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Memory Can Be Murder
an excerpt by
Elizabeth Daniels Squire
C H A P T E R 1
Thursday Morning, June 27
"I'm scared."The voice on the telephone wavered. "Maybe I'm losing
my mind."
Actually, how not to lose things is something I know a lot about.
That and how to find them. Learned the hard way. But I mean objects,
like my glasses. Lost minds are not my field of expertise.
"Go away,"
I wanted to say. "I haven't had my coffee. It's 8:30 in the morning.
I have plans for the weekend."
I'd just waved goodbye to my ever-loving husband, Ted, and sat
down at the kitchen table. I looked forward to a leisurely cup of
coffee and then, after that, I planned four undisturbed days to
put the finishing touches on my book: How to Survive Without
a Memory.
You see , after fifty-five years with unpredictable spaces between
my little gray cells, I'm an expert. I have a coping trick for every
occasion. I have a publisher and I'm just doing the last rewrite.
I want to finish.
Out the kitchen window a robin pulled a worm from the green lawn,
which was great for the robin, but not so hot for the worm. Life
is like that.
"You do remember me, don't you?" the frightened voice begged.
"I'm Cousin Clothilde's daughter Anne, from Winston-Salem. I did
a puppet show when you came to visit, back when I was a kid."
The fog lifted a little: I saw a pretty child and puppets that
made me laugh, though Cousin Clothilde, this girl's mama, was fierce
uptight.
"What makes you think you're losing your mind?" I asked. "You sound
sane."
"I hope it's just me being foolish," she said, "but I think someone
wants to kill my Sam with black magic." Could I have heard that
right?
"I'm Mrs. Sam Newman now." I needed to remember her new name.
With her New Man Sam, should she be on the lam or they'd get in
a jam? I visualized that. I could remember his name that way. Pictures,
rhymes, and puns are a gal's best friends.
"I'm here in the mountains," she said. "Not far. Do you know
where Bloodroot Creek Road is?"
"Yes."
"I'm staying at the place right at the end. I'll meet you out on
the road by the mailbox. Please come quick."
"I will ," I said, "because it sounds to me like I need to hear
about this in person." If she was out of her mind, I could tell
it better with my eyes helping my ears. Why can't I just say no?
I took my pocketbook with the shoulder strap off the hook where
it lives when it's not on my shoulder. (See Hang Ons chapter
in How to Survive.) I felt for my key ring, which stays snapped
inside the pocketbook except when I'm driving. You have to be crafty
if you're totally absentminded or else you spend your whole time
looking for stuff. At least it was a lovely day for a ride, sunshiny
with blue sky and the mountains shimmery green.
I found Anne standing nervously by the road in a yard full of
old trees, in front of a strange Victorian house. Half of that house
glowed fresh-paint white. The other half was gray with peeling paint.
The dividing line was vertical. Even the funny Victorian tower on
top was half gray, half white. The front door was bright red with
brass carriage lamps on each side. Something wild was certainly
bound to happen in a place like that.
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