Forget to Remember

as Rose had told her. She had no memory of ever having been here before.

She turned to Rose. “Is the Sakai house in this area?”
    “No. They built themselves a big house in a more, uh, populated part of town eight or nine years ago. One of the decisions you’ll have to make—assuming you’re Cynthia—is whether you want to live in that house.”
    They came to a closed wire gate in a cross-hatched wire fence. They saw a button on a post. Rose opened her window and pushed it. The gate slowly swung open. They drove through it. A short distance later, the driveway curved slightly to the left and they passed an old wooden house, unpainted and in a state of disrepair.
    Rose nodded toward it. “That must be the original house on the property.”
    The new house loomed ahead, much larger, a two-story affair, made of wood and painted brown with lots of glass. They parked in a wide area in front of the two-car garage beside two other cars. Rose indicated one of them. “That’s Mr. Vigiano’s car.”
    Carol started to feel anxious for the first time today. She hadn’t expected to meet Mrs. Horton so soon. Her fate might be decided in the next few minutes. She was suffering from the effects of flying all day in an enclosed cabin that was probably oxygen deprived. Events took on an unreal quality, something she’d felt a number of times since awakening from her coma. She wasn’t ready for this, but what choice did she have?
    As they got out of the car a beautiful yellow dog came bounding up, barking. It seemed friendly enough, however. Carol let it sniff her hand and gave it a tentative pat on the head. The dog picked up a tennis ball that was lying on the ground and dropped it at her feet. Realizing what it wanted, she picked up the ball and threw it. The dog went running after it. She looked at her hand in disgust; it was covered with the slime of the dog’s saliva.
    She forced herself to follow Rose along the narrow sidewalk that fronted the house, to a flagstone patio and glass-covered front door. A dark-skinned woman with her hair in a bun and a beaming smile opened the door as they approached. “You’re just in time. Dinner’s almost ready. Mr. Vigiano’s already here. I’m Audrey.”
    They said hello to Audrey. The dog had followed them. “That’s Butch. He just wants to play ball. Not now, Butch.” She shooed him away and escorted them into the next room.
    A man and a woman were sitting at a table beside the kitchen counter. The man must be Paul Vigiano. He rose from his chair and reached out his hand to Carol. “Hi, Carol. I’m glad you got here okay.”
    Carol muttered an apology for having a slimy hand and fumbled for a tissue in her small purse to wipe it off, trying to hide her embarrassment. Then she shook his hand and murmured something about being glad to meet him. He was in his forties, dressed in an expensive blue suit with a nice looking red tie. His nose and ears were too large, and his light brown hair was thinning in front, but aside from being slightly overweight he wasn’t in bad shape.
    He moved out of the way so Carol could see Elizabeth Horton. She sat with her back ramrod straight, appraising Carol through rimless glasses with eyes that probably didn’t miss anything. Her hair was short and gray but well cared for; the clothes she wore were neat and had been stylish once.
    “Excuse me for not getting up. I don’t get around quite as fast as I used to.” Mrs. Horton indicated a cane leaning against the chair beside her. “I see you met Butch, my Labrador Retriever. He’s just a pup. If he wanted to play ball with you, that means he likes you. Let me look at you.” She continued to appraise Carol.
    Carol needed to say something. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Horton. Thank you for inviting me here.” Mrs. Horton didn’t offer to shake hands, so Carol kept hers at her side. She felt self-conscious, having Mrs. Horton stare at her, but she found she didn’t mind it. She was glad she had worn slacks for the plane ride rather than a short skirt. Mrs. Horton was of a generation that didn’t always approve of the clothing choices of young women.
    “Well, Elizabeth, what would you like to call her? Carol or Cynthia?”
    Paul’s question was meant to diffuse what he probably considered to be an awkward situation. Perhaps it was meant to push Mrs. Horton to a decision about her. But Carol didn’t feel awkward, and she suspected Mrs. Horton always kept her poise and