Free Erased From Memory by Diana O'Hehir

gaslighting me. And then when I got better, I was perfectly sure that there really had been a poem. But I couldn’t find it.
    “So go figure.”
    She reaches for the cigarette pack and says, “Oh, shit . . . Hey, I really am going to quit smoking. Save this in remembrance of me.” And she tosses me her cigarette lighter.
    “That stupid verse didn’t even sound like an Egyptian poem.” She scrambles to her feet. “I knew that.”
    Pausing by the door, she says, “That was one of the best times in my life, that spring in Thebes. Five years ago. One of those bouts you get only once. Know what I mean?”
    Five years ago would have been just before Daddy began to lose it to Alzheimer’s. I guess he was still okay then.
    I don’t tell Rita that I have memories of Thebes, too, but this was a while before she was there. I was fifteen and Rob was eighteen. And my dad, who still had every one of his marbles, was seventy-five.
     
 
When Rita leaves, I start getting ready for bed. I’ve opened the windows and stowed the cigarette saucer in the hall and am brushing my teeth when the phone rings.
    It’s Scott. “Greetings, Lady Blues Enthusiast,” he says, as if he and I were old, close, amicable buddies.
    “Hello, Scott.” I’m still suffering from my Junior Moment of guilt, so I probably sound nicer than I am.
    “Hey,” he says. “Lady Blues Enthusiast: How about going out for a drink?”
    “Now?”
    “Sure.”
    “Scott, it’s quarter of eleven at night.”
    “Great hour for a drink.”
    “No.”
    “Try it. Just once.”
    “We’re in the middle of no place. You gonna raid Egon’s refrigerator?”
    “We aren’t, as you so elitistly put it, in the middle of no place. There’s a Best Western Motel, with a bar, ten minutes away.”
    I open my mouth to protest about the Best Western bar and then realize that I’m painting myself into a corner. Scott will now suggest another bar, a better hotel . . . “No.”
    “Tomorrow night?”
    “Uh-uh.”
    “Night after that? Lunch? Afternoon trip to the big city?”
    “Hey, Scott, cut it out.” I don’t sound as nasty as I ought to sound. This man has a smart-aleck, acid side to him. Firm up, Carla .
    “I’ll be back.”
    What on earth is the matter with me? “Listen, bro, you haven’t a chance,” I say. I tune in on myself, and I sound flirtatious.
    “Okay. Sleep well. Long empty night ahead.” He signs off, sounding pleased.
    Obviously, I feel guilty at having stiffed him so consistently for something he didn’t do.
    Nuts.
     
 
I get a towel and fan the room to get rid of the rest of Rita’s smoke. I go down the hall and listen at Daddy’s door; the only sound is the quiet susurrus inside of peaceful elderly breathing. I proceed farther down the hall to the library, where I take down a book of Egyptian poetry. Then I realize that I’m outside in my pajamas and will surely meet Scott if I stay around a minute longer, so I beat a hasty, controlled retreat.
    Flapping a towel again doesn’t help much with any of my problems. I still feel cross at myself. And the room continues to smell of those black cigarettes.
     
 
Before I go to bed I make the mistake of accessing my e-mail.
    Oh, hell.
    The fifth visitor of the evening.
    It’s Cherie, gabbling away in a schoolgirl e-mail shorthand:
     
Hi dd u no I’m stil in ur bakyard things poppin all ovr lkg frwrd 2 hang tt sherf up by hs tiny bals Wt a treat & tt other thing mr Broussard rely bothrs me ts s pretty wird stuff cant wait 2 c u & talk luv luv cheri Njoying t scen ard here luv luv luv
     
Yes, Cherie, the scene around here is super. I bang the delete button so hard I awaken the Microsoft Word Office Assistant.

Chapter 8
    “That is one classy-looking lady.” This is the opinion of Bunny Modjeska, viewing Cherie Ghent. Cherie, complete in pink pantsuit and Mustang convertible, has just arrived at the museum with a Chronicle reporter in tow. The Chronicle reporter, a man, is young and