Amnesia Read Free Page B

Styrofoam I’d get at the hospital cafeteria.
    â€œYou wouldn’t mind, would you, if we make it tomorrow instead?”
    My mother lives in the other half of the two-family side-by-side that Kate and I bought just after we were married. It’s in the heart of one of the more blue-collar Cambridge neighborhoods.
My parents moved in after my father got sick more than five years ago. So coming to dinner involves going out my door, standing briefly on our shared porch, and going in my mother’s door.
    â€œWhat, you got a better offer?”
    â€œActually,” she hesitated, “actually, I have a … date.” Her voice cracked over the last word.
    â€œA date?” My mother was sixty-eight years old, and since my father died four years ago, her weekly mah-jongg game and dinner with me had constituted her goings-out.
    â€œAnd why shouldn’t I have a date?”
    â€œWith a man?”
    â€œNo, dear, with a chimpanzee. Of course with a man.”
    â€œAnyone I know?” Here was a game we’d often played, but with the roles reversed.
    â€œMr. Kuppel,” she said, “from the video store.”
    â€œAh,” I said. That explained how, as electronically challenged as she usually is, my mother had so quickly mastered the VCR I bought her a few months earlier. Mr. Kuppel was a round, avuncular fellow with a neatly clipped beard and mustache and a completely bald pate. He repaired VCRs and was a connoisseur of vintage films.
    â€œYou don’t mind, do you, dear?”
    Too bad I hadn’t remembered earlier. It would have made the perfect excuse to give Chip.
    My mother, attuned to every nuance, quickly turned the tables. “So what is it? You forgot? You’re not feeling well? You have another engagement?” The last one was delivered with that hopeful, upward inflection at the end.
    Multiple choice. I didn’t rush to answer. I savored the moment. It felt good to slip back into our familiar roles, the thrust and parry of nagging mother, beleaguered son. Each answer had its downside. I forgot: I didn’t care about her. I was sick: I’d need round-the-clock deliveries of chicken soup and ginger ale. I had a date: I’d be hounded for details.

    None of the above. But telling her the truth was out of the question. If she knew I was even marginally involved in a homicide case, she’d freak and maybe even cancel her date. I sidestepped. “Actually, it’s been so hectic and I’ve got tons of paperwork to finish up before I call it a day. Tomorrow is better for me, too.” I glanced out the window. The sky was overcast, and in the early gloom Chip and Annie were walking up the hill toward the building entrance. I hit the button that sets off my own beeper. “Mom, my beeper just went off.”
    â€œYou sure everything is all right?” She should be the psychologist, not me.
    â€œEverything is fine, just fine. Gotta run.”
    â€œSo run! Do what you have to do. Don’t forget to turn on the outside light when you come in so I know you’re safe.” Click.
    Safe. Would “safe” ever again be a word I’d use to describe myself?
    When I looked out the window again, Annie and Chip had disappeared into the building. There wasn’t time to meet them in the lobby so I headed for the stairs. I was in the middle of the second flight when I realized that what I wanted to do was turn around and run the other way. I slowed down, pushing myself to put one foot in front of the other. Was that an echo, or another set of footsteps just after mine? I paused. The stairwell descended into silence. When I finally reached the third floor, I leaned against the door to the hall and breathed evenly, trying to slow down my heart. With the back of my hand, I swiped away the perspiration that glazed my forehead. Then I entered the corridor. I had to walk to the end. My office was just around the bend. The hallway seemed to