Chapter 8
They checked him out at the motel office. The Indian man was still there, and he grinned happily at Brian, lots of white teeth in his dark face, when he saw the lady who had picked him up. Brian wondered what Evelyn had told him earlier. "Short stay," he said.
Carrie's car was a dusty, older, VW bug, with dried rain splatters on its exterior. Not one of the new models, but from a few decades ago. Who could tell which year? It seemed right, though. It fit with the overalls and boots. She lifted a pile of papers from the passenger seat and put them on top of other papers that were already in sloppy, sliding stacks on the back seat. He wondered if she'd be able to find them again.
"Work?" he asked, indicating the floating filing cabinet.
"Yes. And the thesis." She didn't elaborate, and in the dark he had no idea what the papers were about. He put his plastic bag of donated belongings on the floor behind his feet.
His knees were pressed into the dashboard and she pointed out the lever to slide the seat back a little. She drove with her seat as far forward as possible, her breasts almost touching the steering wheel
She zipped the car into the flow of traffic to the nearest intersection and drove up a hill, the car straining as she shifted down to help it along. They wound past the college campus Evelyn had pointed out on the way to the motel. Bundled up students stood talking on the sidewalk. It had turned very chilly, the clouds having dissipated leaving a clear sky. There were still a few runners in t-shirts and shorts along the edge of the road. It made him cold to see them.
At the crest of the hill they descended a few blocks towards the water. In the clear air he could see the lights on the masts of sailboats anchored in the harbor, and more light coming from a big pier at the far side. I like living where I can see the water, he thought. Carrie whipped around a couple more corners in a residential district with a mix of big old homes and smaller ones.
He was sure she was driving above the speed limit, but he admired her aplomb, and tried not to look nervous or grab hold of anything. He did wedge his shoulder against the door to keep from being swung from side to side in the turns.
Finally the car turned into the driveway of one of the less splendid houses, a bungalow with an enclosed front porch. A lamp glowed in an upper dormer window in what must be an attic room. He liked it. That was good, because apparently it was where he lived. Carrie pulled the car halfway up to a detached garage and braked abruptly, throwing him forward a little. He heard the papers in the back seat start to slide, and she reached back to catch them.
"Damn." She pushed the piles back into shape. Did she always drive with such a slapdash air?
"We're here."
"Is that where my car is?" He pointed at the garage in front of them.
"Yes. Your pride and joy." She looked over at him. "Do you remember what it is?"
"No. I don't have any idea. I like my car?"
"You love your car," she said, dragging out the word "love" with a sarcastic edge. She seemed to want to play a game, which involved making fun of him. He didn't mind. He thought about cars, and looked in his mind for one that elicited a feeling of longing. He noticed he knew about cars.
"Is it a Porsche?" She shook her head. "An MG? Thunderbird?" Maybe it was her ancient Bug that had him thinking older cars. She kept her head going back and forth with each guess. For a few seconds there she was acting almost giddy. Or maybe she was as anxious as he was. She must be wondering what she was going to do with him, now that he was mentally crippled.
"No, you're not even close. It's one of the newer ones."
"I give up."
"It's a Lexus. Loaded. You bought it a month ago."
"I guess we have money," he said.
He was disappointed. Why did he buy a car like that? It didn't seem to have any character. He didn't feel connected to it. But then, that had been his experience with everything since he first discovered himself in the park this morning.
Carrie led the way around the front walk while digging her keys out of her bag, and opened the door to the glassed-in porch that served as a protected entryway to the house front door. She flipped a light switch and an overhead bulb illuminated the porch, which was roomy, and had stained glass medallions hanging in the side windows. There was a pot of gerbera daisies in their final effort of the season on a table on one side, with a green painted wicker chair beside it. A clean ashtray was on the table. He didn't think he smoked. He would have had cravings by now. Carrie fumbled and rattled at the front door, which seemed to be sticking.
"Do you smoke?" It felt like an impertinent question as soon as it came out of his mouth, and besides, she hadn't smelled like cigarettes in the car. More like something herbaceous.
"No. That's for Sandra when she visits. You know she can't last for an hour without one."
"Sandra. Who is that?" She gave him a surprised look as she gave the door an extra shove with her knee to get it open.
"Oh god, we'll have to call Sandra in the morning. Sandra is your mother. This is going to push her over the edge! She's been having a hard enough time as it is."
It was funny, he hadn't thought about having parents until now. And now he had a chain-smoking mother named Sandra who was teetering on the brink of something.
Welcome to my world.
He followed her into the living room, the parlor, whatever it was called, and she flopped her bag on the couch and turned to face him. He looked around, at the wall of bookcases and two comfortable looking upholstered chairs flanking the couch, a big square coffee table, and wood floors that were mostly glowing with a good dark finish, and only a little wear in the traffic areas.
"Well? Is anything familiar?" He shook his head. He wished it did. He liked the room, though. It felt like it could be home. Carrie looked a little let down, as if she'd been hoping too.
"I guess you wouldn't remember this, either. This is the house you grew up in. We bought it from your parents three years ago."
It hit him hard. His whole life history was here, really. Not just his householder married life with Carrie, but all of it. And he was just a stranger visiting. How could it be that nothing touched this blank place in his mind? For the first time he felt hopelessness, but it wasn't something he wanted to share if he could help it.
Clean Slate Page 8
