False Memory

mirrors. In mirrors, she perceived less of a physical reflection than a psychological one: a Susan Jagger aged by chronic anxiety, features softened and blurred by sixteen months of reclusion, gray with boredom and gaunt with worry.
    This woman on the tape was slim, pretty. More important, she was full of purpose. This was a woman with hope—and a future.
    Pleased, Susan replayed the recording. And here she came once more, out of the camcorder’s iron-oxide memory, moving purposefully around the bedroom, in and out of frame, pausing to listen: a woman with a plan.

     
     
    Even a spoon could be a weapon if she reversed her grip on it, held it by the bowl, and stabbed with the handle. Although not as sharp as a knife, it could be used to gouge, to blind.
    Fits of tremors came and went, causing the spoon to oscillate between Martie’s fingers. Twice it rattled against her plate, as though she were calling for attention before raising a toast.
    She was tempted to put the spoon out of reach and eat with her hands. For fear of appearing even crazier in Dusty’s eyes than she did already, she persevered with the flatware.
    Dinner conversation was awkward. Even after the detailed account she had given in the living room, he had many questions regarding the panic attack. She grew increasingly reluctant to talk about it.
    For one thing, the subject depressed her. Recalling her queer behavior, she felt helpless, as though she had been cast back to the powerless and dependent condition of early childhood.
    In addition, she was troubled by an irrational but nonetheless firm conviction that talking about the panic attack would induce another one. She felt as if she were sitting on a trapdoor, and the longer she talked, the more likely she was to speak the trigger word that would release the hinges and drop her into an abyss below.
    She asked about his day, and he recited a list of business errands that he usually attended to when the weather didn’t favor housepainting.
    Although Dusty never lied, Martie sensed that he wasn’t giving her the full story. Of course, in her current condition, she was too paranoid to trust her feelings.
    Pushing aside his plate, he said, “You keep avoiding my eyes.” She didn’t deny it. “I hate for you to see me like this.”
    “Like what?”
    “Weak.”
    “You aren’t weak.”
    “This lasagna has more spine than I do.”
    “It’s two days old. For lasagna... hell, that’s eighty-five in human years.”
    “I feel eighty-five.”
    He said, “Well, I’m here to testify, you look way better than that damn lasagna.”
    “Gee, mister, you sure can charm a girl.”
    “You know what they say about housepainters.”
    “What do they say?”
    “We know how to roll it on thick.” She met his eyes.
    He smiled and said, “It’s going to be all right, Martie.”
    “Not unless your jokes get better.”
    “Weak, my ass.”

     
     
    Walking the battlements of her four-room fortress, Susan Jagger satisfied herself that all the windows were locked.
    The only apartment door opening to the outside world was in the kitchen. It was protected by two dead bolts and a security chain.
    Finished checking the locks, she tipped a kitchen chair onto its back legs and wedged it under the doorknob. Even if Eric somehow had obtained a key, the chair would prevent the door from being opened.
    Of course, she had tried the chair trick before. It hadn’t foiled the intruder.
    After hiding the camcorder and testing the view angle, she had removed the battery pack to plug it into a bathroom outlet once more. Now it was fully charged.
    She inserted the battery and hid the camcorder in the ivy under the potted ming tree. She would switch it on just before she got into bed, and then would have three hours of tape—in extended mode— on which to catch Eric in the act.
    All the synchronized clocks agreed on the hour: 9:40 P.M. Martie had promised to call before eleven o’clock.
    Susan remained eager to hear what analysis and advice her friend might offer, but she wasn’t going to tell Martie about the camcorder. Because maybe her phone was tapped. Maybe Eric was listening.
    Oh, how lovely it was here on the dance floor at the Paranoia Cotillion, gliding around and around in the fearsome embrace of a malevolent stranger, while the orchestra played a threnody and she grimly worked up the courage to look into the face of the dancer whose lead she followed.

29
    Two glasses of Scotch, a brick of lasagna, and the events of this terrible day left Martie half