Her Last Memory

sighed and went into the kitchen to make herself a second cup of coffee. Everything was clean and bright, all the dry goods stored away in neatly arranged glass containers in the blond wood cabinets. A glass vase of tulips rested elegantly at the center of the broad swath of white porcelain counter space, intersected by a stainless steel mini sink. Tera was somewhat of a neat freak. Everything was carefully organized and labeled. Dora and Erica were the same in that regard. Barbara opened the cabinet where all the coffee stuff was kept and pulled out the jar of whole beans to grind as her dad's voice got louder and then the conversation abruptly ended. He came into the kitchen as Barbara poured beans into the grinder.

"Make me a cup too," he said.

"Please," Barbara corrected him.

"What?" He ran his hand through his hair, staring distractedly. He'd heard her make a sound, but his brain wasn't registering what she'd said. She was used to how distracted he’d been over the last several years. For a while, he'd been more present when he and Tera were dating. Since Tera and Laird had moved in with him, though, he'd fallen back into old habits of working too many hours and basically being physically but not mentally there. Barbara could tell it was starting to upset Tera. She could tell that Tera tried hard to be understanding, but how long would she put up with it before she'd start to pull away? Barbara was old enough to remember her mother going through the same dance with her father, and she got why she'd ended it, why she'd taken up with Erica, who seemed to have mastered the art of listening. Erica never interrupted and always kept eye contact during conversations. They asked a lot of questions and absorbed information rather than reacted to it.

 The collapse of her parents’ marriage had happened slowly, like a boat drifting out to sea. Sara and Jesse were only babies when Dora and Steve divorced. Barbara's siblings had no memory of them as a family, doing family things. They could not remember the movie outings, the visits to the roller rink, or their parents showing off together at the skatepark.

Barbara turned on the grinder while her father frowned at the wall. No doubt he was thinking about some celebrity client who had become full of himself, giving everyone a headache. She spooned the fresh grounds into cones while the water in the electric pot heated up.

"Dad?"

He didn't respond.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?" The frown was still pasted on his face.

"That girl, Taylor."

"What girl?" He still wasn't with her.

"The girl who died when you and Mom were kids."

His attention seemed to snap back like someone releasing the tension of a rubber band, his focus now entirely on Barbara, eyes laser-sharp.

"What about Taylor?"

"Do you think Mom knew something more about what happened to her than what she…" the words died on Barbara's lips as her father's eyes narrowed, the pupils contracting into black dots.

"Who have you been talking to, Barbara?"

His tone was even, modulated––the tone he used when he questioned people.

Barbara felt a chill sweep over her skin. "No one. I did some reading about amnesia, and sometimes if a person experiences something really traumatic in the past that they haven't processed and then they get a shock, it can trigger amnesia."

Her father's posture relaxed and his eyes softened. "Don't forget your mother also saw her brother fall off a cliff."

Barbara nodded.

 "She had nothing to do with what happened to Taylor."

"I didn't say she did. I said maybe she knew something."

Her father shook his head. "None of us knew what happened with Taylor that night."

"But…"

"Barbara," her father's voice deepened. "Taylor's death was a tragedy, and the reasons for why or how she died are best left to detectives. This is not something that I want you to worry about. Ramani should have never talked to you about this. She had no business bringing it up. Taylor's death is an unsavory part of a past that your mother and I share. What happened to Taylor and the grief her mom suffered is bad enough. The idea that this poor girl's death may be coloring your life, or Sara and Jesse's, upsets me."

Steam was rising out of the pot and it clicked off. Barbara poured a little water over each red ceramic cone, the coffee foaming up.

"Taylor was your friend, Dad, not some girl. Ramani said you dated."

Her father did that back and forth thing with his jaw, his gaze laser-focused again.

"We were all friends. And yes, Taylor and I dated for a few months. I'm sorry if I came off callous, but it's not something I like to think about, and I know your mother feels the same. The best way to help your mom recover from amnesia is for you kids to just live your life around her. Let her join in as she sees fit. The psychology behind your mother's memory loss is for her therapist to work out. That part is not your problem."

Barbara let her father's words sink in as she poured more water onto their coffees.

"I can't help but try to understand," she said. "If it were me, if I had amnesia, Mom would search. She'd leave no stone unturned to help find me."

"Find you?" Her father echoed.

"Dad, Mom's gone away. It's not her in there. The woman Erica brought back home is… she's not Mom."

Her dad's brows drew together, concern etching a deep crease between them. "What do you mean, exactly?"

Barbara sighed. "She told me…"

"Wait, who's she? Who are you talking about?"

"Mom. She doesn't remember much beyond being sixteen. She doesn't know what things are. It's like she's time traveled."

"Erica––"

Barbara held up her hand, cutting him off.

"Mom's last memory was leaving our house when she was my age. I think––Dad, I think you need to talk to her. She's scared."

Her father's brow smoothed, his forehead lifting, ears pulling back. "Erica says she's not ready to see me."

"I'm not sure