What You Remember I Did (23 page)

"I've been wondering what I'd say when you asked." He paused. "It was–amazing. A weedy adjective if ever there was one, but it's the best I can do."

"Weedy?"

"Oh, sorry. Jargon. Means a word that serves no particular purpose, doesn't tell you anything, should be pulled out like a weed."

"Oh."

"Taught to me by my grandson, Brandon, who is a great little kid. His sister, too. Julia. She likes to jump rope." His voice broke. "We got along famously. Brandon looks just like me, Nan."

She was silent for a moment. "Eliot and his wife let you be alone with them? Like nothing had ever happened?"

He clenched his fists around the sudden sensation of grime and went to the sink to wash. "Nothing
did
ever happen." She didn't say anything. He scrubbed, rinsed, dried, and said to her miserably, "Now that you mention it, there was always somebody around. I hadn't thought of that."

"You weren't there very long," Nan conceded, "Maybe there was no opportunity for you to be alone with them anyway."

"I had Brandon's room. He slept in his parents' room while I was there," Matt said, not entirely sure how that connected with the rest of the conversation but trusting his instincts.

"Hmm." Were images of nighttime predation flying through Nan's mind, he wondered? Was she battling a memory of her own that was trying to break through?

Clearing his throat, he said lamely, "So what's new with you since I've been gone? I missed you."

"I missed you, too," she said. He imagined her casting about for something to tell him. "I'm trying to decide whether to join a class-action lawsuit against Tonya Bishop," she said at last.

"I wasn't going to mention that. Eliot and I were contacted, too."

"The attorney's been calling me. I haven't called back. Did you know she's a former client of Tonya's?"

"No. I didn't know that." Through the looming headache and his scramble for the migraine medication that might have a chance of stopping it, Matt tried to judge what this information might signify.

"Are you going to participate?"

"I'm going to talk to her."

"Is Eliot?"

"Yes. He'd already decided. We didn't talk at all about–about what happened between us. I tried to bring it up once, but he just said he wishes he could stop it happening to anybody else. That was all he would say."

"I'm of several minds about it."

"Me, too," Matt said. How bizarre, he thought. An alleged victim and an alleged
perp
, brought closer by the possibility of vindication and revenge. He was pleased when she said, "Can you come over?"

"When?"

To his surprise, she said, "Now, Matt. Come now." There was urgency in her voice. He threw his razor and toothbrush into his briefcase, along with change of shirt and underwear. The eternal optimist, he thought, a little giddily.

At the last minute he added an early copy of his new book, some of whose poems had to do with Eliot, though obliquely. Maybe he could read to her or to Catherine and get some sense of what was going on.

"Cinder-
ella
, dressed in
yella
, went upstairs to kiss a fella," ran through his mind as he headed for his car, the jump rope rhyme his granddaughter and her friends had sung most often while he'd been there. Not very familiar with jump rope rhymes, he'd been startled by the sexual undertone. "Made a mistake, kissed a snake...."

That is decidedly creepy, he thought, and certainly has layers of meaning and resonance. From long practice he recognized this as a found phrase that would show up in a poem someday, and stored it away in his memory.

Knowing Matt was on his way provided Nan with the burst of adrenaline she needed. She put on a pot of coffee, took out a Junior's cheesecake to defrost, and wondered if he would bring his razor and a clean shirt in anticipation of staying over. They had laughed at each other about their reluctance to leave anything personal at the other's home and, when one or the other accidentally left something behind, there'd ensued all manner of teasing about what Freud might have said.

"Na-an," Catherine called out as the doorbell rang.

"Coming." It wasn't hard to decide which to answer first. Her mother was the helpless one. "
Door's
open, Matt. Come on in."

Her heart fluttered as she heard him enter. "Hello?" The sound of his voice made her long to rush into his arms.

"Just a minute." She willed herself not to resent her mother. "There's coffee and cake in the kitchen, Matt."

Catherine's "Nanny, Nanny, Nanny" didn't stop when Nan leaned over her. The word seemed to have lost all meaning for both of them. "I'm here, Mom. What do you want?" She didn't mean to sound impatient.

The old woman's gaze brushed over her without recognition or focus. "I want Nan. I want my daughter. What have you done with my daughter?" Her thin voice rose toward hysteria and she fought Nan off with what little strength she had.

"Mom, look at me, listen to me, I am Nan, I am your daughter." Nan had to make an effort to keep from sliding into near-hysteria of her own. She knew an attempt at being rational wouldn't work; her mother would know who she was again as mysteriously and randomly as she didn't know her.

Until the moment recognition vanished forever. Maybe that would turn out to be now. There was something particularly appalling about doing all these personal things for a mother who didn't know who she was.

"Come on, Mom. Whoever you think I am, I'll help you get cleaned up."

Catherine could still walk with support, though she sometimes seemed to lose track of how to put one foot in front of the other. With one arm around the frail waist and her mother leaning lightly but desperately on her other forearm, Nan slowly maneuvered the few steps into the bathroom. She sat her mother on the toilet and propped her against the sink to prevent her falling, then waited while she finished relieving herself. She was far more self-conscious than Catherine was. The sight of her mother's scrawny thighs and pale genitalia never failed to shock her, but she didn't dare look away.

"All done?" But Catherine couldn't tell her. Crouching before her, Nan cleaned and dried her, stood her up, and leaned her against her own shoulder to powder her. So far, there was only a slight reddening of the skin, no bedsores, thank God.

Matt was waiting. Desire to be with him, to touch him, to bury herself in his arms was muted now by tenderness and horror at her mother's unawareness of her own needs. "I know, Mom, I know," she crooned as she got the soiled gown off and pulled over her mother's head a clean one from the stack in the closet–a stack which, she saw wearily, was dwindling. Catherine was unresisting but unhelpful. "It's okay. Sometimes I don't know what I need, either, or what to do to help myself." Catherine's confused expression so mirrored the way she herself felt that Nan almost laughed.

As she was settling her mother back into bed, the old woman suddenly announced, "God died."

"Mom–"

"It's true. I heard the man say that God died. It's okay, though, because the man said he's gone to Grace. He said his name was George."

Nan heard Matt laughing in the other room, and she herself was smiling. "She must have heard that George Burns died," Matt said, grinning at her.

"
Oh God
, the movie." Like a contestant on a quiz show, Nan jumped up and down in delight at having come up with the correct answer.

Matt laughed again. He did have such a nice laugh. "Remember the scene where John Denver gets out of a shower to talk to God? I noticed he was wearing a body suit. I was so impressed with my amazing powers of observation that I took everyone I knew to see the movie, so I could point it out."

She put her hand on his cheek, loving him for the little-boy sparkle in his eyes. There was an intimacy that hadn't been there the last time they'd seen each other. Maybe this was the moment to set aside questions and doubts and move into the bedroom.

"You sounded really overwrought on the phone," he said, placing his hand over hers. "I didn't want to waste time asking you what had happened to upset you that badly."

She couldn't quite remember. Her libido was interfering with her brain. "It doesn't matter anymore," she whispered, and lifted herself onto the balls of her feet to kiss him.

His hand came up to cradle her head in the way she loved, but he pulled away from the kiss to look into her eyes. "I worry about you–"

Giddily she sang, as her mother would have, "Anyone who's ever been in
love'll
tell you that/This is no time for a chat!" and pulled his mouth down to hers.

The kiss was long and breathless. His fingers slid from her hair onto her neck. Her hands had begun to move over his body when he grabbed them and turned his face away to speak. "There's something I have to tell you, Nan."

It was Nan's turn to pull away. "That doesn't sound good. Is it about Eliot?"

In the ensuing pause, she thought again about confessing that she had driven past the house in New Hope and seen the children. Instead she tried to look happy about the reunion that he had so wanted. She couldn't do it.

"There's no way to tell you this except to tell you."

"You've found a replacement for me."

"No." Matt gave her hands a little shake. "But I did find
something
in New Hope. A family."

"I'm...glad for you, Matt."

"I know you are."

You know nothing
, she thought, disproportionately furious. She tried to free herself but he wouldn't let her go. "Presumably, you have something else to say."

"I've made a decision." He took a long, deep breath. "When my contract here is over, I'm moving to Philadelphia to be closer to Eliot and his family."

Nan knew she was either going to hit him or weep against his chest. He put his arms around her and she hid her face.

"I want you to come with me."

Her heart stopped. What was he saying? She couldn't–

"You and Catherine."

She had not the slightest idea what to say. He hadn't asked her to marry him, which would have made the situation really complicated, but what he had asked was difficult enough. "I can't afford to just leave my job, Matt," she said at last, "Or take Mother farther away from
our
family."

She was more than a little outraged at his presumption. It would be sad to have him leave, but in some ways it would also be a relief, at least until she had come to some kind of resolution about the whole memory thing– not just to do with Eliot. With Catherine, too.

"How will you earn a living?" she asked.

"I won't starve. I'm fairly sure I'll be able to get a teaching job in the area. I've already spoken to a few people. It's looking good."

"Excuse me." She stepped back, and this time he didn't try to hold her.

"Nan, don't." He met her gaze. "Don't be angry with me."

"I'm not angry," she said, and meant it now. "I have to check on Mom." What she felt was not anger. She'd have to figure out later what exactly it was.

"Will you think about it, Nan? Please? I know right now things are difficult, but our relationship is important to both of us. Isn't it?"

She nodded. "Of course it is, and I will. Think about it, I mean. It's a lot to digest all at once, so right now I'd like to check on my mother and take a long, hot bath." She knew she was blabbering. "Oh, and speaking of digest, do me a favor and take some of that cake or I'll end up eating all of it myself."

Wanting nothing more than for him to be gone, she hurried to cut the cheesecake in half and put it into a container for him. When she got back, he had picked up the coat he'd thrown over a chair near the front door. He was about to put it on when he said, "I have something to show you. It's in the car."

Not family photos, Nan prayed. He returned holding a small volume. "It's my new book," he told her. "I brought it for Catherine. I had thought I might read a few poems to her the way I used to."

Nan took the book from him. He had called it
Coffee Talk
. "Thank you. It's sweet of you." She let him kiss her gently and sighed. There would be no lovemaking tonight.

She had hardly closed the door behind him when Catherine called out to her. "I'm wet, Nanny."

With more patience than usual, Nan took off her mother's damp clothes and sponged her down. She powdered her with Yardley's, always a favorite, and dressed her in a soft pink nightgown. She even brushed her hair again and put a little night cream on her face.

Catherine relaxed and her mouth slackened almost into a smile. Nan sat by her bed and read Matt's poems aloud, wondering with each one whether it had anything to do with her. With them.

About the last one, though, there was hardly any doubt, since it was titled, "Love-Forty, Your Advantage." The final lines cinched it:

Love in your arms is

like hate in the arms

of another.

Hate on your lips is