The Rememberer

By John Leatherman

“All right, Ms. Fessenbender, I found a forgotten login this morning and pulled your password from the keystrokes: WH!$k3r5.” I presented my session summary to petite, gray-haired Florence Fessenbender. “Oh, and you forgot that you fed Whiskers today. Albacore Supreme for a lovely Persian.”

Florence smiled. “Thank you, Vesta.” Rummaging through her purse, Florence fished out two wrinkly twenties, some sauce packets, and a five and laid them on my desk.

“It’s only forty today. Repeat customer discount.”

Florence raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been here before?”

She’d forgotten more than I realized. “Um, I meant cat lover’s discount.”

Smiling, she reclaimed the five. “You’re so sweet. I’ll bet all the fellows love you.”

“Not the ones around here.” Sensing forgotten promises nearby, I knew my landlord, Orville Gritchbaum, had entered the office.

As Florence hobbled out, Gritchbaum confronted me. “You should’ve stayed quiet, Vesta.” He thrust out a hand, palm up. “You’d be five bucks closer to making rent.”

Grinning weakly, I surrendered the twenties. “Heh-heh. Nothing wrong with your memory, Mr. Gritchbaum. You’re giving me another week, right?”

With an unintelligible grunt, he left… and stopped to speak with a policeman in the hallway?!

Had Gritchbaum already started eviction proceedings?

I slumped over my desk and buried my face in my palms. Fall semester had just started at the community college; those kids had to learn the stuff before they could start forgetting it. Without a severe amnesia outbreak, I might have to go back to probing forgotten memories to guess weights and birthdays.

Ugh, the carnival circuit. Wish I could forget that.

“Do you take walk-ins?”

I looked up.

A young brunette in a sundress stood at the desk. “I have only an hour before I pick up my son from preschool, and I forgot where I left his bunny.”

Shuffling papers, I pretended to rearrange my schedule. “I could squeeze you in.”

I took her information, even though I’d already determined she was three-months-pregnant Mrs. Melissa Eastman, work-from-home mom and loud thinker; the son was twenty-six-month-old Charlie; and the bunny was “Springy,” Plushie Pals knockoff.

I led her to the examination chair. “Please have a seat under the Neurodome.”

She winced. “Is that thing BPA free?”

“It’s perfectly safe. Merely a barrier to keep your forgettances from escaping.”

Hesitant, Melissa sat, and I lowered the Neurodome over her head.

Actually, it was just an old beauty salon dryer hood. To keep her from watching me while I worked.

Closing my eyes, I projected my avatar into Melissa’s mind, where memories swarmed the twilight like dandelion seeds in a whirlwind, the remembrances yellow and the forgettances blue. Despite their constant motion, I had learned to see them all as a single chronological chain, making it easy to isolate final sightings.

Searching for Springy’s image, I found matches going back several months and ending two days ago, at a remembrance that intermittently flashed gold.

I’d hoped to find Springy in a forgettance, where Melissa’s mind-eye wouldn’t see my avatar, but I couldn’t ignore that gold. I enlarged the memory for replay.

Through Melissa’s yellow-tinged vision, I saw the kitchen of her third-trimester friend Rachel. Daughter Katie sat in a high chair with a sippy cup and cereal bits while Charlie played on the floor with Springy.

“Twin?” Melissa offered a bedsheet to Rachel. “For Katie’s Halloween costume.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Huh?”

“You texted you were having trouble finding a sheet?”

Confused, Rachel checked her phone. “Oh, dang autocorrect. I meant sheep.” She chuckled as the memory turned gold. “Why am I having another child? This one’s already wrecked my brain!”

Here’s where Melissa changed something!

I stepped into the memory, freezing the action.

Melissa spoke—present-day, sitting-in-my-office Melissa—her voice reverberating inside her skull like a galactic overlord. “What are you doing in there?” Far above, her mind-eye cast a bright spotlight. My avatar squinted.

“This is the last place you saw Springy.”

“But we had Springy when we left Rachel’s. I remember that clearly.”

“Do you?” I expanded the background, showing photos of Charlie and Melissa’s husband on the refrigerator. “This so-called memory makes Rachel’s fridge look like yours!

“This part isn’t real, Melissa! See the gold filter? Your mind crafted it for what you want to remember.”

Melissa gasped. “It is?”

“I can show you what really happened, with your permission.”

“Okay.”

Gold reverted to yellow as I rewound the memory to “dang autocorrect.”

Memory Melissa replied, “Sure you’re ready for another kid, Rachel? Seems this one’s already wrecked your brain.”

Present Melissa groaned. “I didn’t want Springy to be at Rachel’s after saying that. I must have convinced myself Charlie had it when we left.”

In the periphery, Charlie abandoned Springy under the high chair.

I withdrew my avatar, lifted the Neurodome, and put a hand on Melissa’s shoulder. “You know what you need to do.”

Melissa nodded.

“And no texting. Call.”

She took a deep breath and tapped at her phone. “Rachel? I’m sorry about what I said the other day. I put my own second-child anxieties on you. Can you forgive me?” After a brief pause, she smiled. “I’d love to come get Springy. Charlie can play with Katie while we look for sheep costumes online.”

Disconnecting, Melissa beamed at me. “Thanks infinity, Vesta. Now, gotta scoot. Strict pickup times at Li’l Pipsqueaks Academy. One second late and they charge you.”

I grinned. “Speaking of charges…”

“I know, forty-five.” Heading out, Melissa showed me her phone, a large, green thumbs-up-clutching-a-dollar-bill icon filling the screen. “Just Cha-Kinged you.”

“Oh, thanks…” I shouted at the closing door, “What’s Cha-King?”

I started after her, almost colliding with the incoming policeman.

“Vesta Langley? You need to come with me.”

I pleaded. “Wait! I swear Gritchbaum gave me another week to make rent. Please, I’m only two hundred short.”

The granite-faced cop harrumphed. “Sounds like you need a job.” He produced an official-looking document. “You’re lucky our new commissioner’s organizing a Forgotten Crimes Unit.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Leatherman writes fiction, humor, and the monthly “Word Weasel” grammar column for Word Weavers International. He has won or placed in numerous writing contests. He has written book reviews for Christian Retailing, scripts for Shoestring Radio Theatre, and word games for International Puzzle Syndicate. A freelance writer, editor, cartoonist, and puzzle designer, Mr. Leatherman maintains a secret identity as a Central Florida software consultant with two kids.

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