The Memory of All That - Nancy Smith Gibson Page 0,2

houses she walked by. As she passed, a car pulled into the driveway of a neat, white frame home. A man got out, and children rushed from the house, calling “Daddy! Daddy!”

Tears welled in her eyes. Do I have a husband somewhere worrying about me? Wondering what has become of me? Do I have children needing their mother? Have I been gone long? Has anyone called the police to report me missing? The questions filled her mind and smothered her in despair. Surely someone is looking for me.

By the time she walked a few blocks, the mist had turned to snow, and she began to feel feverish and weak. By the ten hundred block, she was beginning to doubt she could make it another five, but the alternative was embarrassing—unthinkable. Either she could go until she fell down or she could walk up to a strange door and ask for help. Neither option was acceptable to her. She would just have to push on until she found 1532. The farther she went, the larger and more affluent the houses became, and she began to have doubts about the possibility of living in such an obviously wealthy neighborhood. It didn’t feel right, and nothing looked the least bit familiar. She believed it more likely she lived in one of the modest homes than the current mansions she was seeing. Maybe I work at one of these big houses. Maybe I’m a maid or a personal assistant or something.

By the time she determined she could walk no more, snow was rapidly covering the ground. She was alternating between hot and freezing, with a black cloud moving in on the sides of her vision. She stopped and leaned up against a tall column marking the opening in a red brick wall where a driveway led to an imposing house built of the same material.

I can’t go any more. As embarrassed as I might be, I have to ask for help. Maybe someone is at home here. If I can make it to the front door, I’ll have to make them understand.

Her hand touched a brass plate on the pillar, and she turned her head to read it. 1532 Springhill Road. She had found what she was looking for.

I can make it that far. If it’s not my house, whoever lives here will just have to help me. I can’t do anything else. She was about ten feet from the wide stone steps leading up to the massive front door when it opened and a tiny woman dressed in a black uniform and white apron rushed out.

“Miss Marnie! Miss Marnie! I knew you’d come back! She said you wouldn’t, but I knew you would.”

Marnie. My name is Marnie. She was glad she knew her name, but it didn’t bring back any recollection of her past. I must be home. This woman knows me.

As the diminutive woman put her arm around Marnie and helped her up the steps and through the door, the blackness crept in, but she held on to consciousness for all she was worth.

“That’s it. One more step, Miss Marnie. And another. You can make it. We’ll get you to bed. You just lean on me, and I’ll get you to your room. One more step. That’s it.”

When they were about halfway up the flight of steps leading to the second floor, a voice came from the downstairs hall. They paused, and Marnie looked over the rail at the gray-haired woman below.

“So you’re back, are you? Well, let me tell you something. This time you’ve gone too far. This time you’ll end up in prison. I’ll see to it.”

Chapter 2

Each time Marnie awoke, she saw the woman in the maid’s uniform asleep in a chair. If Marnie moved, the woman woke up and hurried to her side. If Marnie was burning with fever, she wiped her face and hands with a cool, wet cloth. When Marnie was shivering with a chill, she fetched a hot water bottle to tuck at her feet.

Once, when Marnie was free of fever and chills, the woman helped her out of bed and down a short hall to a large white-tiled bathroom. A big, claw-foot tub sat under a high window, and a walk-in shower filled the opposite wall. Marnie changed out of her sweat-soaked pajamas with the woman’s assistance and into a clean pair. Marnie vaguely remembered the woman helping her undress and slip into soft cotton pants and a top with tiny pink roses on