Amnesia by G. H. Ephron

edges of the hole in your brain. Or perhaps not.” I shrugged. “That’s the thing about memory. It’s such an individual thing. You can’t know what really happened.”
    As we were leaving. I paused at the door to watch a dozen couples swaying to a slow, soulful blues. “Peter,” Annie whispered. She stood facing me, her back to the club. “See the guy standing near the end of the bar? The redhead wearing a Rangers sweatshirt.”
    I looked over her shoulder. “I see him,” I said. The redhead she was referring to looked like a Marine. Medium height, solid and broad-shouldered, buzz-cut, he was shaped like a triangle. He stood ramrod straight. He and his buddies were watching a Bruins game. A tall blonde in jeans was attached to him at the hip and his hand rested casually on her bottom.
    Annie reached for the finger I was unconsciously pointing. But it was too late. One of his friends had seen me, and now he was whispering and gesturing in my direction.
    â€œShit,” I said as the redhead swiveled to gawk at me. “Uh-oh. I think he may have spotted me.”
    I swapped positions with Annie and sidled onto the dance floor, keeping my back to the bar. “Who is he, anyway?”
    â€œThat’s the cop who’s still at the hospital, sniffing around Sylvia Jackson.”
    I tried not to look around at the owner of the signature, J. MacRae, Sylvia Jackson’s handler. The other couples on the dance floor were draped all over one another. Holding Annie at arm’s length and shuffling to the music wasn’t going to make me inconspicuous. I pulled her close.
    It had been a long time since I’d held a woman, since I’d danced with anyone. Dancing with Kate had been so easy. We
knew each other’s bodies, our rhythms. Our contours fit like puzzle pieces. I closed my eyes and tried to remember, but the memory remained elusive. Annie was taller and she moved with her own sense of the music. She seemed to find an extra beat, a hidden syncopation, and she drew me into it. In spite of myself, I relaxed and let the rhythm of that syncopated bass line insinuate itself into my hips, make its way up into my spine, work its way up on through my shoulders and neck. Annie rested her head against me and I inhaled. She smelled like a fresh-cut melon.
    On the drive home, the semi-deserted streets seemed to fly by. I let myself into the house and turned off the porch light. A few moments later, there was my mother’s shave-and-a-haircut knock at the door. I opened it.
    She s tood on the darkened porch in her pink bathrobe and looked up at me defiantly. “I don’t want to come in, but I can’t sleep until I say something.”
    â€œHi, Mom. Sure you don’t want to come in for some decaf? Tea? I’ve got some of those cookies you like from Carberry’s.”
    â€œThe little Napoleon hats?” my mother said, leaning forward as if drawn inside by some magnetic pull.
    â€œCome?” I stepped to one side.
    She shook her head firmly. “No. I just wanted to say I’m glad you told me you were working on a case. And that whatever you do, I have no business saying yes or no. You’ve been doing what you thought was right since you were a little boy. It’s what I brought you up to do.”
    â€œMaybe if I explain …”
    â€œNo need to explain. I’m your mother. Not your keeper. So you don’t apologize and I won’t complain.” She bounced up on the balls of her feet. “Deal?”
    How could I turn down such an offer? “Deal.” I gave her a hug and felt as if I’d been given absolution.
    She held me at arm’s length. “Cigarette smoke.” She sniffed. “Beer.” Then she leaned in close for another sniff. “Watermelon?” She shook her head and yawned. “Now I can sleep.”

8
    A WEEK later, I was on my way to evaluate Sylvia Jackson. My appointment was