False Memory

she dropped the drawer itself into the trash, along with everything it contained.
     
     
    When Tom Wong brought the results of the latest blood-sample analysis to Skeet’s room, Dr. Donklin’s prediction was fulfilled. The mystery of Skeet’s condition remained unsolved.
    The kid hadn’t ingested drugs of any kind within the past few hours. Residual traces of this morning’s indulgence were barely detectable.
    His white-blood-cell count, which was normal, and his lack of fever didn’t support the theory that he might be afflicted by an acute meningeal infection. Or any infection whatsoever.
    If the problem were food poisoning, specifically botulism, the coma would have been preceded by vomiting and stomach pain, and most likely by diarrhea, as well. Skeet hadn’t suffered from any of those complaints.
    Although clear symptoms of apoplexy were not apparent, the grave possibilities of cerebral hemorrhage, embolism, and thrombosis must be reconsidered.
    “This isn’t a rehab case, anymore,” Dr. Donklin decided. “Where do you prefer we transfer him?”
    Dusty said, “Hoag Hospital, if they have an open bed.”
    “Something’s happening here,” Tom Wong noted, drawing their attention to the electrocardiograph.
    Because the annoying audio module on the EKG was switched off, neither Dusty nor Donklin had noticed that Skeet’s pulse rate had increased. The tracery of green light and the digital readout indicated that it was up from a low of forty-six beats per minute to fifty-four.
    Suddenly yawning, stretching, Skeet opened his eyes.
    His heart rate, now up to sixty beats per minute, was still rising.
    Skeet blinked at Tom Wong, at Dr. Donklin, and at Dusty. “Hey, we havin’ a party or something?”

     
     
    The open bottle of Chardonnay, two bottles of Chablis that were unopened: into the trash can.
    In the laundry room, hideous weapons. A bottle of blinding, suffocating ammonia. Bleach. A lye-based drain cleaner. All of it into the trash.
    She remembered the matches. In a kitchen cabinet. In a tall tin container that had once held biscotti. Several books of paper matches. Boxes of short wooden matches. A bundle of matches with ten-inch sticks, used to light the floating wicks in long-necked glass oil lamps.
    If a person were capable of raking a broken wine bottle across an innocent victim’s face, if a person were dangerous enough to have no compunction about plunging a car key into a loved one’s eye, then setting fire to him—or to an entire house—would pose no significant moral hurdle.
    Martie dropped the unopened container of matches into the trash can, and the contents made a raspy sound like a rattlesnake issuing a warning.
    A quick trip to the living room. So much to do, so much to do. The gas fireplace featured a set of realistic-looking ceramic logs. A battery-fired butane match lay on the hearth.
    Returning to the open kitchen door, dropping the butane match into the trash can on the back porch, Martie was troubled by the possibility that she had turned on the gas in the fireplace. She had no reason to turn it on, and she had no memory of having done so, but she didn’t trust herself.
    Didn’t dare trust herself.
    With the valve cranked wide open, a mortal flood of natural gas would escape in a minute or two. Any spark might set off an explosion powerful enough to destroy the house.
    To the living room again. Like a frantic character in a video game. Ricocheting from peril to peril.
    No rotten-egg odor.
    No hiss of escaping gas.
    The geared shank of the valve protruded from the wall beside the hearth. A key chuck was required to turn it, and the brass key lay on the mantel.
    Relieved, Martie left the room. By the time she returned to the kitchen, however, she was once more concerned that in the grip of a fugue, she had keyed on the gas after satisfying herself that it was off.
    This was ridiculous. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life bouncing in and out of the living room, ceaselessly checking on the fireplace. She didn’t suffer from fugues, amnesiac phases, didn’t commit acts of sabotage while blacked out.
    For reasons she could not grasp, Martie thought of the second waiting room at Dr. Ahriman’s offices, where she had read part of a novel during Susan’s therapy session. A fine place to read. No windows. No annoying background music. No distractions.
    A windowless room. And yet hadn’t she stood at an enormous window, watching the gray rain sweep along the coast?
    No, that had been a scene in the