“I know that your mother touched on the subject of your memory loss earlier,” Marv says. “We’ve also discussed it many times in private.”
I just bet they have. We look at each other, my hands still on the keyboard.
“We had hoped the issue would resolve itself at Livingston, and our Edie would be back to us by now.” He presses his lips together, but I see no other signs of emotion. “We accept that your condition is severe and most likely permanent. You may be prone to emotional outbursts and display inappropriate coping mechanisms. You may need to relearn social boundaries and norms.”
Yeah, yeah, I was told the same things, but I’m not worried about it because I don’t have amnesia. I’m in control of my outbursts these days, but I have a feeling Marv and Claire are going to think I’m inappropriate anyway.
“Your mother will help teach you social norms. There’s no one better than Clarice, you don’t have to worry yourself about that.”
Unless it’s choosing the right pickle fork, I don’t need help. My momma raised me right. I don’t burp or pick my nose in public, and I always have on clean drawers when I leave the house.
“We know that the daughter we raised is gone.”
Now I feel bad for Marv. He’s not all weepy, but he must be sad. Some folks have a hard time expressing emotion. I, on the other hand, have the opposite problem. “I’m sorry you lost Edie.”
He gives a curt nod and a lock of gray hair escapes his pomade. I don’t know why he slicks his hair back like a gangster, but if I were to advise him, I’d tell him to fire his barber and consult with a professional stylist. I could give him some free suggestions on how to update his look with a pompadour fade, but I doubt he’d appreciate my interventi
on.
“We’ve come to terms with the new reality.” He clears his throat. “As difficult as the new reality may be.”
I’m going to choose not to get offended, because he’s probably hurting on the inside. “I think we’ll come to terms just fine,” I say, although I’m more than a little skeptical. “Once we get to know each other, we’ll be happy as clams at high tide.”
“You did love clamming as a child.” He rakes his hair into place and slides the keyboard back in front of him. “You and Oliver always fought over who had the biggest basket.”
That must have been before our “mutual aversion.”
Marv turns his attention to the computer screen and says, “My great-grandfather, Boone Hawthorne, moved to Detroit after the Civil War and started selling cigars on Griswold and Lafayette. From there he purchased land and built a distillery and made whiskey to go with those cigars. Hawthorne Cigars and Spirits opened in 1870.”
I can see Marv with a stogie and a whiskey on the rocks. “Is the store still there?”
“No. The tobacco barns are still in operation just outside of Saginaw, although due more to prestige than profit. The distillery was demolished during Prohibition, but by then Boone had diversified into pharmaceuticals and cast-iron manufacturing.” He logs off the internet and navigates to an icon of a black tree on a blue background. He only misses once before he clicks on it and tells me, “This is the Hawthorne Corporation, a multinational conglomerate that has its roots on Griswold and Lafayette.” He taps the trackpad and adds, “You need a new phone.”
“What?” I want to clap my hands and shout, “Hallelujah! Thank the good Lord and baby Jesus,” but I have to hide my excitement behind my amnesia mask.
“A cell phone. Our telecom department handles this sort of thing.”
Something as simple as a cell phone is ordered through the corporate business account. Marv connects to the telecom department, enters a password, and pulls up a page of options. When I say options, I mean that I can choose the latest Samsung in bronze, black, or white. My excitement plummets even further when I realize this is a company phone. Anyone in the IT department can look at phone calls and texts. All my selfies and personal information will be uploaded to the company cloud.
I choose the white Samsung, but I don’t care anymore. “Did I have one of these company phones before?” I’m hurting on the inside like Marv. I slump in my chair and keep my emotional outburst to myself.
“Three. You left them in your apartment last May. They were outdated, with information useless to you now, and were destroyed. This new phone will better fit your present needs.”
I bet Marv and I have very different ideas when it comes to my “present needs.” “Like?”
“Banking. Access to credit cards without providing a signature. Your code to the penthouse. ‘Magnus’ is the only password you need to open your password chain.”
“I have a penthouse?” I remember Donovan mentioning something about Edie living above a hotel, but he never said the word penthouse. “In Detroit?”
“Yes. At the Book Cadillac on Washington Boulevard. The residence entrance is on Shelby.”
I sit up a little straighter and ask just to be sure, “Do I own it?” I don’t let myself get excited quite yet. “Or do you own it?” Like my phone.
“It’s yours,” he answers, and looks like he wants to smile but can’t quite manage it. “I was skeptical, when you told me the price of that unit would double in three years, but you were right.”
Me? Brittany Lynn Snider from Marfa, Texas, has a penthouse in Detroit. I shake my head in amazement. “Well, butter my butt and call me toast.”
He makes a sound like he’s in pain as he taps one more link, then signs off. “You should have your phone tomorrow. Mimi will help you with the rest.”