…

I had never been to a ball and had only seen what one was like on TV.

When I first received the invitation, on a gold embossed card with old style and writing in ink, real ink, I was astonished.  I was not from a class of people whom one would associate with such a high-society event.

My father, when I had shown him the invitation, said it had obviously been sent to me by mistake, that it was some other William Benjamin Oldacre, not me.  When I showed him the envelope with my address on it, he then said someone was playing a game.

I was inclined to believe him, so I called the RSVP number and spoke to a lady by the name of Charlotte Bingham, who had a very posh voice.

I told her my name, and then told her there must be some mistake.

“We don’t make mistakes, Mr Oldacre.”

“To be honest, ma’am, I am not a man of means, if you take my meaning.”  I wanted to say I was just one of the rabble, but it seemed a little too blunt.

“You don’t need to be, to be a respectable and respected young man.  Miss Emily said that you would find some excuse, and her instructions were if you were to call, to insist you come, and if you were having difficulties to call her on the cell number she gave you.  I’m marking you down as a yes, and I look forward to meeting you.”  The line went dead before I could reply.

Miss Emily.

My first encounter with her was anything but cordial, in fact, I had called her lazy, indolent, egotistical, annoying, and overprivileged, all in one breath.  She was the typical rich brat to who the rules didn’t apply, the person who didn’t have to wait in queues like everyone else and whose schedules were made for other people.

Sadly, all the boys rich or poor grovelled at her feet, so it was a shock to her when I told her exactly what I thought of her.  From there, we ignored each other, as much as it was possible, until a week before when we just happened to be in the cafeteria at the same time.  I had been running late and almost walked away.

I joined Xavier in the queue, just as I noticed her with three of her equally bratty friends and a few people ahead in the queue.

“You must be starving,” Xavier said, “your nemesis is just ahead, and being her usual obnoxious self.”

“Unfortunately, hunger trumps common-sense.”

It was precisely the moment she turned around and saw me.  Sometimes, she would make a sarcastic comment, but most of the time, she just ignored me.  With one eye on her, I noticed as several others did, three boys, one of whom I knew, Oliver Richenburg, equally as entitled but not half as obnoxious, heading towards her.

It was clear if he was going over to her, that it was not a social call.  In fact, I had heard on the grapevine, the social media account that kept up with all the rumours about the so-called social set, they had had an acrimonious breakup when she posted some telling details about his life.  He had cheated on her, or so it was said, and it had spiralled out of control.

She had seen him steaming across the room, heading straight for her.  Everyone in the hall was on alert, expecting to get a front-row seat to a gigantic bust-up.

“Brace yourself, the proverbial was about to hit the fan.””

This means I’m not going to get anything to eat, and without food, well, I was not a happy person.  There was only one course of action.  I timed my arrival at the exact moment the two faced off.  Both were surprised to see me.

 “Just…”

Oliver was just about to launch into his opening argument when I glared at him and said, in a harsher tone than intended, “Before you launch into what I’m sure will be just the right amount of outrage, let me say this.  You’re an idiot.  You had a girlfriend that most of us would give a right arm just to be noticed for five seconds, and you cheated on her.  Wow, Oliver, you’re not going to have much of a married life if you can’t keep it in your pants.”  I turned on Emily, “And you, well, you know what I think of you, but seriously, who posts utter drivel on social media in a language that only cavemen could probably understand.  I’m sure I’ll get a spray before long, but quite clearly, we’ve all had enough.  Take your cat fight outside.”

“Who…”  She went from amused to angry in the blink of an eye.

“Who?  Who what?  Who cares.  Get out of here the pair of you before I do something I regret.”  I think I displayed just the right amount of unhinged insanity that they both left.

I looked over at the head of the queue; everyone was watching them leave.  “Shows over folks, let’s eat.”

That following few days before the invitation had been interesting, to say the least,.  I had gained an unwanted notoriety that raised my profile from the usual obscurity to fifteen seconds of fame, where people I didn’t know came up and told me it was about time both of them were put in their place, to there who just shook their head.  What was more disconcerting was that she now noticed me, and I was not sure if I wanted to be noticed.

Now, getting an invitation, just took it to a whole new level.  My first inclination was just to not go.  It was for me and a plus one.  There wasn’t a girl l knew to take but when my sister, two years older and a survivor of college histrionics, learned about the invitation she said we were going.  Darcy was more of a tomboy than the average girl of her age, and a lot tougher.  She’d also heard about the fracas in the canteen and had said, “You could do a lot better than to pine over what you can’t have”.

I told her I had no intention, and she just snorted, adding, “We’ll see.”  Now I really didn’t want to go, because she was going to find a new way to humiliate me.

And when the day arrived I was feeling quite sick.  I’d received a message on my phone that a car would be arriving at six to pick us up.  The RSVP lady was making sure I didn’t change my mind.  Darcy was, surprisingly, impressed.  And I was equally impressed to see the jeans and Polo shirt norm transform into a very beautiful young woman in the most amazing ball gown.  All I could say was, “Who are you and what have you done with my sister.”

At precisely six, there was a knock on the door, which my father opened.  It was a real-life chauffeur.  My father yelled out, even though we were waiting in the next room, “Your pumpkin has arrived.”  I was glad my misfortune was causing him amusement.  The chauffeur didn’t bat an eye.

It was not a pumpkin. It was a Rolls Royce, a car I’d heard of but never seen.

Darcy was thoughtful, having got past surprised. “I think she’s trying to impress you, Will.  Is there something going on that I need to know about?”

“I assure you she’s just trying to put me in my place. “w

I hadn’t taken much notice of where the ball was being held, but twenty minutes after being picked up I realised we were heading out of the city.  It meant it could only be in one place, the spider’s lair, the family home, a mansion you got to drive past and could barely see behind the surrounding wall.  Reputed to have more bedrooms than in the houses in my street, my father was amused that one family could live in such a place without getting lost.

We were invited to the castle, and it was becoming more like Cinderella with each passing minute.  Sweeping majestically through the gates it was like passing through a portal into another world.  It was a moment not lost on Darcy, who squeezed my hand and whispered, “Just remember their real people just like us.”

I got the impression she didn’t quite believe it herself.

It was a clear run-up to the majestic front entrance to the building, which seemed small but almost overwhelming close-up.  The car stopped at the bottom of red carpeted stairs leading up into the house.  The doors were opened by two men dressed in uniform.  At the bottom of the stairs, waiting, for a very elegantly dressed woman.

She smiled when we reached her.  “William, Darcy.  Welcome.”

“You’re the lady on the phone.”

“Yes.  My name is Charlotte, Miss Emily asked me to greet you and make sure you know where to go.”

Darcy was now looking somewhat lost in awe. 

She asked, “Is this place for real.  It’s like a fairy tale.”

“It has that initial wow factor, but that wears off after a while.  Come, follow me.”

We walked slowly up the red-carpeted stairs and into the foyer with columns, a marble tiles floor, and the biggest chandelier I’d ever seen.  I was expecting to see a fountain in the middle, but there wasn’t, just a table, a very large vase, and a flower arrangement that defied description.

We turned left through a portico, to where two more men dressed in uniform stood on either side, with another.  We stopped, and Charlotte said to him, “Mr William Oldacre and Miss Darcy Oldacre.”

He read out our names by way of introduction to the people milling in the anteroom, but perhaps more for the line of people down the side where it seemed we were to be greeted.  Charlotte led us to the head of the line, Miss Emily’s father.

“Mr James Edward Rothstein, may I present William Oldacre and his sister, Darcy.”

It was like greeting royalty, but I was not inclined to bow.  Darcy was by now amused by the formality, even though she looked as though she belonged.  She was certainly as beautiful in her gown as the others.

He held out his hand for a handshake.  “So you are the young man who told Emily she needs to learn proper English before she uses those ghastly social media apps, I think they call them.  I have to say I could not agree with you more.”

“Sir, I didn’t really mean anything by it.”

“Well, your words seemed to have had the desired effect, and I thank you.  Perhaps before the night is out, you could deliver some more good advice.  She won’t listen to us.”

“I think that race is run.  She’s not likely to speak to me, and I’m not sure why she asked me to come.”

“She didn’t, I did, but I suspect she’ll either thank me or hate me more.”  He sighed.  “Us men will never understand women.  The night is young, my boy, have fun.”

With that, I was dismissed and sent to Emily’s mother, Theresa, her older sister, Jasmine, her other sister, Kendra, and twin brothers, Samuel and Thomas.  That left Emily, who needed no introduction.

It was hard to tell if she was amused or angry.  I simply put a frown on my face, thinking it would preclude any conversation.

“Your father has a unique sense of humour, Emily,” I said.

“He does, indeed.”

Darcy took a step back and looked at the pair of us, then smiled.  “I can see why he did.  I’m Darcy, Will’s older sister.  You piss him off, you piss me off, and that you don’t want to do.”

“Not more than I already have?”

“I’ve no doubt there’s a very simple explanation for it, but let me sum it up in one sentence.  Try to see what’s in front of you.  Actually,” she looked at me, too, “It’s good advice for the both of you.  Now, I was promised top-shelf booze, where’s the bar?”

Charlotte had watched the exchange with an amused expression.  I suspect she knew every one of Emily’s foibles.  “I’ll take you.  I think I need a drink too.”

Emily looked at me.  “You said you would give your right arm to be noticed.  Well, you’ve been noticed.  And when I’m done here, you and I have a few things to discuss.  And your name is down on my card for the first dance.”

“What makes you think I can dance.”

“You can, so don’t tell me otherwise.”

“What makes you think I want to dance with you?”

“Because when you do, I will answer three of your questions.  Anything.  And you have to answer just one for me.  Deal?”

“This is not one of your little schemes, is it?

She shook her head.  “Don’t make me stamp my foot in annoyance William.  I promise you, what you see is what you get.  No schemes, no tricks, no lies.”

It was too good to be true.  This was a rabbit hole I didn’t want to go down, but did I have a choice?

I nodded.  “OK.  Where’s the bar.  This is going to require fortification.

I stayed at the bar, slowly working my way through several bottles of beer that I’d never heard of, while I watched Emily, and the family, finish greeting the guests, and then mingle with everyone on a less formal basis.

There were over two hundred people but the ballroom did not seem crowded.  People gathered together in groups, and the Rothsteins dutifully stopped at each for a few minutes.  It was interesting to see Emily behave much like an ambassador, a side of her I had never seen.

Every now and then, once she knew where I was, she looked over, discreetly, and smiled.

It was not lost on me what Darcy had said, and the few words we had when I reached the bar were surprising.  “She likes you a lot, you know.  Knowing you, though, you’ll blow a good opportunity through prejudice or stupidity or even both.  I know you like her to William, no one professed their disdain more who does not love their nemesis.  Don’t make me have to thump some sense into you.”

She was right, of course.  I fell in love with Emily the first time I saw her, knowing that we could never be together, which made it frustrating and annoying, and went a long way towards explaining why I was hostile towards her.  If she despised me, it couldn’t go anywhere.  Now, here, that façade was going to be impossible to keep up.

Then, all of a sudden, it was time for dancing, the orchestra, yes it was a real orchestra, was playing the first stains of a Viennese Waltz.  Perhaps if I just sidled along the bar towards the exit…

“I can dance too, you know.”  Emily must have known I would try to disappear.  “Many, many painful lessons when I could have been out with my friends.  No possible use for it on this earth, but there it is.  Take my hand, William, show me there’s more than just a grumpy man under that immaculate tuxedo.”

As they say, the gauntlet had been thrown down.

About twenty couples had taken to the floor and were arranging themselves in a circle, and we all ended up facing each other.

The music started.  I bowed to Emily.  Emily curtsied to me.  She took my hand, did a twirl, and we came together, very close.

Could she hear my heart beating?  It was almost racing.  Just standing there was perhaps the most intoxicating moment of my life.

Then it began, first one way, then the other.  I kept an eye on those on either side, maintaining distance.

“You’re not counting your steps, are you?”  We parted, and she came back, close in, and whispered in my ear.

“No.  Just making sure it’s the right one.”

Out again, back again, close, going around and around, trying not to get dizzy.  It was the one thing that bothered me in classes.

“Is this close enough for you?”

“Is that your one question?”

She frowned.  “No.”

Concentration, then. “Ask your first.”

“Have you always been this entitled, bratty child?”

“Yes.”

Well, that didn’t give me much to work with.  At least she admitted it.

She went out, doing a twirl, then came back, a smile on her face.

“Next?”

“Why am I here?  I’m not in the same stratosphere you are, and it seems pointless.  Except if you want to point out to everyone here that I don’t belong.”

“What was it you said one, flying at 30,000 feet without oxygen.  Put it this way, you wouldn’t know if you were not there with me.  Get ready, I call it the skipping bit.”

I’d forgotten about it.  It was not long but brought many a learner undone. 

Over, twirl, back, a close hug, then a little separation, hand behind her back, arm on my shoulder.

I thought about that answer.  Did she think I was her equal?  I certainly didn’t think so.

“You didn’t answer why I am here?

“Because I asked my father to invite you.”

“Third question, “Why would you invite me given our history?”

“Hold that thought, we’re changing partners for a circuit.”

Then, all of a sudden she was gone, and opposite me was one of her friends, whose look told me I really shouldn’t be here.  Whatever Emily’s motives were, they were hers alone.

One minute and twenty seconds of utter silence, with a girl who I would never get to dance with within a million years, from a world I could never expect to be part of.

In the end, “Well done Will.  Just don’t disappoint her.”  And then she was gone, and Emily was back.

“Where you come from does not define who you are Will, and I failed to realise that.  We got off on the wrong foot, metaphorically, and I want to change that, starting now.  Now I have just one question, and you have to answer honestly.”

The thought of what she might ask filled me with dread.

“It took me a while to work out why you hated me so much.  One of your questions proved it, and you think you’re not good enough for me.  Most boys pretend to love me so they can get what they want, but they don’t love me the way you do, do they?”

Cornered, with nowhere to go.

Stop, twirl, out, back, together.  I wished it would end and I could run away.

“Would it matter what I said?”

“Yes, William, it would.”

“Then no they don’t, and yes, I do, have done so from the first day I saw you.  Make of that what you will, but it’s the truth.”

And, then, the dance was done.  A bow, a curtsey.  She could have walked away.  Instead, she held out her hand, and I took it.  She was quite literally the most enchanting girl in the room, and for the moment, she wanted to be with me.

She smiled.  “Your name is in number two place on my dance card, so there’s no escape.”

“And probably number three.”

She nodded.  “Oh, and in case you haven’t realized it yet, for some unknown reason, I seem to be in love with you, too.  As my father often says, the night is young, and we have much to explore.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023

…

It’s one thing to put a date in your diary; it’s something else to remember it’s there.

And then it’s something else entirely if you lose the device the calendar is on.

Of course, in this modern day and age, there’s this thing called the cloud, and any and all of your devices can connect to it, so really, there is no excuse.

Is there?

It was one of those things, you know, four inseparable friends at university, all going through the ups and downs of life, love, learning, and success and failure.  Two boys, Jake Sever and me, Albert Mendall, and two girls, Gillian Rogers and Melanie Monk.

We had lived separately, together, in relationships, and in the end, as friends.  After graduation, there was the party, the celebration, the reminisces, and the parting.  There were no romantic attachments, at least not one I was aware of, and each of us had applied for and got jobs in various parts of the country.

We all promised to catch up once we were settled, and all put an entry in their diaries to meet at the Empire State Building on Christmas Eve in two years’ time, a nod to Gillian’s favourite film, and just in case we lost track of each other. 

That final farewell was, for me, poignant, particularly with Gillian.  We had one of those on-again-off-again romances, it started out well enough but Gillian had always thought there had to be more, and as each succeeding romance of hers failed, for one reason or another, it brought us back together.  The last, she believed she had found the one, and when she left, with Derek, the one, I felt more than a little sad.  For me, she was the one, and it would be a long time before I found another.

Fast forward a year, and I had had sporadic communications from the others, all pursuing their dreams, their lives taking turns they could never have predicted.  Jake has literally married the boss’s daughter, the company he chose to work for a family-owned business.  Melanie had gone from being a forensic accountant to a footloose and fancy-free nanny doing the tour of Europe with a wealthy American family with three young children.  It was she said the only way to finance her travel bug.  Gillian had married the man of her dreams, Derek, and was living in a castle in Scotland.

That left me.

Of the four, I was the one with the most nebulous plans, having taken the first opportunity that presented itself.  I could do anything, but what I really wanted was to be a journalist, a stepping stone to becoming a writer, and then, if the planets lined up, a best-selling author.  That may have been possible if Gillian and I had remained together because she was my muse and fiercest critic.  Without her, that dream had lost its shine.

Now I was languishing at my desk, working for a weekly magazine that was one of the last of its kind in the American Midwest, on the outskirts of Cedar Rapids.  I liked the place the moment I arrived, but there had always been a big if hanging over the job and staying there, so I had diversified into becoming an English Literature teacher part-time at first, but now looking very much like my new vocation.

I’d just finished a feature story on the gradual disappearance of reading and writing skills in schools when I realised, I was running late for class.  I dropped the story on the editor’s desk, ran out the door, jumped in the car, and sped off, thinking that I would make it with five minutes to spare.

That was, until another driver, also running late, failed to stop at a T intersection, and just seeing the oncoming car out of the corner of my eye and gave me no time to react.  I didn’t even have time to say a prayer.

When I woke, I was in unfamiliar surroundings, though the combination of disinfectant, pale-coloured walls, and curtains surrounding the bed were all a dead giveaway I was in the hospital.

I didn’t know why, but a cursory glance showed no visible signs of injury, so I had to wonder if it was something else, like a heart problem.  I had palpitations recently, the first time since I had been much younger.  It had not been serious then, but the doctors had not ruled out, then, it might return one day.  Had that day come?

Inevitably, my waking brought visitors, a doctor, and a nurse.

And not surprisingly it was the first question I was expecting, virtually a cliche, asked by the doctor, “How are you feeling?”

I answered it with a question, “How should I feel?”

He looked almost amused.  “OK.  Let me ask you another question, and this time, an honest answer, not another question.  What is your name?”

An honest answer?  Did I have more than one name?  That should be easy, except…  I couldn’t remember, or was it I didn’t know?  Surely everyone knew their name.  Or was that the reason her asked, that he knew that I didn’t know or that I could not remember.

He could see that I was having trouble.

“I should know the answer to that question, shouldn’t I.”

“Normally I would expect in normal circumstances you would, but yours are not normal circumstances.  You were in a very bad car accident, so bad that we had to put you into an induced coma.  It was supposed to be a week, two at the most.  Instead, it’s turned out to be nearly a year.  To be honest we had no idea when or if you would come out, and when you did, how you would be when we woke you, but loss of memory is probably the best outcome we could have hoped for.  Your name, by the way, is Albert Mendall.”

“Then what else don’t I know?”

“Most likely for the past three weeks, once you started waking, it’s been a rather intense time for you.  Chances are you don’t remember any of it, but it’s fairly standard for long-term coma patients to take time to recover.  We kept you sedated for the last three days, gradually allowing you more wake time, and come to terms with your recovery.  All in all, this is the outcome we hoped for.  It could have been very, very different.  You’ve lost a lot of weight, and you’re going to need a month or two before you will be able to move around.  Other than that, you will have time to work on those memories.  What is your last memory?”

“Going to work, I think.  Going somewhere in a car, that much I can remember.”

“Family?”

“Nothing.”

“Friends”

“I knew people at University, faces but not names.  I know what I studied, Literature, but beyond that, not a lot.”

“You were a teacher, in fact, one of your colleagues has been dropping by every week just in case.  She’s here now if you’d like to see her?”

“It might jog something, but I hope she isn’t offended if I don’t remember her.”

“I’m sure she won’t be.  We’ve kept her apprised of your recovery.”

It made me think perhaps there had been more between us, but I couldn’t remember working as a teacher let alone anyone that I may have worked with.  It was going to be interesting if it sparked anything.

Eileen Westmacott did not look like a schoolteacher.  When she put her head in the door and asked if it was alright to come in, I thought she was looking for someone else.  She looked more like a model, or actress though I had no idea why I thought that.

She came in, crossed to the bed and sat in the chair, perhaps giving me the time to examine her and see if I could remember.  If I had known her, I would remember her.  I didn’t.

“How are you?  Oh, sorry.  Typical silly question to ask in a hospital.”

She had a shy manner and put her hand to her mouth as if she wanted to put the words back in.  Her manner and her smile lit up the room.

“The doctors tell me I’m fine, except that I have no idea who I am, other than the name Albert Mendall.  I’m very sorry I can’t remember you because I feel as though I should.  I know this is a dumb question, but were we…”

“We were very good friends, Al, and things were going in the right direction.  We were going to have dinner the night of your accident and talk about our future together.  I was on the verge of taking a role in a television series.”

“Did you…”

“Yes.  I managed that and came back every week to see how you were.  Tiring, but in the end it satisfied my desire to be an actress, and harsh enough to make me realise it requires someone more hardened and single-minded than me to pursue it.  Teaching ratty teenagers is far easier I can tell you.”

“Did you give it up?”

“No.  Just took a break from it, and wait until the series is aired, successfully or a failure.  It seems failures are far more common than we’re led to believe.  Besides, you gave me a reason to come back home.”  She reached out and took my hand in hers.

It was like an electric shock and sent a wave of feelings through me.  And a few memories surfaced.

“Oh, God!  I did something to hurt you, didn’t I?  I can see you, crying.  It was me, wasn’t it, and a woman named Gillian.”

“What do you remember?”

“Fragments.  I said something really stupid, but I can’t remember anything else, except I hurt you, and you cried.  I’m sorry.  I rather think now, before all this I must have been some sort of bastard.  You said we were going to talk about it the night of the accident.”

“It’s more complicated than that.  You were not a bastard.  I wanted to talk to you about the acting role, and you said that it might be better if I pursued my dream and put us on hold.  You’d just got a letter from Gillian, an old University friend, who obviously meant a great deal to you, and you were going to see her, and I said a few things I regret now, mostly because I think I was the reason why you had the accident.  If we had not argued the night before, you would not have stayed up to finish that article for the paper, you were tired, and … well, you know the rest.”

“I don’t remember anything about her other than her name.  If she and I were meant to be together, she would be with me?”  Another memory popped into my head.  “She never seemed to be satisfied and went off with a guy called Derek something or other.”

“Whom she divorced.  It was the reason for the letter.  She came to see you, I brought her here, and she stayed for a few days, then left.  I sent her an update each month but never got a reply.  I can send a message to her and tell her you’re awake if you like.”

“What would be the point.  I don’t remember her.  I don’t remember anything, other than it seems I was horrible to you, and I was pining after a girl I could never be with.”

“I think you are being a little harsh on yourself.”

“I’m so sorry.  Perhaps you should come back tomorrow when I’ve had some rest if those memories have surfaced, maybe some others will.”,

She stood.  I saw a tear escape one eye and trickle down her cheek. 

“You were the only one who believed in me, Al.  The only one, and for that, I will always be grateful.  And despite what fragments of memory you have, you were never horrible to me, you were probably the only one who was totally honest.”  She leaned over and kissed my forehead.  “I’m glad your back, and if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

It was not as if after a year of being ‘absent’, you can leap out of bed and do a quick circuit of the hospital corridors.  It took three days to work my way from the bed to a wheelchair, the most time taken disconnecting me for all the monitoring, and IV tubes.

It took another week to get out of the room and venture further afield.  The physio visited me every day, working on a regimen that might see me on my feet in a month.  A month?

No more memories came, not in the next three weeks, and neither did Eileen.  While it made me feel sad, I had to expect it because all I could remember was not being the person she expected me to be, or that’s what I assumed.

The other thing was that I didn’t call her.  I went to, several times, but hadn’t I disappointed her?  What would be the point of doing it again?

Exactly a month to the day, another woman put her head in the door and asked if she could come in.

I thought she was another physio, or perhaps the hospital psychiatrist because I was sure I would be having issues with missing the world for a whole year.

She sat down in the same chair Eileen had sat in.

But her opening gambit wasn’t to ask me how I was.  Instead, she asked, “Do you know who I am?”

First off, the face was not familiar, and yet I knew it should be.

Then I remembered Eileen asking if she should send Gillian word of my walking.

“You must be Gillian.”

“You remember me?”

“No.  I think we were at university together.

“We were.  We lived together, off and on, for most of that time.  In the end, we had an argument, split up, and you came here.”

“You got married, didn’t you?  I have had a couple of flashes, one being you married a man called Derek.  I didn’t remember the argument.  How is Derek?”

“Dead, I hope.  I can state with some authority, the grass isn’t greener on the other side.  He wasn’t you.”

“Well, sadly, I don’t remember who he was, and even worse I don’t remember who I am now.  I’ve been told I was a teacher and a part-time journalist.  It’s been a year, they probably think I left town or died.  What I feel like right now is like I died and come back with a clean slate.  One thing I do know, is I don’t deserve it.”

“There is nothing you remember about us?”

“Nothing.  Did I hurt you?  I’ve been having a few memories where I don’t think I was a very nice person.”

“No.  You were always the kindest and most forgiving person I knew.  I’m sorry that you have ended up like this.”  She stood.  “I should not have come.  I wish you well Albert.”

Then she was gone.

Two weeks later the doctors decided I could go home.

It appears I had a home, a small two-bedroom house in a quiet street, bought from the proceeds of a story, well, several stories, I had sold to a magazine, and on the back of it a sizable advance from a book publisher.

In that year in limbo, my book had been published and I  wasn’t quite the number one bestselling author yet, but my career, I was told, was only just beginning.

Something I did remember … the follow-up novel to the first.

That was the first surprise.

When the nurse wheeled me out into the pick-up area, Eileen was waiting, leaning against a rather expensive European import.

“Your car awaits, literally.  It is your car.  The insurance company replaced the one that was wrecked in the accident.  Good thing it was this type of car, it basically saved your life.”

“Where have you been?”

“Working out the details of becoming your guardian until you’re back on your feet.”

“I can walk.”  I got out of the chair and stood, albeit a little wobbly.

Eileen had come over and taken me by the arm.

“Like I said until you are back on your feet.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.  Besides I had to quit my teaching job.  They are making a series two and asked me to come back.  With a lot more money.”

“Good for you.  How long before the departure?”

“A few months.  Problems with the other actors.  They all thought it would fail.”

She helped me into the car.  It had that new car smell, the one that costs a lot of money.

“By the way,” I said, once she was out in traffic, “I remembered two more things, one which might be of interest to you.  The first, you played each one of the seven women characters in my next book, taking my ideas of them and becoming them.”

“Which one did you like the most.”

“The one I had a dream about, Mary-Anne.”

“I should hope so, she is the wife of the character you based on yourself.”

She smiled at the thought. 

I would remember that portrayal as long as I live, crash or no crash.

“The second, you were not the cause, directly or indirectly, for my crash.  Gillian was.  She called me that morning while I was in the car, and when I went to pick the phone up, I dropped it on the floor and took my eyes off the road for just a few seconds.  It was a few seconds too long.”

“You distinctly remember that, out of everything else?”

“She came to see me two weeks ago.  Perhaps she was looking for the old Albert, the one that took her back every time her romance hit a rock, and then happily left when something new came along.  I’d called her the day before and told her I was no longer that person, that I had moved on.  I was going to ask you to marry me at that dinner.”

She had a wider smile now.  “I know.  I found the ring when I was looking for something else.  The answer’s yes by the way.  While you’ve been on vacation, that’s what we’re going to call your time away, by the way, I moved in and did a little redecorating.”

“Anything else I don’t know about.”

“Probably a zillion things, but the most important, you have a daughter,  she’s four months old, and her name is Mary Louise, after both our mothers.  How does the first day of the rest of your life feel?

There were tears and no words.

She squeezed my hand.  “I know how you feel.  We’ll be home soon.”

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

It’s one thing to put a date in your diary; it’s something else to remember it’s there.

And then it’s something else entirely if you lose the device the calendar is on.

Of course, in this modern day and age, there’s this thing called the cloud, and any and all of your devices can connect to it, so really, there is no excuse.

Is there?

It was one of those things, you know, four inseparable friends at university, all going through the ups and downs of life, love, learning, and success and failure.  Two boys, Jake Sever and me, Albert Mendall, and two girls, Gillian Rogers and Melanie Monk.

We had lived separately, together, in relationships, and in the end, as friends.  After graduation, there was the party, the celebration, the reminisces, and the parting.  There were no romantic attachments, at least not one I was aware of, and each of us had applied for and got jobs in various parts of the country.

We all promised to catch up once we were settled, and all put an entry in their diaries to meet at the Empire State Building on Christmas Eve in two years’ time, a nod to Gillian’s favourite film, and just in case we lost track of each other. 

That final farewell was, for me, poignant, particularly with Gillian.  We had one of those on-again-off-again romances, it started out well enough but Gillian had always thought there had to be more, and as each succeeding romance of hers failed, for one reason or another, it brought us back together.  The last, she believed she had found the one, and when she left, with Derek, the one, I felt more than a little sad.  For me, she was the one, and it would be a long time before I found another.

Fast forward a year, and I had had sporadic communications from the others, all pursuing their dreams, their lives taking turns they could never have predicted.  Jake has literally married the boss’s daughter, the company he chose to work for a family-owned business.  Melanie had gone from being a forensic accountant to a footloose and fancy-free nanny doing the tour of Europe with a wealthy American family with three young children.  It was she said the only way to finance her travel bug.  Gillian had married the man of her dreams, Derek, and was living in a castle in Scotland.

That left me.

Of the four, I was the one with the most nebulous plans, having taken the first opportunity that presented itself.  I could do anything, but what I really wanted was to be a journalist, a stepping stone to becoming a writer, and then, if the planets lined up, a best-selling author.  That may have been possible if Gillian and I had remained together because she was my muse and fiercest critic.  Without her, that dream had lost its shine.

Now I was languishing at my desk, working for a weekly magazine that was one of the last of its kind in the American Midwest, on the outskirts of Cedar Rapids.  I liked the place the moment I arrived, but there had always been a big if hanging over the job and staying there, so I had diversified into becoming an English Literature teacher part-time at first, but now looking very much like my new vocation.

I’d just finished a feature story on the gradual disappearance of reading and writing skills in schools when I realised, I was running late for class.  I dropped the story on the editor’s desk, ran out the door, jumped in the car, and sped off, thinking that I would make it with five minutes to spare.

That was, until another driver, also running late, failed to stop at a T intersection, and just seeing the oncoming car out of the corner of my eye and gave me no time to react.  I didn’t even have time to say a prayer.

When I woke, I was in unfamiliar surroundings, though the combination of disinfectant, pale-coloured walls, and curtains surrounding the bed were all a dead giveaway I was in the hospital.

I didn’t know why, but a cursory glance showed no visible signs of injury, so I had to wonder if it was something else, like a heart problem.  I had palpitations recently, the first time since I had been much younger.  It had not been serious then, but the doctors had not ruled out, then, it might return one day.  Had that day come?

Inevitably, my waking brought visitors, a doctor, and a nurse.

And not surprisingly it was the first question I was expecting, virtually a cliche, asked by the doctor, “How are you feeling?”

I answered it with a question, “How should I feel?”

He looked almost amused.  “OK.  Let me ask you another question, and this time, an honest answer, not another question.  What is your name?”

An honest answer?  Did I have more than one name?  That should be easy, except…  I couldn’t remember, or was it I didn’t know?  Surely everyone knew their name.  Or was that the reason her asked, that he knew that I didn’t know or that I could not remember.

He could see that I was having trouble.

“I should know the answer to that question, shouldn’t I.”

“Normally I would expect in normal circumstances you would, but yours are not normal circumstances.  You were in a very bad car accident, so bad that we had to put you into an induced coma.  It was supposed to be a week, two at the most.  Instead, it’s turned out to be nearly a year.  To be honest we had no idea when or if you would come out, and when you did, how you would be when we woke you, but loss of memory is probably the best outcome we could have hoped for.  Your name, by the way, is Albert Mendall.”

“Then what else don’t I know?”

“Most likely for the past three weeks, once you started waking, it’s been a rather intense time for you.  Chances are you don’t remember any of it, but it’s fairly standard for long-term coma patients to take time to recover.  We kept you sedated for the last three days, gradually allowing you more wake time, and come to terms with your recovery.  All in all, this is the outcome we hoped for.  It could have been very, very different.  You’ve lost a lot of weight, and you’re going to need a month or two before you will be able to move around.  Other than that, you will have time to work on those memories.  What is your last memory?”

“Going to work, I think.  Going somewhere in a car, that much I can remember.”

“Family?”

“Nothing.”

“Friends”

“I knew people at University, faces but not names.  I know what I studied, Literature, but beyond that, not a lot.”

“You were a teacher, in fact, one of your colleagues has been dropping by every week just in case.  She’s here now if you’d like to see her?”

“It might jog something, but I hope she isn’t offended if I don’t remember her.”

“I’m sure she won’t be.  We’ve kept her apprised of your recovery.”

It made me think perhaps there had been more between us, but I couldn’t remember working as a teacher let alone anyone that I may have worked with.  It was going to be interesting if it sparked anything.

Eileen Westmacott did not look like a schoolteacher.  When she put her head in the door and asked if it was alright to come in, I thought she was looking for someone else.  She looked more like a model, or actress though I had no idea why I thought that.

She came in, crossed to the bed and sat in the chair, perhaps giving me the time to examine her and see if I could remember.  If I had known her, I would remember her.  I didn’t.

“How are you?  Oh, sorry.  Typical silly question to ask in a hospital.”

She had a shy manner and put her hand to her mouth as if she wanted to put the words back in.  Her manner and her smile lit up the room.

“The doctors tell me I’m fine, except that I have no idea who I am, other than the name Albert Mendall.  I’m very sorry I can’t remember you because I feel as though I should.  I know this is a dumb question, but were we…”

“We were very good friends, Al, and things were going in the right direction.  We were going to have dinner the night of your accident and talk about our future together.  I was on the verge of taking a role in a television series.”

“Did you…”

“Yes.  I managed that and came back every week to see how you were.  Tiring, but in the end it satisfied my desire to be an actress, and harsh enough to make me realise it requires someone more hardened and single-minded than me to pursue it.  Teaching ratty teenagers is far easier I can tell you.”

“Did you give it up?”

“No.  Just took a break from it, and wait until the series is aired, successfully or a failure.  It seems failures are far more common than we’re led to believe.  Besides, you gave me a reason to come back home.”  She reached out and took my hand in hers.

It was like an electric shock and sent a wave of feelings through me.  And a few memories surfaced.

“Oh, God!  I did something to hurt you, didn’t I?  I can see you, crying.  It was me, wasn’t it, and a woman named Gillian.”

“What do you remember?”

“Fragments.  I said something really stupid, but I can’t remember anything else, except I hurt you, and you cried.  I’m sorry.  I rather think now, before all this I must have been some sort of bastard.  You said we were going to talk about it the night of the accident.”

“It’s more complicated than that.  You were not a bastard.  I wanted to talk to you about the acting role, and you said that it might be better if I pursued my dream and put us on hold.  You’d just got a letter from Gillian, an old University friend, who obviously meant a great deal to you, and you were going to see her, and I said a few things I regret now, mostly because I think I was the reason why you had the accident.  If we had not argued the night before, you would not have stayed up to finish that article for the paper, you were tired, and … well, you know the rest.”

“I don’t remember anything about her other than her name.  If she and I were meant to be together, she would be with me?”  Another memory popped into my head.  “She never seemed to be satisfied and went off with a guy called Derek something or other.”

“Whom she divorced.  It was the reason for the letter.  She came to see you, I brought her here, and she stayed for a few days, then left.  I sent her an update each month but never got a reply.  I can send a message to her and tell her you’re awake if you like.”

“What would be the point.  I don’t remember her.  I don’t remember anything, other than it seems I was horrible to you, and I was pining after a girl I could never be with.”

“I think you are being a little harsh on yourself.”

“I’m so sorry.  Perhaps you should come back tomorrow when I’ve had some rest if those memories have surfaced, maybe some others will.”,

She stood.  I saw a tear escape one eye and trickle down her cheek. 

“You were the only one who believed in me, Al.  The only one, and for that, I will always be grateful.  And despite what fragments of memory you have, you were never horrible to me, you were probably the only one who was totally honest.”  She leaned over and kissed my forehead.  “I’m glad your back, and if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

It was not as if after a year of being ‘absent’, you can leap out of bed and do a quick circuit of the hospital corridors.  It took three days to work my way from the bed to a wheelchair, the most time taken disconnecting me for all the monitoring, and IV tubes.

It took another week to get out of the room and venture further afield.  The physio visited me every day, working on a regimen that might see me on my feet in a month.  A month?

No more memories came, not in the next three weeks, and neither did Eileen.  While it made me feel sad, I had to expect it because all I could remember was not being the person she expected me to be, or that’s what I assumed.

The other thing was that I didn’t call her.  I went to, several times, but hadn’t I disappointed her?  What would be the point of doing it again?

Exactly a month to the day, another woman put her head in the door and asked if she could come in.

I thought she was another physio, or perhaps the hospital psychiatrist because I was sure I would be having issues with missing the world for a whole year.

She sat down in the same chair Eileen had sat in.

But her opening gambit wasn’t to ask me how I was.  Instead, she asked, “Do you know who I am?”

First off, the face was not familiar, and yet I knew it should be.

Then I remembered Eileen asking if she should send Gillian word of my walking.

“You must be Gillian.”

“You remember me?”

“No.  I think we were at university together.

“We were.  We lived together, off and on, for most of that time.  In the end, we had an argument, split up, and you came here.”

“You got married, didn’t you?  I have had a couple of flashes, one being you married a man called Derek.  I didn’t remember the argument.  How is Derek?”

“Dead, I hope.  I can state with some authority, the grass isn’t greener on the other side.  He wasn’t you.”

“Well, sadly, I don’t remember who he was, and even worse I don’t remember who I am now.  I’ve been told I was a teacher and a part-time journalist.  It’s been a year, they probably think I left town or died.  What I feel like right now is like I died and come back with a clean slate.  One thing I do know, is I don’t deserve it.”

“There is nothing you remember about us?”

“Nothing.  Did I hurt you?  I’ve been having a few memories where I don’t think I was a very nice person.”

“No.  You were always the kindest and most forgiving person I knew.  I’m sorry that you have ended up like this.”  She stood.  “I should not have come.  I wish you well Albert.”

Then she was gone.

Two weeks later the doctors decided I could go home.

It appears I had a home, a small two-bedroom house in a quiet street, bought from the proceeds of a story, well, several stories, I had sold to a magazine, and on the back of it a sizable advance from a book publisher.

In that year in limbo, my book had been published and I  wasn’t quite the number one bestselling author yet, but my career, I was told, was only just beginning.

Something I did remember … the follow-up novel to the first.

That was the first surprise.

When the nurse wheeled me out into the pick-up area, Eileen was waiting, leaning against a rather expensive European import.

“Your car awaits, literally.  It is your car.  The insurance company replaced the one that was wrecked in the accident.  Good thing it was this type of car, it basically saved your life.”

“Where have you been?”

“Working out the details of becoming your guardian until you’re back on your feet.”

“I can walk.”  I got out of the chair and stood, albeit a little wobbly.

Eileen had come over and taken me by the arm.

“Like I said until you are back on your feet.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.  Besides I had to quit my teaching job.  They are making a series two and asked me to come back.  With a lot more money.”

“Good for you.  How long before the departure?”

“A few months.  Problems with the other actors.  They all thought it would fail.”

She helped me into the car.  It had that new car smell, the one that costs a lot of money.

“By the way,” I said, once she was out in traffic, “I remembered two more things, one which might be of interest to you.  The first, you played each one of the seven women characters in my next book, taking my ideas of them and becoming them.”

“Which one did you like the most.”

“The one I had a dream about, Mary-Anne.”

“I should hope so, she is the wife of the character you based on yourself.”

She smiled at the thought. 

I would remember that portrayal as long as I live, crash or no crash.

“The second, you were not the cause, directly or indirectly, for my crash.  Gillian was.  She called me that morning while I was in the car, and when I went to pick the phone up, I dropped it on the floor and took my eyes off the road for just a few seconds.  It was a few seconds too long.”

“You distinctly remember that, out of everything else?”

“She came to see me two weeks ago.  Perhaps she was looking for the old Albert, the one that took her back every time her romance hit a rock, and then happily left when something new came along.  I’d called her the day before and told her I was no longer that person, that I had moved on.  I was going to ask you to marry me at that dinner.”

She had a wider smile now.  “I know.  I found the ring when I was looking for something else.  The answer’s yes by the way.  While you’ve been on vacation, that’s what we’re going to call your time away, by the way, I moved in and did a little redecorating.”

“Anything else I don’t know about.”

“Probably a zillion things, but the most important, you have a daughter,  she’s four months old, and her name is Mary Louise, after both our mothers.  How does the first day of the rest of your life feel?

There were tears and no words.

She squeezed my hand.  “I know how you feel.  We’ll be home soon.”

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

Here’s the thing.

I spent years listening to my brother, the perfect child in my parents’ eyes, tell me just how good life was.

For him.

He landed on his feet.  One of those students who had no learning difficulties graduated top of his class, was in the right place at the right time to get a dream job, and, yes, you guessed it, the dream wife.

His favourite line every time we met, usually at a very exclusive restaurant, or after celebrating the purchase of a new car or apartment, was “You could have all of this too…”

And, wait for it, “if only…”

His mantra relied on one factor, we both had the same genes and in his mind, we had the same possibilities in life.  To him it was simple.  And after years of the same, over and over, I began to wonder why it wasn’t so.

The simple fact was that we were as different as the proverbial chalk and cheese.

It was one of those quirks that appeared in families.  The progeny although produced by the same father and mother quite often were totally different, even when they looked so similar.

George and I were not alike in appearance although my mother always said I had my father’s hair and nose, whereas George was the spitting image of him.

My two younger sisters Elsa and Adelaide, though two years apart were almost identical twins and looked like our mother.

Our mother, long-suffering at the hands of her husband had died five years ago, and my father, in what was the longest deathbed scene ever, had finally died, the previous evening with all his children in attendance.

I was surprised my father wanted me there, and equally so when he usually spoke to me as though I was dirt under his feet. That he treated me better this time I put down to the fact in dying he had become deranged.  The others, George, Elsa, and Adelaide simply ignored me.

His death was the end.  I had no reason to stay, less reason to talk to my siblings, and muttering that my duty was done, left.

I never wanted to see any of them again.

…

Of course, we never really get what we wish for.

She had never deigned to come and see me before, and our meetings could be counted on the fingers if one hand, her wedding, my 21st birthday, fleeting as it was, and the death of our father, three times in fifteen years. Nor had I met the two mysterious children they had and wondered briefly what George had told them about me.

I could guess.

Two days later. I was getting ready to go back to my obscure job, the one George said was beneath a man of my talents, without qualifying what those talents were, when the doorbell rang.

Unlike my brother’s apartment building with a concierge and security staff, visitors simply made their way to the front door.  I was on the third floor, and the lift was out of service, so it was someone who wanted to see me.

I looked through the door viewer, I didn’t have the CCTV option, and saw it was Wendy, George’s perfect wife.

I could tell she didn’t want to be knocking on my door, much less come into the salubrious apartment, in a building that should have been condemned a long time ago.

I could just ignore her, but she looked increasingly agitated.  People sometimes lurked in the corridors, people who looked like jail escapees.

She just pushed the doorbell again when I opened the door.  She didn’t wait for me to ask her in, stopping dead in the middle of the one other room I had other than a bedroom.

I could see it written all over her face, this, to her, was how the other half lived.  I closed the door but didn’t move.

“How can you live here?”  The tone matched the shock on her face.

“When you ignore the faded and peeling wallpaper, the mould on the roof, and the aroma of damp carpets, it isn’t so bad.  There are far more of us living like this than you can imagine, almost affordable.  My neighbour has the same apartment but has three kids and a wife.”

She shook her head.

“Why are you here Wendy?  I can’t believe George would send you down here to do his dirty work.”

“George didn’t send me.  He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Then how did you know where to find me?”

“Don’t ask.  The funeral is in three days’ time.  You should be there?”

“Why?  Everyone hates me.  Even your kids hate me, and I haven’t even been formally introduced.”

“Just come, Roger.  You don’t deserve to live like this, no one should.”

“It’s the real world, Wendy.  Not everyone can afford weekends at Disneyland, and apartments overlooking Central Park.”

She crossed the room back to the door and I opened it for her.  “I’ll think about it.”

“Do think too hard.  After all is said and done, he was your father.”

Sadly, that was true.

…

I was having dinner in the diner not far from my apartment block, when Alison, a waitress I’d known for a year or so, and like me, could not catch a break, came over to offer a second cup of coffee.

I was a favourite, not everyone got seconds.

“I heard your father died,”: she said. 

It was the end of the shift and just before closing. The last of the customers had been shooed out.

“My life hasn’t changed with him in it, or not.”

“He was your father.”

I shrugged.  “You free tomorrow?”

“Why, you finally asking me out on a date?”

“If going to a funeral is a date, yes.  The service will be boring, the people way above our station in life, and my brother and sisters will be insufferable, but there’ll be good food and top-shelf booze at the wake.  Date or not, want to come with me?”

“Why not?  I’ve never had real champagne.”

She lived in the same apartment block, and I’d walked her home a few times.  “Pick you up at 10?”

She nodded.  “I’ll even behave if you want me to.”

…

Alison looked stunning in her simple black dress.  She was wearing more black than I was, and looked like she was going to a funeral.  She had turned the drab waitress into something I didn’t realize lurked beneath the surface.

She did a pirouette.  “You like?”

I smiled, which was something given the way I felt about everything to do with my family.  “I do, very much.”

We took the train to Yonkers, upstate, where the family home was, and where my father had gone to die, as he put it.  I’d lived there, in the mausoleum until I was old enough to escape.  The catholic church would no doubt be gearing up for the service.  It was due to start at 11:30, and we made it with a few minutes to spare.

I planned it that way, I did not want to sit with the rest of the family up front.

“You should be sitting with the others,” Alison said, not understanding why I wouldn’t.

“You haven’t met them yet.  When you do, you’ll know.  Besides, I find it better to sit in the last row.  You can escape quickly.”

She shook her head, and we sat.  Not in the last row, she was adamant she would not.  It was about halfway up, on the same side as the family were situated.  From there, I could watch George and Wendy, and my two sisters looking very sombre, receive the guests.

There were quite a few, I counted nearly a hundred.  My father may have been awful to me, but a lot of people respected and liked him.

Soon after we sat two young girls came and sat in the seats in front of us.

Then they turned around and looked at me, then Alison, then back at me.

“Daddy said you wouldn’t come,” the elder of the two said.

“Are you his daughters?  If you are, you could ask him why I’ve never seen you.”

“He thinks your eccentricity would rub off on us.”

Alison couldn’t contain herself at that remark.  “Your father actually said that to you?”

“Not directly.  They’ve been talking about him since my mother went and asked you to come.  He doesn’t really think much of you, does he?”

An astute child.

“I left home and became a motor mechanic.  We are supposed to be bankers, lawyers or doctors.  If you got a car you want to be fixed, then I’m your man.  You want advice on money, don’t come to see me.”

“Are you coming to sit with us?”

“I don’t think your mother and father could handle the shame.  No, we’ll stay here and leave them in peace.”

I watched Wendy glance in the direction of her girls, they came almost running to rescue them from the monster.

The elder girl looked at her mother when she arrived, breathless.  “He’s quite normal you know.”

I had to laugh.  Wendy looked aghast.  She glared at the girl, then her sister.  “Come, the pair of you.  Enough of this nonsense.”  She grabbed their hands and almost dragged them away.

I could see George up the front of the church, glancing down in our direction.  The fact he didn’t come said a lot.  It was clear neither of them wanted me sitting with them, and that was fine by me.

“They’re lovely girls, Roger.”

“The first time I’ve seen them, but they don’t seem to belong to my brother.  They don’t have his arrogance or her disdain.”

“I’m sure, now they’ve met you, it won’t be the last time.  It seems odd that Wendy, that was Wendy, wasn’t it?” 

I nodded.

“Then it seems odd that she would ask you to come and then treat you like that.”

“No, not at all.  I’ve only met her three or four times, and that’s her.  I won’t tell you what she thought of my apartment.”

The service took an hour and various people got up to say nice things about a man who was not very nice, but that was the nature of funerals.  He was dead now, so there was no need to live in the past.

I didn’t intend to.

I had intended to leave and go back home after the service, but now I’d decided to go to the wake at the old house.  It would be nice to show Alison where I grew up and give her some context as to why I hated my family so.  I was willing to bet my room would be the same as it was the day I left.

And it would be good to see Alex and Beatrice, the manservant and housekeeper again.  There were more parents to me than my mother and father.  There were sitting up the front of the church and hadn’t yet seen me.

What I hadn’t noticed during the service, was that a woman had come in and quietly made her way to our pew and sat down.  She had given me a curious look, one that said I know you, but can’t place who you are.

But that wasn’t the only odd thing about her.  I had the feeling she was related in some way, that sort of feeling you had when you met someone who was family but you didn’t really know them.  It was hard to explain.  Perhaps she was one of my mother’s friends, there were a few in the church,  and they, like me, had a strained relationship with my father.

He had not treated her very well, in the latter stages of her life before she died.

Just before the service ended Alison leaned over and said quietly, “The woman next to you.  You and she are related in some way.  She has the same profile, perhaps an aunt.”

As far as I knew my mother was an only child, she certainly never spoke of having a sister, in fact, she rarely spoke about her family at all.  Now I thought about it, it was all very strange.

The service over we could all finally stand and stretch.  The woman slowly stood, then turned to me.

“You are Roger, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Shouldn’t you be up the front with the rest of the family?”

“No.  I’m the black sheep.  I didn’t like my father all that much, and he certainly hated me, so it’s a miracle I came.  Perhaps you should introduce yourself to my brother, George.”

“I’m not here to see him, Roger, I’m here to see you.”

“Were you a friend of my mother’s?  I know there are a few here, keeping their distance like I am.”  This woman was trouble, I could sense it.

“Yes, and no.  I knew your mother briefly.  I knew your father better, I used to work for him a long time ago.

“Like I said, you’re probably better off talking to George.  I rarely saw him when I was a child, and when I did, he ignored me, and as soon as I could I left, and only saw him on a few occasions since.”

“Do you know why he was like that?  Did he treat George the same way?”

“No.  George was always the favourite son who could do no wrong, the heir apparent.”

“Then I’m sorry to hear that.  That was not how it was supposed to be.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because Roger, I am your real mother.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023

…

Here’s the thing.

I spent years listening to my brother, the perfect child in my parents’ eyes, tell me just how good life was.

For him.

He landed on his feet.  One of those students who had no learning difficulties graduated top of his class, was in the right place at the right time to get a dream job, and, yes, you guessed it, the dream wife.

His favourite line every time we met, usually at a very exclusive restaurant, or after celebrating the purchase of a new car or apartment, was “You could have all of this too…”

And, wait for it, “if only…”

His mantra relied on one factor, we both had the same genes and in his mind, we had the same possibilities in life.  To him it was simple.  And after years of the same, over and over, I began to wonder why it wasn’t so.

The simple fact was that we were as different as the proverbial chalk and cheese.

It was one of those quirks that appeared in families.  The progeny although produced by the same father and mother quite often were totally different, even when they looked so similar.

George and I were not alike in appearance although my mother always said I had my father’s hair and nose, whereas George was the spitting image of him.

My two younger sisters Elsa and Adelaide, though two years apart were almost identical twins and looked like our mother.

Our mother, long-suffering at the hands of her husband had died five years ago, and my father, in what was the longest deathbed scene ever, had finally died, the previous evening with all his children in attendance.

I was surprised my father wanted me there, and equally so when he usually spoke to me as though I was dirt under his feet. That he treated me better this time I put down to the fact in dying he had become deranged.  The others, George, Elsa, and Adelaide simply ignored me.

His death was the end.  I had no reason to stay, less reason to talk to my siblings, and muttering that my duty was done, left.

I never wanted to see any of them again.

…

Of course, we never really get what we wish for.

She had never deigned to come and see me before, and our meetings could be counted on the fingers if one hand, her wedding, my 21st birthday, fleeting as it was, and the death of our father, three times in fifteen years. Nor had I met the two mysterious children they had and wondered briefly what George had told them about me.

I could guess.

Two days later. I was getting ready to go back to my obscure job, the one George said was beneath a man of my talents, without qualifying what those talents were, when the doorbell rang.

Unlike my brother’s apartment building with a concierge and security staff, visitors simply made their way to the front door.  I was on the third floor, and the lift was out of service, so it was someone who wanted to see me.

I looked through the door viewer, I didn’t have the CCTV option, and saw it was Wendy, George’s perfect wife.

I could tell she didn’t want to be knocking on my door, much less come into the salubrious apartment, in a building that should have been condemned a long time ago.

I could just ignore her, but she looked increasingly agitated.  People sometimes lurked in the corridors, people who looked like jail escapees.

She just pushed the doorbell again when I opened the door.  She didn’t wait for me to ask her in, stopping dead in the middle of the one other room I had other than a bedroom.

I could see it written all over her face, this, to her, was how the other half lived.  I closed the door but didn’t move.

“How can you live here?”  The tone matched the shock on her face.

“When you ignore the faded and peeling wallpaper, the mould on the roof, and the aroma of damp carpets, it isn’t so bad.  There are far more of us living like this than you can imagine, almost affordable.  My neighbour has the same apartment but has three kids and a wife.”

She shook her head.

“Why are you here Wendy?  I can’t believe George would send you down here to do his dirty work.”

“George didn’t send me.  He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Then how did you know where to find me?”

“Don’t ask.  The funeral is in three days’ time.  You should be there?”

“Why?  Everyone hates me.  Even your kids hate me, and I haven’t even been formally introduced.”

“Just come, Roger.  You don’t deserve to live like this, no one should.”

“It’s the real world, Wendy.  Not everyone can afford weekends at Disneyland, and apartments overlooking Central Park.”

She crossed the room back to the door and I opened it for her.  “I’ll think about it.”

“Do think too hard.  After all is said and done, he was your father.”

Sadly, that was true.

…

I was having dinner in the diner not far from my apartment block, when Alison, a waitress I’d known for a year or so, and like me, could not catch a break, came over to offer a second cup of coffee.

I was a favourite, not everyone got seconds.

“I heard your father died,”: she said. 

It was the end of the shift and just before closing. The last of the customers had been shooed out.

“My life hasn’t changed with him in it, or not.”

“He was your father.”

I shrugged.  “You free tomorrow?”

“Why, you finally asking me out on a date?”

“If going to a funeral is a date, yes.  The service will be boring, the people way above our station in life, and my brother and sisters will be insufferable, but there’ll be good food and top-shelf booze at the wake.  Date or not, want to come with me?”

“Why not?  I’ve never had real champagne.”

She lived in the same apartment block, and I’d walked her home a few times.  “Pick you up at 10?”

She nodded.  “I’ll even behave if you want me to.”

…

Alison looked stunning in her simple black dress.  She was wearing more black than I was, and looked like she was going to a funeral.  She had turned the drab waitress into something I didn’t realize lurked beneath the surface.

She did a pirouette.  “You like?”

I smiled, which was something given the way I felt about everything to do with my family.  “I do, very much.”

We took the train to Yonkers, upstate, where the family home was, and where my father had gone to die, as he put it.  I’d lived there, in the mausoleum until I was old enough to escape.  The catholic church would no doubt be gearing up for the service.  It was due to start at 11:30, and we made it with a few minutes to spare.

I planned it that way, I did not want to sit with the rest of the family up front.

“You should be sitting with the others,” Alison said, not understanding why I wouldn’t.

“You haven’t met them yet.  When you do, you’ll know.  Besides, I find it better to sit in the last row.  You can escape quickly.”

She shook her head, and we sat.  Not in the last row, she was adamant she would not.  It was about halfway up, on the same side as the family were situated.  From there, I could watch George and Wendy, and my two sisters looking very sombre, receive the guests.

There were quite a few, I counted nearly a hundred.  My father may have been awful to me, but a lot of people respected and liked him.

Soon after we sat two young girls came and sat in the seats in front of us.

Then they turned around and looked at me, then Alison, then back at me.

“Daddy said you wouldn’t come,” the elder of the two said.

“Are you his daughters?  If you are, you could ask him why I’ve never seen you.”

“He thinks your eccentricity would rub off on us.”

Alison couldn’t contain herself at that remark.  “Your father actually said that to you?”

“Not directly.  They’ve been talking about him since my mother went and asked you to come.  He doesn’t really think much of you, does he?”

An astute child.

“I left home and became a motor mechanic.  We are supposed to be bankers, lawyers or doctors.  If you got a car you want to be fixed, then I’m your man.  You want advice on money, don’t come to see me.”

“Are you coming to sit with us?”

“I don’t think your mother and father could handle the shame.  No, we’ll stay here and leave them in peace.”

I watched Wendy glance in the direction of her girls, they came almost running to rescue them from the monster.

The elder girl looked at her mother when she arrived, breathless.  “He’s quite normal you know.”

I had to laugh.  Wendy looked aghast.  She glared at the girl, then her sister.  “Come, the pair of you.  Enough of this nonsense.”  She grabbed their hands and almost dragged them away.

I could see George up the front of the church, glancing down in our direction.  The fact he didn’t come said a lot.  It was clear neither of them wanted me sitting with them, and that was fine by me.

“They’re lovely girls, Roger.”

“The first time I’ve seen them, but they don’t seem to belong to my brother.  They don’t have his arrogance or her disdain.”

“I’m sure, now they’ve met you, it won’t be the last time.  It seems odd that Wendy, that was Wendy, wasn’t it?” 

I nodded.

“Then it seems odd that she would ask you to come and then treat you like that.”

“No, not at all.  I’ve only met her three or four times, and that’s her.  I won’t tell you what she thought of my apartment.”

The service took an hour and various people got up to say nice things about a man who was not very nice, but that was the nature of funerals.  He was dead now, so there was no need to live in the past.

I didn’t intend to.

I had intended to leave and go back home after the service, but now I’d decided to go to the wake at the old house.  It would be nice to show Alison where I grew up and give her some context as to why I hated my family so.  I was willing to bet my room would be the same as it was the day I left.

And it would be good to see Alex and Beatrice, the manservant and housekeeper again.  There were more parents to me than my mother and father.  There were sitting up the front of the church and hadn’t yet seen me.

What I hadn’t noticed during the service, was that a woman had come in and quietly made her way to our pew and sat down.  She had given me a curious look, one that said I know you, but can’t place who you are.

But that wasn’t the only odd thing about her.  I had the feeling she was related in some way, that sort of feeling you had when you met someone who was family but you didn’t really know them.  It was hard to explain.  Perhaps she was one of my mother’s friends, there were a few in the church,  and they, like me, had a strained relationship with my father.

He had not treated her very well, in the latter stages of her life before she died.

Just before the service ended Alison leaned over and said quietly, “The woman next to you.  You and she are related in some way.  She has the same profile, perhaps an aunt.”

As far as I knew my mother was an only child, she certainly never spoke of having a sister, in fact, she rarely spoke about her family at all.  Now I thought about it, it was all very strange.

The service over we could all finally stand and stretch.  The woman slowly stood, then turned to me.

“You are Roger, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Shouldn’t you be up the front with the rest of the family?”

“No.  I’m the black sheep.  I didn’t like my father all that much, and he certainly hated me, so it’s a miracle I came.  Perhaps you should introduce yourself to my brother, George.”

“I’m not here to see him, Roger, I’m here to see you.”

“Were you a friend of my mother’s?  I know there are a few here, keeping their distance like I am.”  This woman was trouble, I could sense it.

“Yes, and no.  I knew your mother briefly.  I knew your father better, I used to work for him a long time ago.

“Like I said, you’re probably better off talking to George.  I rarely saw him when I was a child, and when I did, he ignored me, and as soon as I could I left, and only saw him on a few occasions since.”

“Do you know why he was like that?  Did he treat George the same way?”

“No.  George was always the favourite son who could do no wrong, the heir apparent.”

“Then I’m sorry to hear that.  That was not how it was supposed to be.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because Roger, I am your real mother.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023