What Alice Forgot

  The cousin who said sympathetically, "I know exactly what you're going through. I've been trying to finish this Ph.D. for six years."

  "What about your sister?" Kerry said to me. "You said something in your last e-mail about something she'd done that had you infuriated."

  "She's the supermum with three children, isn't she?" Anne-Marie's lip curled. "The one who doesn't need to work because she's got the rich husband."

  They all looked at me avidly, ready to be disgusted with Alice, because, to be honest, Dr. Hodges, I've complained about her before.

  But I thought about laughing with Alice on the way home from the hospital and the horrified, hurt expression on her face when she talked to Nick on the phone. I thought about how she'd said, "Don't you like me anymore?" and how when I'd left her today, her dress was all crumpled from her sleep and her hair was sticking up on one side. That was so typically old Alice, not to even look at herself in the mirror before she came downstairs. And I thought about how she'd cried at the hospital with me when Olivia was born, and how she'd said so innocently to us all today,

  "Who is Gina?"

  I felt sick with shame, Dr. Hodges. I wanted to say to them, "Hey, that's my little sister you're talking about."

  Instead I told them about how Alice had lost her memory and thought she was twenty-nine, and how it had made me think a lot about what my old self would say about this life I'm leading. I said I thought my younger self might think it was time to give up. Just to give up. Let it go. Walk away. No more injections. No more test tubes of warm blood. No more grief.

  Of course they snapped to attention like good soldiers who know their duty.

  "Never give up," they told me, and one by one they recounted horrendous stories of infertility and miscarriage that had all ended with healthy bouncing babies.

  I listened and nodded and smiled and watched the seagulls squabbling.

  I don't know, Dr. Hodges. I just don't know.

  Over lunch, Roger took it upon himself to bring Alice up to date with his own interpretation of every historical event that had taken place over the last ten years, while her mother decided to simultaneously do the same thing with the personal lives of everyone she'd ever met.

  "And then the U.S. invaded Iraq, because old matey, Saddam, was stockpiling weapons of mass destruction," intoned Roger.

  "Except there were no weapons," interrupted Frannie.

  "Well, who really knows for sure?"

  "You are joking, Roger."

  "And then Marianne Elton, oh, of course you remember her, she used to coach Elisabeth's netball team," said Barb. "Well, she married Jonathon Knox, that nice young plumber we had over that time when we had that problem with the toilets that very cold Easter, they had the wedding on some tropical island, so inconvenient for everyone, and the poor flower girl got badly sunburned, anyhow, two years ago they had a baby daughter called Madeline, which made Madeline very happy as you can imagine. I said, 'Well, I never expected my girls to name their children Barbara,' which I didn't, but Madeline is such a popular name now, anyhow, poor Madeline turned out ..."

  "... and let me tell you, Alice, exactly what the government should have done straight after the Bali attacks ... "

  "Oh, and one of Felicity's boys was there in Bali!" said Barb, the personal world suddenly intersecting with the political. "He flew out the day before. Felicity thinks it means he's been chosen to do something great, but so far he doesn't seem to do anything much but visit Facebook, is that what it's called, Roger--Facebook?"

  Frannie said, "Does any of this mean anything to you at all, Alice?"

  Alice had only been listening with one part of her mind. She was busy thinking about the concept of forgiveness. It was such a lovely, generous idea when it wasn't linked to something awful that needed forgiving. Was she a forgiving person? She had no idea. She'd never been called upon to forgive something as big as infidelity. Anyway, did Nick want her forgiveness?

  She said to Frannie, "I'm not exactly sure."

  Some things that Roger had been saying had maybe seemed familiar, as if they were things she'd learned once at school and then forgotten. When he talked about terrorist attacks, she felt a reflexive feeling of horror, and maybe even some fleeting memories: a woman in a sun visor with a hand pressed to her mouth saying, "Oh my word, oh my word." But she couldn't remember where she was when she first heard about them, if she'd been with Nick, or alone, if she'd watched them on TV or heard about them on the radio. She also seemed to recognize some parts of her mother's stories. There was something familiar, for example, about the phrase "sunburned flower girl," like the punch line of a joke she'd heard before.

  Frannie was saying, "Well, she's going to have to go back to the doctor. There's something not right here. Look at her. It's obvious."

  "I doubt they can just transplant her memories back in her head," said Roger.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, Roger, I didn't realize you had experience as a neurosurgeon," said Frannie.

  "Who wants a nice piece of custard tart, then?" said Barb brightly.

  Chapter 16

  Alice was alone.

  There had been a lot of intense debate about the wisdom of leaving her alone after lunch. Barb and Roger had their Saturday-afternoon advanced salsa-dancing class. They said they could easily miss it just this once, although, of course, it was an especially important class because they were rehearsing for the Family Talent Night at Frannie's retirement village, but really and truly, it would be no problem to miss it if Alice needed them there. Frannie had an important meeting at the retirement village--something to do with Christmas. She was chairing the meeting but she could easily call and ask Bev or maybe Dora to do it, although they were both nervy public speakers, and it was likely they'd be railroaded by this rather domineering new resident, but that would hardly be the end of the world; her granddaughter came first.

  "I'll be fine," Alice had repeated over and over. "I'm nearly forty years old!" she'd added flippantly, but there must have been something strange about the way she'd said it because they'd all stared at her for a moment, and then a whole new round of offers to stay began.

  "Elisabeth will be back any minute," she'd told them, shooing them out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and out the door. "Off you go! I'll be fine!"

  And within minutes, they were packed into Roger's big shiny car, shadowy figures waving at her behind tinted windows, and the car was disappearing down the driveway, gravel flying.

  "I'll be fine," Alice repeated quietly to herself.

  She saw old Mrs. Bergen coming out of the house next door wearing a big Mexican hat and carrying a pair of gardening shears. She liked Mrs. Bergen. She was teaching her how to garden. She'd given Alice lots of advice about the problems with her lemon tree (she suggested Nick should give it the occasional "tinkle," which he had, with rather revolting enthusiasm) and was always bringing over cuttings from her own garden for Alice and gently pointing out what needed watering or pruning or weeding. Mrs. Bergen didn't like cooking much, so in return Alice took over Tupperware containers with leftover casseroles and pieces of quiche and carrot cake. Mrs. Bergen had already crocheted three sets of bootees for the baby and was starting on a matinee jacket and bonnet.

  But that was all ten years ago.

  So were those tiny items now faded and dusty in a cupboard somewhere?

  Alice lifted her hand in affectionate greeting. Mrs. Bergen lowered her head and turned pointedly in the direction of her azaleas.

  Oh.

  There was no mistaking it. Mrs. Bergen had snubbed her.

  Would sweet, chubby Mrs. Bergen yell and swear at her, as Nick had, if Alice went over to say hello? That would be like when the little girl's head spun around in The Exorcist.

  Alice went back inside quickly and closed the door behind her, feeling an absurd desire to cry.

  Maybe Mrs. Bergen was going senile and didn't recognize Alice anymore. That was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Yes, that would do. For now
. Once she got back her memory, everything would fall neatly into place. "Oh," she'd say. "Of course!"

  Well. What next?

  She wondered exactly what she did on these weekends when "Nick had the children." Did she like the break? Was she lonely? Did she long for the children to come back?

  The sensible thing to do would be to explore the house for clues about her life. That way she'd be ready for when Nick came back tomorrow night. She should have a persuasive presentation prepared: Ten reasons why we should not be getting this divorce.

  Maybe she would find something about Gina. Love letters to Nick? But presumably he would have taken those with him when he moved out.

  Or perhaps she should be doing something for this party tonight? But what? The party seemed strangely irrelevant.

  Actually, she didn't want to be in the house at all. Her stomach felt uncomfortably full from all that custard tart she'd eaten. "You want a second piece?" her mother had said with pleased surprise and Alice guessed that this was unusual for her.

  She would go for a walk. That would clear her mind. It was a beautiful day. Why spend it indoors?

  She went upstairs and then stopped in the hallway, looking at the other three bedroom doors. That must be where the children slept now. She and Nick had left them empty, except for the one they were going to use for the baby's nursery. They'd spent a lot of time in there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, planning and imagining. They'd picked the paint color: Ocean Azure. It would work even if the baby surprised them by being a girl (which she had--a girl!).

  Alice tentatively pushed open the nursery door.

  Well. What did she expect? Of course there was no white crib or change table, no rocking chair. It wasn't a nursery anymore.

  Instead there was a single unmade bed, strewn with clothes and a bookshelf crammed with books, old empty bottles of perfume, and glass jars. The walls were almost entirely plastered with moody black-and-white pictures of European cities. Alice saw a tiny square of blue in between two posters. She went over and put her finger to it. Ocean Azure.

  There was a desk against one wall. She saw a ring binder labeled Madison Love. The handwriting was familiar. It looked like Alice's own writing when she was in primary school. She noticed an open recipe book face down on the desk and picked it up. A recipe for lasagne. Wasn't Madison too little to be cooking? And for posters of European cities? Alice was still playing with dolls at that age. Her own daughter was making her nine-year-old self feel inferior.

  She carefully placed the recipe book back down and tiptoed out of the room.

  The next bedroom door was closed and there was a note pinned to it.

  KEEP OUT. DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PERMISSION. NO GIRLS ALLOWED. THE CONSEQUENCES WILL BE DEATH.

  Goodness. Alice let go of the door handle and backed away. She was a girl, after all. This must be Tom's room. Maybe he had it booby-trapped. Little boys. How terrifying.

  The next room was more welcoming. She had to push through beads hanging from the doorway. The bed was a little girl's dream: four-poster, with a purple gauze canopy. Fairy wings hung from a hook on the wall. There were tiny glass ornaments shaped like cupcakes, dozens of stuffed animals, a makeup mirror with lights around it, hair clips and ribbons, a music box, glittery bangles and long beads, a pink portable stereo, a dress-up box filled with clothes. Alice sat down and rifled through the dress-up box. She pulled out a familiar green summer dress and held it up in front of her. She'd bought it especially for her honeymoon. It was one of the most expensive dresses she'd ever owned. Dry-clean only. Now it had a brown stain on the neckline and a jagged hemline where someone had taken to it with a pair of scissors. Alice dropped the dress, her head swimming. There was a sickly-sweet scent in the room like strawberry lip gloss. Fresh air. She definitely needed air.

  She went to her own bedroom and quickly found shorts and a T-shirt in the chest of drawers, and her sneakers and sunglasses still in the rucksack she'd brought back from the hospital. She hurried back downstairs and pulled off one of the baseball caps from the hat stand. It said PHILADELPHIA on the brim.

  She left the house, locking the door behind her and noting with relief that Mrs. Bergen had gone back inside.

  Which way? She turned to the left and took off at a brisk pace. A woman was approaching from the other direction, wheeling a stroller with a sternfaced baby who was sitting very straight-backed and solemn. As Alice got closer, the baby frowned up at her, while the woman smiled and said, "Not running today?"

  "Not today." Alice smiled back and kept walking.

  Running? Good heavens. She hated running. She remembered the way she and her friend Sophie used to shuffle around the oval in the high school, moaning and clutching their sides, while Mr. Gillespie called out, "Oh for God's sakes, you girls!"

  Sophie! She would give Sophie a call when she got home. If she hadn't been confiding in Elisabeth, maybe Sophie knew more about what was going on with her and Nick.

  She kept walking, seeing houses that had doubled in size, like cakes in the oven. Red-brick cottages had been transformed into smooth mushroomcolored mansions with pillars and turrets.

  Actually, it was interesting, because she was walking quicker and quicker, sort of bouncing along the pavement, and the idea of running didn't seem that stupid at all. It seemed sort of ... pleasant.

  Was it a bad idea with a head injury? Probably a very bad idea. But maybe it would jar all those memories back into place.

  She began to run.

  Her arms and legs fell into a smooth rhythm; she began to breathe deep, slow breaths, in through the nostrils and out through the mouth. Oh, this felt good. It felt right. It felt like something she did.

  At Rawson Street she turned left and picked up her pace. The fat red leaves of the liquid ambers trembled in the sunlight. A white car packed with teenagers screeched by, thudding with music. She passed a driveway where a group of kids were shrieking and brandishing water guns. Someone started up a lawn mower.

  Up ahead, the white car with the teenagers pulled up at the corner.

  A momentous feeling of panic exploded in her chest. It was happening again, just like in the car with Elisabeth. Her legs quivered so ridiculously she actually had to crouch down on the footpath, waiting for whatever it was to pass. A scream of horror was lodged in her throat. If she let it out, it would be very embarrassing.

  She looked around, her hands on the ground to balance herself, her chest heaving, and saw that the children with the water pistols were still running back and forth, as if the world hadn't turned black and evil. She looked back at the end of the street where the white car was waiting for a break in the traffic.

  It was something to do with a car pulling up at that corner.

  She closed her eyes and saw the brake lights of a green four-wheel-drive. The number plate said: GINA 333.

  Nothing else. She felt simultaneously hot and cold, as if she had the flu. For God's sake. Was she about to be sick again? All that custard tart. The children could clean it up with their water pistols.

  A horn tooted. "Alice?"

  Alice opened her eyes.

  A car had pulled up on the other side of the road and a man was leaning out the window. He opened the car door and quickly crossed the street toward her.

  "What happened?"

  He stood in front of her and blocked out the sun. Alice squinted mutely up at him. She couldn't make out the features of his face. He seemed extremely tall.

  He bent down beside her and touched her arm.

  "Did you faint?"

  She could see his face now. It was an ordinary, kind, thin, middle-aged sort of face, the unassuming face of a friendly newsagent who chatted to you about the weather.

  "Come on. Up you get," he said, and lifted her by both elbows so she rose straight to her feet. "We'll get you home."

  He led her across the street to the car and deposited her in the passenger seat. Alice couldn't decide what to say, so she didn't say anything. A voice from
the back of the car said, "Did you fall over and hurt yourself?"

  Alice turned and saw a little boy with liquid brown eyes staring at her anxiously.

  She said, "I just felt a bit funny."

  The man got back in the car and started the engine. "We were on our way over to your place and then Jasper spotted you. Were you going for a run?"

  "Yes," said Alice. They stopped at the corner of Rawson and King. She thought of the car with the GINA number plate and felt nothing.

  "I saw Neil Morris at the IGA this morning," said the man. "He said he saw you being carried out of the gym on a stretcher yesterday! I left a few messages for you, but I didn't ..."

  His voice drifted away.

  "I fell over and hit my head during my 'spin class,'" said Alice. "I'm fine today, but I shouldn't have been running. It was stupid of me."

  The little boy called Jasper giggled in the backseat. "You're not stupid! Sometimes my dad is stupid. Like today, he forgot three things and we had to keep stopping the car and he'd say, 'Boofhead!' It was pretty funny. Okay, first thing was his wallet. Second thing was his mobile phone. Third thing--ummm, okay, third thing--Dad, what was the third thing you forgot?"

  They were pulling into Alice's driveway. They stopped the car and the little boy gave up on the third thing and threw open his car door and ran toward the veranda.

  The man pulled on the handbrake and then turned to look at Alice with gentle concern. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Well, I think you'd better put your feet up while Jasper and I take care of those balloons."

  Balloons. For the party, presumably.

  "This is a bit awkward," began Alice.

  The man smiled. He had a lovely smile. He said, "What is?"

  Alice said, "I have absolutely no idea who you are."

  (Although, in truth, there was something about the way he smiled and the feeling of his hand on her shoulder that was giving her an idea.)

  The man's hand sprang back like an elastic band.

  He said, "Alice! It's me. Dominick."

  Frannie's Letter to Phil Me again, Phil.

  Barb and Roger took me for lunch at Alice's place today.

  Physically she seems fine, but she is definitely not herself. She didn't remember Gina! It was disconcerting. Gina played such a big part in Alice's life. Almost too big a part.