six

“Transient global amnesia.”

I stared at the same trauma specialist who’d treated me yesterday, my anxiety so crushing, my heart pounding so fiercely, that I could scarcely catch my breath. “Amnesia? Not…not a stroke?”

“Your mother’s MRI and EEG show no neurological anomalies, Mrs. Miceli, so we’ve ruled out a stroke, as well as epilepsy.”

“Amnesia?” questioned Etienne, who’d suffered his own bout with the affliction before we were married. “From the explosion yesterday?”

Dad continued to look as shell-shocked as he had when he’d pounded on my door five hours earlier. “She didn’t know where she was when she woke up this morning, and she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here. So I told her, but five minutes later she asked me the same questions again.”

“And five minutes after that, did she repeat her questions?” asked Dr. Fischer.

Dad nodded. “That’s when I ran down the hall to fetch Emily.”

Dr. Fischer swept his hand toward the table in the center of the consultation room. “Why don’t we sit down while I explain a little more about the condition.”

Etienne pulled out a small notebook and pen as we seated ourselves. Dr. Fischer continued. “The type of amnesia Mrs. Andrew has can mimic the symptoms of a stroke, but unlike a stroke, the condition is harmless, has no lasting effects, and is usually short-lived.”

“How short?” I asked.

“Typically, memory functions return to normal within twenty-four hours.”

Dad was so juiced by the prognosis that his voice cracked like a twelve-year-old. “No kidding? Come tomorrow, she’ll be her old self again?”

Dr. Fischer massaged the crown of his shaven skull. “Typically, that’s the case, but there are always exceptions, and we don’t know yet which category your wife will fall into. Trans-global amnesia is quite rare, so few cases ever cross our path.”

“Then how can you be so sure that’s what’s wrong with her?” I asked.

“Because from what we do know of the condition, your mother is exhibiting classic symptoms. The onset of her memory loss was sudden. She retains knowledge of her personal identity. She recognizes her family and familiar objects.”

Etienne was jotting down notes as fast as the doctor was talking.

“She can follow simple directions. She has no limb paralysis, involuntary movement, or speech impairment. But she’s unable to remember what happened yesterday or the day before or a year ago. And until the episode passes, she won’t be able to form new memories and retain them, which means that every five minutes she’ll be asking one of you how she came to be here and why. You can count on the exercise growing old very quickly.”

“We can handle it,” said Dad. “As long as we know Margaret’ll be all right, we can handle anything.”

“Have you any idea what caused the problem to begin with?” I inquired. “Etienne was asking about the explosion yesterday. Could the concussive wave from the blast have triggered the condition?”

“It could, but it’s just as likely that the blast had nothing to do with it. Does Mrs. Andrew suffer from migraine headaches?”

Dad shook his head. “She never gets headaches. But she’s been known to cause a few.”

“There’s a notable link between migraines and this type of amnesia,” Dr. Fischer continued, “but if Mrs. Andrew has no history of migraines…” He shrugged, palms up. “The singular underlying cause of the condition is still unknown, so I’m afraid we’re left with a short list of anecdotal triggers.”

“Which are?” asked Etienne, not looking up from his notebook.

He ticked them off on his fingers. “Invasive medical procedures. Strenuous physical activity. Sudden immersion in hot or cold water. Mild head trauma…which she certainly might have suffered yesterday at the blast site, but the trauma might have been so slight that it was undetectable at the time. The only other trigger that’s been mentioned in the literature is acute emotional distress prompted by bad news, stress, or conflict. Has Mrs. Andrew been subjected to any undue emotional distress since she arrived?”

Dad scratched the bristles on his unshaven jaw and shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary…other than being caught in a bomb blast and thinking her daughter might be dead.”

“Point taken,” conceded Dr. Fischer. “Mrs. Andrew could well have escaped the concussion from the blast but suffered a delayed reaction from the emotional stress of the incident.”

And that stress, coupled with her anxiety over Dad’s musical delusions, might have been what pushed her over the edge. Poor Mom. A dream holiday in Bavaria and she’d return home with no memories of it. But on the flip side, if Dad’s musical debut ended up being a total train wreck, at least she wouldn’t be able to remember the humiliation.

Hmm. All things considered, this amnesia thing might turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

“Mrs. Andrew requires no further treatment,” Dr. Fischer assured us, “but be mindful that losing one’s memory can be extremely unsettling, so I encourage you to be as supportive and patient as humanly possible. Do you have any other questions?”

“If she doesn’t make a full recovery within twenty-four hours, should we call you?” asked Etienne.

“She’ll recover at her own pace,” said Dr. Fischer. “Twenty-four hours is just an average, not a hard and fast time limit. So the answer to that is no.”

“Last questions,” said Etienne, referring to his notebook. “How do we prevent this from happening again, and should we expect any long-term complications?”

“Since we’re not absolutely sure what caused it, I can’t tell you how to prevent it from happening again, but according to the literature, the condition rarely manifests itself again. Erring on the side of caution, however, I would recommend that for the next few days you keep Mrs. Andrew’s stress levels to a minimum. As to long-term complications? None.”

Dr. Fischer pushed away from the table and stood up. “As soon as I sign her release forms, she’ll be free to leave.”

“Can’t thank you enough,” said Dad, rising to his feet and shaking Fischer’s hand with the enthusiasm of a kid working a pitcher pump. When I extended my hand, Dr. Fischer clasped it politely, then tightened his grip as he studied my face with sudden interest.

“The lesions on your face, Mrs. Miceli.” Disbelief in his voice. Incredulity in his eyes. “They’ve disappeared.”

“They have?” I clapped my hand to my cheek, sampling the affected area with my fingertips. I’d been so freaked out about Mom, I’d never looked into a mirror before leaving the hotel this morning. Shoot, I hadn’t even stopped to brush my teeth.

“How is this possible?” He tilted my chin toward the ceiling lights. “What did you do?”

“I slathered on some kind of compound that a friend gave me.”

He turned my head left and right. “Developed by what pharmaceutical company?”

“She formulates it herself.”

“Is she a chemist?”

“Retired anthropologist. She discovered it in New Guinea while living in the jungle. I guess it’s a must-have with the folks who shrink heads for a living.”

“I see.” He took a step back, his eyebrows dipping to a V above his nose. “In other words, you’d prefer not to tell me.”

“I just did tell you. Really! I don’t know anything about the stuff other than it smells really good and apparently works like gangbusters.”

He tipped his head politely, his expression skeptical. “I would invite the three of you to join Mrs. Andrew in her treatment room as soon as possible. Given her present condition, she’ll feel more at ease if she’s surrounded by familiar faces. Mr. Miceli.” He extended his hand. “Pleasure.”

My phone chimed an alert as he left the room. I checked the readout. “Text message from Nana: house margaret dune?”

I flashed the screen toward Dad, whose brow furrowed in confusion when he saw the words with his own eyes. “Is that one of those coded messages?”

“I think it’s supposed to read ‘How’s Margaret doing?’ But Nana’s voice text function tends to garble her diction. The little gizmo that transposes verbal commands apparently doesn’t understand Iowan.” I touched his arm. “Can I ask you about something before we go?”

He sidled a look at me, his expression as unsure as that of a child who’d just been called to the principal’s office. “Sure.”

“I’m heading down to Margaret’s treatment room,” Etienne announced as he removed his mobile phone from its holster. “And I’ll give Wally a call to give him a heads-up about our ETA.”

“Okay, sweetie. We’ll join you in a minute.” I narrowed my eyes at Dad. “Can you really play the accordion?”

“Don’t know anymore.”

“But you used to play? In grade school?”

He nodded. “Yup.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?”

“No one ever asked.”

“And you never thought to just throw it into a conversation sometime?”

“Nope.”

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Walk me down to see your mother, I suppose.”

I gave him a peck on his cheek as we headed for the door. “So…why the accordion?”

“We had one in the house because your Grampa Andrew played, so it was available.”

“Grampa Andrew played the accordion? We have authentic musical genes in the family?”

“Don’t know that I’d go that far.”

“Were you any good?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“Why’d you give it up?”

“My music teacher told me I was hopeless.”

“Aww.” I hugged his arm against me, worried that this didn’t bode well for his comeback. “I’m sorry your musical career was cut short.”

He lifted his shoulders noncommittally. “Guess I just wasn’t cut from the same cloth as your grampa.”

As we approached Treatment Room 3, Mom’s voice drifted out into the hall. “How come I don’t recognize this place?”

“Because it’s an unfamiliar emergency room,” said Etienne.

“In Iowa?”

“Bavaria.”

“It’s quite a nice facility, isn’t it? Very tidy.” A pause. “How come I don’t recognize this place?”

Dad fixed me with a woebegone look. “Ooh boy.”

My phone chimed another text alert. Nana again: emily, sheets knot dead, is she?

Nope. Mom wasn’t dead, but if I was able to resolve this latest crisis the way I wanted, Nana might end up wanting to kill Mom herself.

“You want me to what?” Nana skewered me with her crinkly little eyes.

I was seated with Nana and Tilly in their newly upgraded room—a luxurious suite with kitchen facilities, floor-to-ceiling bay windows, a cozy living room with sofa, comfortable chairs, fresh flowers, and a minibar that was stocked with goodies that were free for the taking. But the best part of the room was—it was exactly like mine!

“I need you to help me with Mom.” Knowing what an uphill battle this would be, I launched into the spiel I’d prepared on our taxi ride back from the hospital, when Mom had been asking where she was and where we were going every ninety seconds. “It should only be for twenty-four hours, until her short-term memory kicks back in. And I’ll be with her every minute when I’m not needed someplace else, so we can be a kind of tag team. Dad volunteered to do it all himself, but if he does, he won’t be able to practice with the band, and I can’t have that. He’d be so disappointed. He really did play the accordion when he was a kid, so this is his big comeback.”

Nana opened her mouth. I continued talking.

“I know she drives you crazy, Nana. I know you hate to be smothered, tethered, and made a fuss over, but she needs you. I need you. The doctor said it’s not a good idea to leave her alone right now because she can’t remember much, so she needs constant reassurance that she’s where she’s supposed to be and with the people she’s supposed to be with. So I’m asking you to set aside your differences with Mom for twenty-four hours. I’m beseeching you to ignore her annoying habits, her obsessive-compulsive tendencies, her alphabet fixation, her—”

“Okay.”

My spine straightened so fast, it made a crack like a broken tree limb. “What?”

“Okay.”

“Why are you saying okay?”

“Isn’t that what you want me to say?”

“Well, yeah, but…why are you agreeing so quickly?”

She dropped her gaze and hung her head, causing all three of her chins to cascade onto her chest. “I’ve been known to say some awful critical things about your mother in years past, dear, and it’s all comin’ home to roost. The Lord’s callin’ in his chips. He’s let me whine long enough, and now he’s deliverin’ my comeuppance. ‘Marion,’ he’s sayin’, ‘it’s time to pay the piper.’”

I’m not sure the Lord would use this many mixed metaphors, but who was I to judge divine grammar? “Sooo…what you’re saying is…”

Tilly thumped the floor with her cane. “Your grandmother is feeling guilty about all the cynicism she’s directed at Margaret, so she’s convinced herself that this health scare is her personal wake-up call to start treating your mother with more kindness and less snark. Is that about right, Marion?”

“Pretty much.”

“And if you’ll allow me to submit the Lutheran translation,” offered Tilly. “The Good Lord just scared the snot out of Marion, so she’s going to leave no stone unturned in a Herculean effort to turn over a new leaf and mend her wicked ways.”

Okay, then. A Lutheran could screw up metaphors just as badly as a Catholic.

“The Lord’s probably payin’ me back for what I done to you, too, Emily. That was probably the last straw. He couldn’t even wait ’til after my vacation to bust me. He decided to nail me today.”

“So you’ll help me out?”

“I don’t see where I got no other choice. Margaret might drive me crazy, but she’s still my kid, and…dang it”—she heaved a woeful sigh—“I love her.” She peeked at me above her wire rims. “You never heard them words leave my mouth. Right?”

“Right.” I stood up. “Would you like to see for yourself how mom’s doing? Her room’s at the end of the hall.”

“I s’pose.” She boosted herself to her feet. “Now’s as good a time as any. But if she’s got amnesia, how’s she gonna know who I am?”

“She’ll know you. It’s not that kind of amnesia.”

As we skirted around a freebie newspaper that was lying outside the door of a nearby suite, I was reminded of what the morning had held for everyone who hadn’t been holed up in the emergency room. “Did the reporter from the newspaper stop by to conduct all the promised interviews?”

“Reporters,” corrected Tilly. “They sent a battalion of them.”

“And a photographer what took all kinds of pictures,” Nana enthused. “Individual shots. Group shots. We’re gonna be front page news tomorrow. Above the crease.”

“And the interviews were quite in depth,” added Tilly. “I was quite favorably impressed.”

Arriving at Mom’s room, I knocked on the door while Nana fidgeted nervously beside me.

“Your mother still looks the same, don’t she?”

“Yup. Same Mom.”

“She don’t got a paralyzed face or twisted limbs or nuthin’?”

“She’s suffering from a rare form of amnesia, Nana, not a session in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.” I peered down at her, frowning. “Why do you want to know?”

“’Cuz if she’s all bent over and gnarly like that creature from Beauty and the Beast, I gotta prepare myself. I’m old. The fright could kill me.”

Etienne opened the door and held it wide, welcoming us into the room. “Come in, ladies. Margaret? You have guests.”

Mom bustled across the floor to greet us. “Emily! You’re here, too?” She crushed me against her bosom. “Isn’t that funny how we’re all here together? How did that happen?”

“Lots of planning, Mom.”

She held me away from her and searched my face. “No, really, how did that happen? I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t even know where here is.”

“We’re in Germany,” said Tilly, “touring the country with all our friends from Iowa, and you and Bob are traveling with us.”

“Bob,” Mom recited with confidence as she wheeled away from me to scan the room. “Where is Bob?”

“Band practice,” said Etienne. “With the Guten Tags. You’re on the Sounds of Music tour, Margaret.”

“With all my friends.” She looked suddenly perplexed. “But where are we?”

Nana shuffled up beside me and whispered out the side of her mouth, “She don’t know where she is?”

I forced a stiff smile. “Did I forget to mention that?”

“Ladies?” Etienne pulled on his sports coat and headed for the door. “With Margaret in your capable hands, I’ll excuse myself to attend to other duties. I’ll send out an email alert after I’ve spoken to Wally about this afternoon’s itinerary. And if you miss that, just check the whiteboard in the lobby.”

“That man is so much more than a heartthrob,” cooed Mom as she watched him leave. “Impeccable manners. Nurturing. Organized. The only thing that could possibly make him any more attractive is an eye patch. So!” She clapped her hands together and nodded toward the chairs surrounding the coffee table. “Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable. I’m sorry Bob isn’t here to welcome you, but he’s”—she spun in a slow circle, her eyes scrutinizing the room—“he seems to be missing at the moment. Bob?”

“He’s practicing with the oompah band,” I reminded her as I lowered myself into a barrel chair.

“Bob’s in a band?” She seated herself opposite me, her eyes narrowing as she struggled to give the information some context. “Remind me what instrument he plays?”

“He don’t play no instrument,” said Nana as she sank down beside Tilly on the sofa. “So you don’t need to remember nuthin’, which is a blessin’ considerin’ what I’m seein’.”

Just an observation, but I suspected that Nana’s vow to lose the snark might require more practice than she realized.

Mom shifted her attention to Tilly, her little moon face a complete blank. “So Tilly, would you like to introduce me to your friend?”