Invasion of The Body Snatchers

what about memories? There must be little things only you and Uncle Ira would know.'

Pushing her feet against the floor, she began gently rocking the swing, gazing out at Uncle Ira, who was staring up at a tree now, as though wondering if it didn't need pruning. 'I've tested that, too,' she said quietly. 'Talked to him about when I was a child.' She sighed, trying uselessly, and knowing it was useless, to make me understand.

'Once, years ago, he took me with him into a hardware store. There was a miniature door, set in a little frame, standing on the counter, an advertisement for some kind of lock, I think. It had little hinges, a little doorknob, even a tiny brass knocker. Well, I wanted it, of course, and raised a fuss when I couldn't have it. He remembers that. All about it. What I said, what the clerk said, what he said. Even the name of the store, and it's been gone for years. He even remembers things I'd forgotten completely – a cloud we saw late one Saturday afternoon, when he called for me at the movie after the matinee. It was shaped like a rabbit. Oh, he remembers, all right – everything. Just as Uncle Ira would have.'

I'm a general practitioner, not a psychiatrist, and I was out of my depth and knew it. For a few moments I just sat staring down at the interlaced fingers and the backs of my hands, listening to the chains of the swing creaking gently overhead.

Then I made one more try, talking quietly, and as persuasively as I could, remembering not to talk down to Wilma and that whatever might have happened to it, her brain was a good one. 'Look, Wilma, I'm on your side; my business is people in trouble. This is trouble and needs fixing, and you know that as well as I do, and I'm going to find a way to help you. Now, listen to me. I don't expect you, or ask you, to suddenly agree that this has all been a mistake, that it's really Uncle Ira after all, and you don't know what could have happened to you. I mean I don't expect you to stop feeling emotionally that this isn't your uncle. But I do want you to realize he's your uncle, no matter what you feel, and that the trouble is inside you. It's absolutely impossible for two people to look exactly alike, no matter what you've read in stories or seen in the movies. Even identical twins can always be told apart – always – by their intimates. No one could possibly impersonate your Uncle Ira for more than a moment, without you, Becky, or even me, seeing a million little differences. Realize that, Wilma, think about it and get it into your head, and you'll know the trouble is inside you. And then we'll be able to do something about it.'

I sat back against the porch column – I'd shot my wad – and waited for an answer.

Still swinging gently, her foot pushing rhythmically against the floor, Wilma sat thinking about what I'd just said. Then – eyes staring absently off across the porch – she pursed her lips, and slowly shook her head no.

'Listen, Wilma.' I spat the words out, leaning far forward, holding her eyes. 'Your Aunt Aleda would know! Can't you see that? She couldn't be fooled, of all people! What does she say? Have you talked with her, told her about this?'

Wilma just shook her head again, turning to stare across the porch at nothing.

'Why not?'

She turned slowly back toward me; for a moment her eyes stared into mine, then suddenly the tears were running down her plump, twisted face. 'Because – Miles – she's not my Aunt Aleda, either!' For an instant, mouth open, she stared at me in absolute horror; then, if you can scream in a whisper, that's what she did. 'Oh, my God, Miles, am I going crazy? Tell me, Miles, tell me; don't spare me, I've got to know!' Becky was holding Wilma's hand, squeezing it between her own, her face contorted in an agony of compassion.

I deliberately smiled into Wilma's eyes, exactly as though I knew what I was talking about. 'No,' I said firmly, 'you're not.' I grinned and reached forward to lay my hand over hers, clenched on the chain of the swing. 'Even these days, Wilma, it isn't as easy to go crazy as you might think.'

Making her voice almost calm, Becky said, 'I've always heard that if you think you're losing your mind, you're not.'

'There's a lot of truth in that,' I said, though there isn't. 'But, Wilma, you don't have to be losing your mind by a long shot to need psychiatric help. So what? Nowadays, that's nothing, and plenty of people have been help – '

'You don't understand.' She sat staring at Uncle Ira, her voice dull and withdrawn now. Then, giving Becky's hand a squeeze in thanks, she withdrew her own hand, and turned to me, no longer crying, and her voice was quiet and firm.

'Miles, he looks, sounds, acts, and remembers exactly like Ira. On the outside. But inside he's different. His responses' – she stopped, hunting for the word – 'aren't emotionally right, if I can explain that. He remembers the past, in detail, and he'll smile and say, 'You were sure a cute youngster, Willy. Bright one, too,' just the way Uncle Ira did. But there's something missing, and the same thing is true of Aunt Aleda, lately.' Wilma stopped, staring at nothing again, face intent, wrapped up in this, then she continued. 'Uncle Ira was a father to me, from infancy, and when he talked about my childhood, Miles, there was – always – a special look in his eyes that meant he was remembering the wonderful quality of those days for him. Miles, that look, way in back of the eyes, is gone. With this – this Uncle Ira, or whoever or whatever he is, I have the feeling, the absolutely certain knowledge, Miles, that he's talking by rote. That the facts of Uncle Ira's memories are all in his mind in every last detail, ready to recall. But the emotions are not. There is no emotion – none – only the pretence of it. The words, the gestures, the tones of voice, everything else – but not the feeling.'

Her voice was suddenly firm and commanding: 'Miles, memories or not, appearances or not, possible or impossible, that is not my Uncle Ira.'

There was nothing more to say now, and Wilma knew that as well as I did. She stood up, smiling, and said, 'We'd better break this up or' – she nodded toward the lawn – 'he'll begin wondering.'

I was still confused. 'Wondering what?'

'Wondering,' she said patiently, 'if I don't suspect.' Then she held out her hand, and I took it. 'You've helped me, Miles, whether you know it or not, and I don't want you to worry too much about me.' She turned to Becky. 'Or you either.' She grinned – 'I'm a toughie; you both know that. And I'll be all right. And if you want me to see your psychiatrist, Miles, I will.'

I nodded, said I'd make an appointment for her with Dr. Manfred Kaufman, in Valley Springs, the best man I know of, and that I'd phone her in the morning. I muttered some nonsense about relaxing, taking it easy, not worrying, and so on, and Wilma smiled gently and put her hand on my arm the way a woman does when she forgives a man for failing her. Then she thanked Becky for coming over, said she wanted to get to bed early, and I told Becky I'd drive her home.

Going down the walk toward the car, we passed Uncle Ira, and I said, ' 'Night, Mr. Lentz.'

' 'Night, Miles; come again.' He grinned at Becky, but still speaking to me, said, 'Nice having Becky back again, isn't it?' and all but winked.

'Sure is.' I smiled, and Becky murmured good night.

In the car I asked Becky if she'd like to do something, have dinner somewhere, maybe, but I wasn't surprised when she wanted to get home.

She lived only three blocks away, in the direction of my house, in a big, white, old-fashioned frame house that her father had been born in. When we stopped at the curb, Becky said, 'Miles, what do you think – will she be all right?'

I hesitated, then shrugged. 'I don't know. I'm a doctor, according to my diploma, but I don't really know what Wilma's trouble is. I could start talking psychiatrical jargon, but the truth is that it's out of my line, and in Mannie Kaufman's.'

'Well, do you think he can help her?'

Sometimes there's a limit to how truthful you should be, and I said, 'Yes. If anyone can help her, Mannie's the boy to do it. Sure, I think he can help her.' But I didn't really know.

At Becky's door, without any advance planning or even thinking about it beforehand, I said, 'Tomorrow night?' and Becky nodded absently, still thinking about Wilma, and said, 'Yes. Around eight?' and I said, 'Fine. I'll call for you.' You'd think we'd been going together for months; we simply picked right up where we'd left off years earlier; and, walking back to my car, it occurred to me that I was more relaxed and at peace with the world than I'd been in a long, long time.