Amnesia Read Free Page A

baseball bat. A table, like a dining-room table.”
    Mr. O’Flanagan nodded and repeated the words, “Bat, table …”
    â€œAnd a bridge, like the Golden Gate Bridge.”
    â€œ … bridge.”
    â€œThat’s right. Have you got that? Bat, table, bridge.”
    He rolled his eyes at Kwan and Gloria and humored me with a response. “Bat, table, bridge.”
    â€œOkay. Now, remember those words because I’m going to ask you for them in just a few moments. I wonder if you’ve ever heard the expression, ‘People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’?”
    â€œSure, I’ve heard it.”

    â€œCan you explain to me what it means?”
    â€œPeople who live in …” He thought for a few moments and started again. “It means …” He frowned. Then a lightbulb seemed to go off in his head. He formed a little tent out of his hands and intoned, “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” He paused. “Matthew Seven.” He winked at me.
    â€œRight you are,” I said. “You read the Bible often, Mr. O’Flanagan?”
    â€œMe? Nah. The wife’s the one. She’s always quoting bits of it. That’s one of her favorites.”
    â€œAnd how is your wife?”
    â€œRight as rain,” he said.
    â€œNow, can you remember those three words we talked about?”
    â€œWhat words?” he said.
    â€œBaseball —” I prompted.
    Reddening, he sputtered. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œGolden Gate —”
    â€œWhat kind of ridiculous nonsense? Why are you wasting my time when I have work to do?” He struggled to his feet. He looked around the room, baffled. “My train …” he said.
    â€œYou’re absolutely right. Just a lot of nonsense. You can relax. We’ll let you know when it’s called.”
    The old man sank back down into his chair and dismissed me with a backhanded wave. Then he noticed the television, settled back, and stared placidly into it.
    I stood and we left the room.
    â€œAlzheimer’s?” our intern, Suzanne, asked.
    I shook my head. “Mr. O’Flanagan is your typical Korsakoff patient.”
    â€œI should have guessed from those spidery hemorrhages in his face. An alcoholic.”
    â€œOr what’s left of one,” I said. “Mr. O’Flanagan remembers how televisions worked forty years ago, when they took a few
moments to warm up. But he doesn’t remember that he hasn’t turned it on. And he doesn’t have any idea whether he’s been waiting for a few minutes or a few hours.”
    As we continued down the hall, Gloria looked back and commented, “But he’s a pretty contented guy. Nothing in this world worries him.”
    The mind can go bad in a lot of ways, and Mr. O’Flanagan’s wasn’t a bad way to go. His world was a benign twilight zone in which each moment that passed disappeared from his memory like a snowflake melting on a hot plate. There had been times when I gladly would have switched places. But I’d thought I was past that — until Chip called.

2
    MY BEEPER went off at ten minutes to five. I hoped it was Chip calling to cancel. I blinked at the readout. My mother’s number blinked back. I swallowed the panic that I knew was irrational. I ducked into the nurses’ station and dialed the phone. I held my breath and counted rings. One … two … the phone picked up. “Ma?” I said.
    There was my mother’s reedy voice. “I’m fine,” she said, getting that out of the way.
    I breathed. “You beeped?”
    â€œPetey, dear —” she started. I cringed. She’s the only person in the world who calls me Petey and it’s useless to protest. “Listen, about tonight.”
    â€œTonight?” I’d forgotten. My mother had invited me to eat dinner with her. A nice break from the usual tuna on