What Alice Forgot - Liane Moriarty [50]
She didn’t say much as we were leaving the hospital, and I didn’t either. When she finally went to speak, I thought for sure she would be talking about all the million things she had to do that weekend and the precious time she’d lost being in hospital. Instead she said, “How many children do you have?”
I said, “Alice!” and nearly swerved the car as I turned my head to look at her.
She said, “I’m sorry I didn’t ask earlier, I think I was just in shock. I would have rung Mum to ask her but I wasn’t sure whether she still had the same phone, and then I thought, What if Roger answers the phone?”
I said I thought she had her memory back, and she said, “Well, not exactly.”
I started insisting that we go straight back to the hospital and asking did she lie to the doctor to get herself discharged, and she stuck her chin out (she looked just like Madison). She said if I took her back to the hospital, she would just say that she didn’t know what I was talking about because her memory was perfect and then the hospital would have to decide which one was crazy and she bet they’d choose me and next thing they’d have me in a straitjacket.
I said I didn’t think they used straitjackets anymore. (Do they, Dr. Hodges? Have you got an emergency one in your drawer, ready to whip out at a moment’s notice?)
Alice folded her arms across her chest and writhed about as if she was in a straitjacket, saying, “Let me out! My sister is the nutter! I’m the sensible one!”
I was flabbergasted. She was being so . . . silly. So old Alice.
Next thing we were giggling like schoolkids. We laughed and laughed and I kept driving her toward her house because I didn’t know what else to do. It was so strange, laughing like that with Alice. It was like tasting something delicious I hadn’t eaten for years. I’d forgotten that drunken, euphoric feeling of being rocked with laughter. We both cry proper tears when we laugh hard enough. It’s a family trait we inherited from our dad. How funny. I’d forgotten that too.
Eventually they stopped laughing and became quiet.
Alice wondered if Elisabeth would return to the subject of going back to the hospital, but she didn’t say anything. Instead she wiped under each eye with a fingertip, sniffed, and reached over to turn on the car stereo. Alice steeled herself; Elisabeth enjoyed the sort of loud, angry, heavy metal music that normally appealed to teenage boys in hotted-up cars and made Alice’s head ache. Instead, slow chords and a mellow female voice filled the car, as if they were in a smoky jazz bar. Elisabeth’s taste in music had changed. Alice relaxed and looked out the window. The streets of Sydney looked pretty much as she remembered them. Had that coffee shop always been there? That block of units looked new, although it was entirely possible they’d been there for twenty years and she’d just never noticed them before.
There was an incredible lot of traffic, but all the cars looked the same. When she was little, she had assumed that by the year 2000 they’d be living in a space-age future complete with flying cars.
She glanced at Elisabeth’s profile. She still had a leftover smile from their laughing fit.
Alice said, “Last night I dreamed again about that woman with the American accent, and this time I remembered you being there. Are you sure it doesn’t mean anything to you?”
The leftover smile vanished from Elisabeth’s face, and her cheeks, which had been puffed out and pink from laughing, seemed to collapse inward; Alice regretted saying anything.
Finally, Elisabeth said, “It was six years ago.”
Elisabeth’s Homework for Dr. Hodges
So I told her all about it, as if it was a story. Actually, all of a sudden I was desperate to tell her before she remembered for herself. Before she could