wrong. You’re confused, that’s all. It’ll clear up. It will.”
Roland squeezed his eyes shut. “Dana? That’s wrong?”
“It’s temporary. It’ll come to you.”
He brought his hands to his head and groaned. “I’m confused.”
“I know. So am I.”
“About what?”
“A lot. I mean, like, why are you here in New York?”
“Uh… because I live here?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Jesus, Brian, you’ve been to our house. Several times.”
Brian scrunched up his brow and massaged his chin. “Forget it. It doesn’t really matter.”
“Well, you have . About two months ago. We all went to the—”
“This is the first time I’ve been here.”
“You think I’m making this up? My imagination?”
“I don’t know what it is.”
“I bumped my head. People bump their heads all the time. Their wives don’t change their names. A bump on the head?” He again turned toward his reflection in the window—a wide, flesh-colored band of fabric was wrapped around his head, just above his ears. He glanced toward his younger brother’s reflection. There were a number of similarities between himself and Brian, same oval face, slightly bulbous nose, round chin, same hazel eyes. Brian’s face was perhaps a little fleshier than his, his cheeks slightly higher. Roland twisted back around. “You’re here… and Kate. But not Dana… or Joyce.”
“Roland, it just…” Again Brian shook his head. “You really don’t remember Joyce?”
“Joyce?” He had only recently heard the name, or perhaps met someone, but now couldn’t place when or where. His shoulders slumped as he surrendered to yet another sigh. “This is weird.” His eyes drifted about the room before returning to his brother. “I keep forgetting where I am. I look around… Oh yeah, the hospital. My head. I have to keep reminding myself.”
Brian regarded their surroundings as though trying to see things from his brother’s perspective. “Like amnesia. Some kind of amnesia.”
Roland reached up and scratched the back of his head. “I don’t get it.”
“The nurse told us you were found on someone’s porch. Do you remember that?”
“No.”
“Apparently you’d wandered into somebody’s home in some little town near here.”
A vague memory skipped along the edge of his mind—a house, his house, but with something missing. The details flitted about beneath a collage of conflicting ideas and images. “Wasn’t there a…?” His brow contracted. “That was my house.”
“Your house?”
Roland raised a hand to his head and lightly pressed his palm to the pinkish bandage. “This… Wasn’t there an accident? A car?”
“I haven’t heard anything about an accident.”
“I was crossing the street. And a car… a blue car—”
“I was told you fell from a porch.”
“No. It really wasn’t an accident, but... What was I doing?” He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Roland, just try to relax.”
“My wife… Joyce? Why isn’t she here? Why would I forget her name, just hers, and no one else’s?”
“She is though. She’s with Kate.” Brian nodded toward the door. “I believe that was her I just heard… a few minutes ago.”
Roland glanced toward the door, then turned back with a blank expression. His brother’s eyes dropped to his lap, the floor, then his shoes—searching. Roland said, “How is it that you and Kate got here before her? You had five hundred miles to drive.”
“I’m sure she took the first flight she could get.”
“From where?”
“Phoenix.”
“Arizona?” He pointed at the door. “Joyce?”
Brian’s eyes shifted toward the door. He said nothing in reply.
“Dana.” Roland spoke her name just loud enough that he could hear himself say it.
“Roland, remember when we were kids? Places we lived?”
When we were kids … Scenes from his childhood played in his head like old black and white snap shots—sparsely furnished rooms, curious perspectives, the fifties, the
Roland squeezed his eyes shut. “Dana? That’s wrong?”
“It’s temporary. It’ll come to you.”
He brought his hands to his head and groaned. “I’m confused.”
“I know. So am I.”
“About what?”
“A lot. I mean, like, why are you here in New York?”
“Uh… because I live here?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Jesus, Brian, you’ve been to our house. Several times.”
Brian scrunched up his brow and massaged his chin. “Forget it. It doesn’t really matter.”
“Well, you have . About two months ago. We all went to the—”
“This is the first time I’ve been here.”
“You think I’m making this up? My imagination?”
“I don’t know what it is.”
“I bumped my head. People bump their heads all the time. Their wives don’t change their names. A bump on the head?” He again turned toward his reflection in the window—a wide, flesh-colored band of fabric was wrapped around his head, just above his ears. He glanced toward his younger brother’s reflection. There were a number of similarities between himself and Brian, same oval face, slightly bulbous nose, round chin, same hazel eyes. Brian’s face was perhaps a little fleshier than his, his cheeks slightly higher. Roland twisted back around. “You’re here… and Kate. But not Dana… or Joyce.”
“Roland, it just…” Again Brian shook his head. “You really don’t remember Joyce?”
“Joyce?” He had only recently heard the name, or perhaps met someone, but now couldn’t place when or where. His shoulders slumped as he surrendered to yet another sigh. “This is weird.” His eyes drifted about the room before returning to his brother. “I keep forgetting where I am. I look around… Oh yeah, the hospital. My head. I have to keep reminding myself.”
Brian regarded their surroundings as though trying to see things from his brother’s perspective. “Like amnesia. Some kind of amnesia.”
Roland reached up and scratched the back of his head. “I don’t get it.”
“The nurse told us you were found on someone’s porch. Do you remember that?”
“No.”
“Apparently you’d wandered into somebody’s home in some little town near here.”
A vague memory skipped along the edge of his mind—a house, his house, but with something missing. The details flitted about beneath a collage of conflicting ideas and images. “Wasn’t there a…?” His brow contracted. “That was my house.”
“Your house?”
Roland raised a hand to his head and lightly pressed his palm to the pinkish bandage. “This… Wasn’t there an accident? A car?”
“I haven’t heard anything about an accident.”
“I was crossing the street. And a car… a blue car—”
“I was told you fell from a porch.”
“No. It really wasn’t an accident, but... What was I doing?” He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Roland, just try to relax.”
“My wife… Joyce? Why isn’t she here? Why would I forget her name, just hers, and no one else’s?”
“She is though. She’s with Kate.” Brian nodded toward the door. “I believe that was her I just heard… a few minutes ago.”
Roland glanced toward the door, then turned back with a blank expression. His brother’s eyes dropped to his lap, the floor, then his shoes—searching. Roland said, “How is it that you and Kate got here before her? You had five hundred miles to drive.”
“I’m sure she took the first flight she could get.”
“From where?”
“Phoenix.”
“Arizona?” He pointed at the door. “Joyce?”
Brian’s eyes shifted toward the door. He said nothing in reply.
“Dana.” Roland spoke her name just loud enough that he could hear himself say it.
“Roland, remember when we were kids? Places we lived?”
When we were kids … Scenes from his childhood played in his head like old black and white snap shots—sparsely furnished rooms, curious perspectives, the fifties, the
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