It’s Edie. No one wants to talk to her if they don’t have to.
“What’s this I hear about your memory?”
No one but Old Edie.
Silence falls on the round dinner table surrounded by plants and fruit trees. I look across the blue-and-white china, crystal glasses, and silverware I’ve never seen and don’t know how to use. There’s a flower centerpiece with a lit candle in the middle that flickers in the reflection of the conservatory glass walls. The whole evening’s been awkward and weird.
“What have you heard?” I ask, because I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I’ve already committed the faux pas of wearing jeans, a chunky blue sweater, and boots with a low heel. My ankles are a bit sore from stumbling around in heels, and I dressed for warmth when everyone else looks like they put on their Sunday best.
“That you can’t recall a thing about yourself.” I don’t know Old Edie’s age, but she looks like an albino prune with a white shampoo and set. Her boyfriend, Harold, sits beside her. He’s kind of collapsed inside his suit jacket like he’s a Slinky. No one talks to him either, and I can’t tell if he’s fallen asleep or died.
I touch my fingertips one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, and smile and nod like I have amnesia.
“That’s what your parents told everyone,” she continues, and I wonder who “everyone” is. Old Edie points a fish knife, which I’ve realized is different than a dinner or butter knife, at Edie’s brother. “Isn’t that right, Burton?”
“That’s what we’ve been told.” If Edie is a duplicate of her mother, Burton is a younger version of Marv.
Old Edie isn’t done and points to the woman sitting to my right, Burton’s wife, Meredith. “How about you?”
“I haven’t heard anything.” Meredith has natural auburn hair, brown eyes, and a dusting of freckles she’s covered with powder. She’s the kind of woman that the more you look at her, the prettier she gets. I’d guess she’s a few years older than Edie, but she looks tired. I’ve been told she and Burton have a six-month-old baby boy named George and a four-year-old daughter, Rowan, which could explain it.
“Of course you haven’t. You wouldn’t speak up even if you did hear something.” Old Edie scowls at me. “I heard you were in a hospital to get your memory back.”
Harold lets out a snore that revives him, and he looks around to see if anyone noticed. “Capital idea.” I guess he’s not dead. “I’ll have a cognac.”
Old Edie ignores him and stares at me until I say something. “Which hospital, ma’am?”
“Which hospital, Marvin?”
“It’s not important, Mother.”
I smile, and everyone goes back to their conversation that Old Edie interrupted. I dig back into my bass covered in almond slices and cream sauce and topped with carrot ribbon. It’s almost as good as fish tacos but a lot fancier; I’ve never seen such a fuss made over a meal in my life.
There’s a different plate and set of utensils for everything. I wasn’t born in a barn, but I don’t recognize half of them. After a few obvious false starts, I watch Meredith out of the corner of my eye so I know what to use for which course, and I notice they rest their knives and forks at certain places on their plates. I reposition my utensils to match theirs, and I feel like the girl in band who’s one beat behind everyone else in school. For some reason, they don’t eat dinner rolls like regular people. They tear off a bite-size piece and spread it with a dab of butter before they eat it. It seems a waste of time, and my left hand makes it even more difficult. I give up and slather the inside of my roll with butter all at once. They all seem to notice, but no one says anything. Probably because I have amnesia.
“Excellent meal, Clarice,” Marvin says, and I turn my head to one side to look at him. I’d guess him to be in his sixties, and if it wasn’t for his hair, he might not be bad-looking for a guy his age. “You always know what to serve.” He lifts his wineglass as if to toast her.
“It’s Edie’s favorite.” She looks at me and smiles like she’s making an effort to welcome me home.
“It’s delicious,” I say, and since she’s made Edie’s favorite meal, I’ll make an effort, too. “How did you get the almond slices in such perfect rows?”
Her smile falls a bit and everyone looks at me as if I’ve been hit with a stupid stick.
“I didn’t,” she says. “Chef Larry cooked for us tonight. We’ll have him for another month before Chef Paulette takes over.”
“I thought Mar—Father said…” Am I the crazy one around here?
“I plan the meals at Hawthorne,” Claire explains, like planning and cooking have equal importance.
“Fine job.” Harold rouses himself and joins the others in a toast.
I raise my glass, too, like it’s normal to toast a meal plan. I take a few small sips of white wine instead of chugging it like I usually would. I didn’t quite catch the name of it, but it must be fancy because everyone swirled it in their glass and smelled it. Someone said it was harvested on specific days under a full moon, and they all raved about hints of this and that, and spicy notes, and something on the nose. For all the hoopla, it’s okay, I guess, but I’d rather have a Shiner Bock or a Lone Star Das Bier Y’all.
After the fish is cleared from the table, we’re served lemon sponge cake with brandy glaze and wash it down with little cups of espresso. This time Claire did have something more to do with dessert than just planning. She selected the lemons from the trees a few feet away.
“What did you do to your hair?” Old Edie asks me.
I look up from my boozy cake, feeling tipsy just off the brandy fumes. “Do you like it?”