she had been so damn happy the day the police had arrested Eddie Como. But she was also happy to have Meg home again, plus she had her hands full with Molly, and there were so many things to be done. Life was busy. Life went on. She also probably understood better than Meg’s father that women were stronger than they looked.
Now, Meg threw her arms around her mother’s trim, efficient form and squeezed her good.
“I gotta meet Carol and Jillian downtown,” she said, kissing her mom on the cheek. This was the kind of thing she could tell her mother. Her father didn’t
Meg’s lack of memory didn’t bother her so much anymore. About four months ago, she realized she possessed a deeper, instinctive knowledge of things if she was just willing to listen to her inner voice. For example, she couldn’t remember her mother’s name, age or general description. But the minute her mother had burst into the hospital exam room and wrapped her arms around Meg’s trembling shoulders, Meg had known that this woman loved her. She felt the same way about her father and Molly. And when they brought her back here she’d definitely had a sense of coming home, even if she couldn’t have given a street address.
Sometimes, little things got her going. A song on the radio would shake the cobwebs in her mind. She would feel a memory stirring, rising up, like a word stuck on the tip of her tongue. If she tried too hard, however, strained her mind, the thought would disappear almost immediately. She’d have to wait for the song to air once more, or the scent to ride the wind, or the déjà vu to return.
Lately, she’d been working on not working so hard. She focused on her inner voice more. She let the moments of semiclarity linger like a fog in front of her eyes. She spent long periods of time thinking of nothing and everything. Post-traumatic amnesia was the mind’s way of coping, the doctors had told her. Forcing the issue only created more trauma. Instead she should rest, eat healthily, and get plenty of exercise. In other words, take good care of herself.
Meg took good care of herself. These days, she didn’t have anything else to do.
Now she heard the sound of voices, closer, down the hall. Hushed voices, the way people spoke when they were fighting and didn’t want others to hear. Her parents, again. She’d gone to sleep listening to the same sound.
Her Uncle Vinnie kept coming by. Yesterday he’d been here until almost ten at night, speaking low and furiously with her father. Her mom didn’t approve of Uncle Vinnie. Her mom didn’t like him coming over so much, and obviously didn’t like whatever he and her father had been talking about.
Meg herself didn’t get it. Uncle Vinnie had a loud, booming laugh. He smelled of whiskey and stale cigars. His head was nearly bald, his stomach bursting huge. He looked to her like Kojak crossed with Santa Claus. How could you not like Kojak crossed with Santa Claus?
Meg waited on the other side of her door until her parents’ voices finally faded away. Molly was still downstairs. Probably now decorating the floor with bits of pancakes. Her mother had probably returned to her. Her father had to get ready for work. Meg crossed the hall unnoticed and crept into the upstairs bathroom, where she took a long, steaming shower.
She needed to get moving if she was going to be at the rue de l’espoir by eight.
Twenty minutes later, clad in jeans and a T-shirt, her long, damp brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face freshly scrubbed, she went galloping downstairs. By now her father had probably left for work, which made it easier for her, easier for him. One year later, he couldn’t look at her without seeing a rape victim. And Meg couldn’t look at him without seeing him look at her as someone who had been raped.
Her mother was easier. She had cried, she had raged and she had been so damn happy the day the police had arrested Eddie Como. But she was also happy to have Meg home again, plus she had her hands full with Molly, and there were so many things to be done. Life was busy. Life went on. She also probably understood better than Meg’s father that women were stronger than they looked.
Now, Meg threw her arms around her mother’s trim, efficient form and squeezed her good.
“I gotta meet Carol and Jillian downtown,” she said, kissing her mom on the cheek. This was the kind of thing she could tell her mother. Her father didn’t
Similar Books
