Free The Other Mr. Bax by Rodney Jones

making sense.”
    “Kate told me you don’t remember me. You don’t remember being at home yesterday? The soup and roll-ups?” Her eyes pleaded. She sniffled. “The hike?”
    Roland let his shoulders fall, his eyes apologizing for him.
    “Twin Peaks. The cactus. You don’t—”
    A knock came from the door. A nurse stuck her head in. “Mrs. Bax? I’m sorry, but there’s a policeman out here asking to see you. Says you were expecting him?”
    Mrs. Bax? Roland peered into Joyce’s eyes, trying to, wanting to remember, recognize, or realize something—anything.
    She remained seated, facing him, her back turned slightly toward the door. She wiped her eyes and cheeks with both hands—a single, synchronized stroke. “A policeman?” she said, without turning.
    The nurse glanced back over her shoulder.
    “Could you please tell him I’ll be a minute?”
    “No problem. Sorry to interrupt.”
    The door eased shut. Roland reached over, grabbed a box of tissues from the bed stand and offered them to Joyce. She pulled out several, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.
    “What’s going on?” he said.
    “The cop who called me last night… about you being here. I promised I’d call him after seeing you.” She turned and looked toward the door. “I wasn’t expecting this though.” She let out a huff. “I’ll be right back.” She straightened her clothes and left the room.
    Mrs. Bax? The logistics behind a hoax of such scale were beyond him, but even more perplexing, was the motive. He considered the possibility that he had suffered some freak brain anomaly, the result of the accident, for which he yet had only the sketchiest memory of. Is this real … Joyce Rubens ? Roland attempted to place her in the role Dana had held for the past seventeen years. She didn’t fit.
    Again, someone tapped on the door. Kate and Brian entered.
    “Hey, it’s after nine,” Kate said. “We’re going out for some dinner, then to bed. We’re tired. Is everything okay, I mean with Joyce?”
    Roland searched for an answer.
    “Stupid question,” Kate said. “Is there anything we can bring you? Contraband?”
    “Guys, swear to me that this is not…”
    His siblings both frowned with concern. “Jesus, Roland…” Brian looked at his brother. “I swear to you, we’re not fucking with you.”
    “I just can’t figure it out. None of it.”
    Two tired faces gazed in his direction. “She’s your wife,” Kate said.
    “My wife…” Roland tried, but something persistently prevented him from seeing what he assumed should be obvious.
    “We’ll see you tomorrow,” Brian said, “sometime before noon, all right?”
    Joyce appeared at the door as his siblings were leaving the room. They chatted for a minute or two, sounding every bit like long-acquainted in-laws dragging out routine good-byes. Once Brian and Kate left, the door closed. Joyce stood there, leaning against it, her back to it, her arms across her chest. Roland gazed into her eyes, searching for the connection he knew should exist between two people who have shared the years of ups and downs as he and Dana had done. It was a “feeling” he was looking for, perhaps spiritual, a sixth sense kind of thing, which didn’t manifest. Joyce however possessed a quality that seemed somehow unaffected by the circumstances. It came from her entire being, from everywhere—innocent and confident, emanating from her features—soft, sincere, open-eyed. Roland again tried to picture the two of them together, tried to imagine knowing her, but found not even the vaguest of memories. He dropped his gaze to the hands resting across his belly, and attempted to pull up an image of her as a child. But that too eluded him, as it had for so long. He looked at her, standing there, guilty of the same, studying him. The expression on her face revealed nothing he could be certain of. But then a smile crept onto her lips, stopping there—a sad, tired, and possibly reluctant, smile.
    Her