What You Remember I Did (9 page)

"Where did you get that?" Nan tried to keep her voice even

"Your poet brought it over for me. It's a tape of one of his readings, when he was on a panel about poetry and verse for children."

Nan felt sick. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I
am
telling you, Nanny. He brought it today." Things always got worse when her mother reverted to "Nanny."

"I'm not mad at you. It's just hard for me."

"I asked him to come to dinner tonight."

"You did what?"

The old woman's lower lip quivered admirably. "Please don't
uninvite
him." She looked at Nan beseechingly and added, "He's bringing Chinese." When that inducement didn't work, she tried, "Maybe we can get to the truth of things

"Did you forget that Jordan's coming?"

"No. Yes. I did forget. But what's that–" Catherine's eyes widened. "You don't think he would–"

"I don't know what he would do, Mother. Neither do you. That's the point. I'm going to check my email."

There was a message from Eliot. "Of course you may not talk to my therapist. She's busy. She helps a lot of people. I've said all I'm going to say. I'd prefer it if you don't contact me again."

Nan sighed and sat back. A half a dozen email exchanges and the only vaguely relevant information she had acquired was that the therapist was the same one he'd used from the start, right here in Rockland County, and her office was somewhere near the Inn off Route 59, which was where Eliot stayed when he came to see her.

Even if she could figure out who that was, Eliot was obviously not about to sign a release allowing the therapist to talk to her about their session. Which didn't mean, she suddenly thought, that she couldn't make an appointment to see her on the pretext of talking about Gary. If nothing else, she'd learn something about therapy in general, and with a little bit of luck, if she asked the right questions, she'd learn enough about repressed memory syndrome to supplement what she'd been reading in the library and on the web.

She had uncovered a wealth of material. The most direct, understandable, and lacking in hysteria came in the form of newsletters from the False Memory Syndrome Foundation and from the work of Paul J.
Ciolino
, an expert on child abuse investigations. He gave exactly the kind of guidance Nan had hoped to find. Best of all, he offered it in lay language, side-stepping the usual annoying buzzwords.

Ciolino
offered twenty questions to be asked when trying to determine the veracity–or lack thereof–of therapists working with patients who had suddenly remembered familial abuse. He said the answers would, in most cases, lead to the exposure of what he called "The Repressed Memory Myth." If she ever found Eliot's therapist, she would work in
Ciolino's
twenty questions. Maybe she would go to the source for an interpretation of the answers or talk to an expert at the FMS Foundation.

The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Jordan stood on the porch, lugging a duffle bag. Matt held an armload of what smelled like Won Ton soup and wet brown bag.

Ashley, who knew nothing of Nan's estrangement from Matt, waved from her car. "Thank you, Mom."

Not looking at or speaking to Matt, Nan kissed Jordan. The image flashed through her mind of someone hurting her granddaughter the way Matt was accused of hurting Eliot, and she held onto Jordan, burying her face in the sweet-smelling hair until the little girl squirmed to get away.

Ashley was tapping the shiny blue enamel of the car's paint with a manicured fingernail. "Cruise wear." She held up her hand. "This, my shawl, sunglasses and a swimsuit, and I'm good to go." She leaned out and angled her face for a kiss. Nan trudged across the lawn to oblige. "You have the emergency number for the ship, right?"

"Right. Go on. I'll spoil her rotten. She'll be fine."

"Bye, Mommy." Jordan waved.

Ashley grinned, waved, and pulled away from the curb. When she smiled, she reminded Nan of Gary. Nan hurried inside, edgy about Matt's interactions with Jordan. Not that he and the child were going to be alone together, at least until she had learned a lot more about Repressed Memory Syndrome and was sure about Matt, one way or the other.

After dinner, at which nobody but Nan seemed uncomfortable, she did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, refusing help. Alone, she tried to sort out what she knew about Matthew Mullen. What she had learned firsthand about him was overwhelmingly positive. The one thing she had been told about him by an outside source was overwhelmingly negative. Should she, on the basis of this accusation, end things between them altogether? Could she bear to lose what had all the makings of a good relationship on the basis of an accusation she could neither prove nor disprove?

Knowing he was taking a risk, Matt walked up behind Nan where she stood at the counter and put his hands on her shoulders, very lightly, not trying to turn her around. She kept her back to him and her voice was tight when she said. "What, Matt?"

"Are you ever going to look at me again?"

"I don't know."

"I don't want to lose you," he whispered, thinking how so often life seemed like nothing
but
taking risks. . "It's been a long time since I've felt–"

"Please, Matt, give me some time," Nan said, but he thought she rested her head back against his shoulder for a split second before she pulled away, just as Jordan came into the room. "Jordan, sweetie, it's bedtime."

"Aw, Grandma!" Jordan yawned hugely.

"How about if you read me a story?" Nan suggested.

Jordan stopped mid-protest when Matt offered, "How about I read both of you a story?" Catherine, who had joined them, pretended to pout. Matt winked at her. "All of you." The oldest and youngest of the three were obviously pleased.

He knew his reading from one of Jordan's favorite books was expert, but the child's eyes quickly began to droop. When he suggested he carry her to bed, Nan prodded her awake, as if letting him read to her was one thing, carrying her to bed in his arms quite another. He knew what she was thinking, and the old fury at Eliot and the therapist and the unfairness of the world swept dangerously through him again.

Jordan opened her eyes, pulled herself off the sofa, and stumbled to the guest room. Nan followed to tuck her in, the way Matt used to tuck his son in every night. He was thinking he was not going to be able to stand being around this family tonight when Catherine, either blessedly oblivious or adroitly kind, patted his hand and announced, "Don't worry, my dear, I know just the thing."

When Nan returned to the living room, Matt and Catherine had set up the Scrabble set, but she shook her head. "I'm tired."

"Oh, Nanny, please? For me?" Matt had the distinct impression that this was an old pattern between them.

"Maybe we should play tomorrow." He heard his own childlike hopefulness, but he could not help himself.

"Come on, Nanny."

Suddenly Matt saw that Catherine's shoulders had begun to lift with each intake of breath. She was gulping air through her mouth and wheezing like a warm-up on an un-tuned violin. Nan went quickly to her side, coaching her, "In through your nose, out through your mouth. In, two-three-four. Out, five-six-seven-eight," breathing with her.

Catherine tried, but grew increasingly agitated. The color had drained from her face, leaving two high spots of blush. Her lips had a purple tinge.

"Keep her going, Matt. I have to get the
epi
." Nan half-ran to the kitchen while Matt did his best to pick up the count.

"No needle," Catherine begged between wheezes. "You know how much I hate needles."

"I was taught to do this on oranges," Nan said, positioning the syringe. "According to her doctor it's the closest thing to the feeling of human flesh." She gave the injection.

Feeling a little queasy, Matt inquired foolishly, "Shouldn't she go to the hospital?"

"Let's give it a few minutes for the
epi
to work. I warn you, she may throw up. Bring me a dish, a bag, anything you can find." Catherine was dry heaving. "If she could get up some phlegm, she'd be all right," Nan said, and Matt, rummaging under the sink, thought how this was too much information, "but she considers vomiting déclassé."

When he got back to them with a plastic basin, the old lady's hands were balled into fists and she was shaking.

"I'll stay with Jordan if you need to take your mother to the E.R." Matt offered, then grimly corrected himself. "Or I'll take Catherine to the E.R. and you can stay here."

"No! I need
you
with me, Nanny."

"She hates you seeing her like this," Nan told him. "Look, I hold her Power of Attorney. I'll have to sign for any treatment, or give permission if they want to keep her at the hospital. I'll just take Jordan along."

"I won't hurt her, Nan," Matt said softly. "You know I won't hurt her." He couldn't believe he was having to say this, and her hesitation was even more dreadful. This was not his problem; he could leave them to sort it all out. Instead he pressed, knowing full well his persistence could make her even more suspicious. "It's late. Let the child sleep."

"But if–" She stopped.

He forced her hand, or tried to. "If what, Nan?"

Catherine was sweating profusely now, coughing and gagging, and Matt saw Nan make her decision. "We shouldn't be gone long. She'll throw up there and then she'll be fine."

When Nan and her mother were gone, Matt didn't quite know what to do with himself in their house. He checked on Jordan, who seemed to be peacefully asleep, but didn't dare actually go into her room–for fear of waking her, for fear of being caught if Nan came home, for fear of the associations such a tender action would bring up for him. He flipped through a tennis magazine, hoping it might make him feel closer to Nan, but it only emphasized how far apart they were when he almost couldn't decipher the language. He tried working on the new poem, but had no sense of the rhythms or resonances and discarded it all.

After an hour or so, Nan called from the hospital. "They gave her more epinephrine. She threw up and now she's asleep." Matt could hear the fatigue in her voice. "It's going to be a couple of hours before I can bring her home," she told him. "I'll call my sister to come over to the house to relieve you."

"That's not necessary. Jordan's asleep. I opened her door a crack in case she calls for you and made myself more Chinese tea. Everything is fine here."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure, Nan. Go back to your mother."

It took more than two hours. When they finally came in, after midnight, Nan seemed glad to have his physical help getting her mother to bed, and grateful that he left right away with only a nod to her thanks and without asking for or receiving any sign of affection from her, let alone an invitation to return. On his way out to the car, he wondered if he'd ever see her again, and how bad this headache now lurking in his temples would turn out to be.

Knowing now that, by ten o'clock in the evening, the geriatric ward at West Nyack Hospital was calm, the figure in green scrubs walked with confidence down the corridor. The nurses would cause no problem. They were too busy munching candy rescued from their patients' rooms and chatting. They didn't hear the thump of Mrs. Kane's body as it tumbled onto the floor, or notice the figure leave through the exit door at the far end.

When the patient flat lined, it no longer mattered, especially not to the family she left behind.

Catherine and Jordan slept soundly, and Nan was able to get a few solid hours of sleep. The next morning, Catherine felt fine. Jordan, on the other hand, seemed to be less high-spirited than usual.

"Anything wrong, honey?" Nan asked with studied casualness. Jordan just shrugged. Nan pressed. "Anything bothering you?" This time, Jordan shook her head. "You can tell me, you know. If anything's bothering you."

"I know."

"Did–did anything happen last night to upset you?" This was probably too far too fast, but she could hardly contain herself.

Jordan looked relieved to have the right answer. "Oh, yeah, I got scared when Gram couldn't breathe."

Nan glanced at her sharply. "I thought you were asleep."

The child looked as if she'd done something wrong. "I woke up and I heard her, you know, and I heard you and Matt arguing about who'd stay and who'd go."

"I'm sorry, sweetie. Did that upset you? Were you afraid to stay here with Matt?"

Jordan shook her head vehemently, ponytail swishing. "Matt's nice. I was just scared because of Gram."

"I know. Me, too. She's okay now, though." Jordan nodded and was on her way out of the room when Nan said, "Besides that, I mean. Did anything bad happen while your Gram and I were at the hospital?"

Jordan looked blank. "I don't know. I guess not."

"I mean, with Matt." Nan swallowed hard. "Did anything bad happen with Matt."

"No." Jordan said again, beginning to tire of this. "I told you. Matt's nice."

"You're sure? You'd tell me if anything bad happened, wouldn't you?"