Chapter 41
It was Doctor Lobo’s idea to give Mother a house tour.
I initially thought it a foolish notion, giving Mother a tour of her own house.
But then it occurred to me that it might trigger her memories.
So I pulled Maria das Dores aside and explained that Mother has not yet gotten her bearings and has memory loss.
Maria das Dores has worked in the house for many years, and if she thinks my instructions odd, she does not show it.
I watch the tour with a sickening feeling.
I had thought surely Mother would recognize Maria das Dores, the cook and housekeeper she has known for so long, but she does not.
Mother listens attentively as Maria das Dores shows her her own house, explains our meal schedule, where the washbasins are, when the washerwoman arrives, when the lamps and candles are lit and the servants retire.
Mother simply nods and smiles politely. It’s absurd, tragic, unsettling, and with each passing moment my heart sinks deeper into dread.
At times I almost wonder if Mother is merely pretending, playing an elaborate joke on us. But her face is innocent.
If she doesn’t remember her own house, her son, her servants, then…who is she? Is this person before me really Mother?
Suddenly Mother reaches for the Jornal do Recife. The newspaper! It will have today’s date on it!
I spring forward and snatch it before she can. I mutter something about Doctor Lobo not wanting her exposed to distressing news, and she seems to believe it. But I’m rattled. How close she came to possibly another shock. Is it really this easy for her to unravel and end up in a permanent stupor?
Which reminds me of something else…the periodicals. They’ll all have the publication date imprinted on them. And even the books in my study, they will have the publication year printed on the copyright page. It’s not likely she will notice, but what if she does?
I scan the room and see no periodicals or books lying around.
I must excuse myself and go to my study and hide the periodicals.
I cannot hide all the books. If only my study had a lock, I could keep it shut, but it does not.
The only solution is to go through each book, one by one, and rip out the copyright page.
It would take some time…But on the other hand, if I do not, she could fall into the silent stupor, just like a moment ago when she stood in her own room and experienced vertigo.
Who knows what would have happened if she had looked in the mirror.
Judging by the state of her when I walked in, I suspect something bad would have ensued.
I must do something about the mirrors as well.
“Do you think they’ll like me?” Her voice, too high and off-putting, brings me back to the present. Her hands are clasped before her. Her posture is too formal and polite, like her voice. Her gaze is tentative.
It takes me a moment to understand. She’s standing by the portrait of my grandparents, the Comendador Ernesto Neves and Valentina Neves.
They are my father’s parents, so I suppose she thinks they’re my parents.
That portrait has been in this house all my life.
I am not close with my paternal grandparents.
When my father died, there was no way to prove he was my father, and they never publicly recognized me as a Neves.
Valentina even comes to visit on rare occasions.
After her visits, Mother laments her air of judgment laced with pity, and rants for days about the Neves family and how little they’ve helped, and how they don’t give us any money, and how they don’t care about us, and how they don’t care about me.
I rub my forehead, feeling suffocated. I hate so much the question, the undeniable proof that she is seeing only my father, that I’ve been erased from her mind.
They’re not my parents, I want to shout.
But her face crumples as I hesitate to respond.
Even Maria das Dores is staring at me uncomfortably.
“Anyone who meets you should like you,” I manage. It’s the best I can do—not a lie, but not a corroboration of her false beliefs, either.
Then I excuse myself, unable to stand in the room a moment longer.
When Doctor Lobo arrives for dinner, I’m waiting for him in the driveway before he even steps out of the carriage.
I rushed out as soon as I heard the horses.
The sky is the heavy blue that precedes nightfall, and the cicadas have started their relentless screeching. A light chill permeates the air.
“Good evening.” Lobo steps down from the carriage wearing a dark-blue frock coat over a crisp shirt and white gloves. He straightens, pats his coat. “How are things—”
“Not good. Not good at all. She nearly fell into stupor.”
“Did you tell her—”
“No, I said nothing of what she’s forgotten.”
I tell him about her foray into her own room, and how she had vertigo and a fainting spell, but luckily recovered.
“Hmm…” He rubs his head. We’re standing on the veranda now, just outside the door. Here, there’s little danger of her overhearing us, but we still keep our voices low.
“Don’t fret”—he waves his hand—“the mind is a powerful engine of self-confirmation, ever ignorant of notions that run counter to its own beliefs. She won’t fall into the stupor as easily as you think. Just remain vigilant…and maybe get rid of those mirrors.”
The mirrors! I forgot to remove them. But there are only a couple in the house, and I make a mental note to remove them or cover them with something in the morning.
“She didn’t even recognize her own room.” I wring my hands. “She’s so deep in her amnesia. She looked at my grandparents’ portrait and thought they were my parents. She asked me about them, even. Maria das Dores gave her a house tour—of her own home!”
He scratches his beard thoughtfully but looks altogether nonplussed. “I can understand how difficult this must be for you. Sometimes these things are harder on the relatives than on the patients themselves.”
“What do we do?”
“Nothing for the time being.”
“But she’s like a different person. Her demeanor is not like Mother’s.”
“This is to be expected. Certain behavioral changes can occur with cases of memory loss. You might perceive them as minor personality changes. Since she only remembers her life until the carriage accident, in some ways she may revert back to her nineteen-year-old personality.”
I gape at him. “Her nineteen-year-old personality…?”
“Perhaps. Her personality may adjust to her new frame of reference, her current state of mind, if you will.”
I think of her higher voice and softer demeanor. Her polite shyness around me. The way she ends sentences with a question mark. Walking about the house like she is a guest and not the mistress of it.
I don’t like it.
“There is no need to panic,” he says. “This is probably temporary.”
“Probably?” My panic deepens.
He glances at the house cryptically. Through the window I see the silhouette of Mother sitting in the parlor, faintly illuminated by a brass lamp.
“Allow me to assess her condition tonight, at dinner. Then tomorrow I shall stop by again and we will speak in private further. But you must try and remain calm. She can sense your distress, and she won’t understand it.
It will make her uneasy. Try and act like”—he snaps a finger, as though gripped by a sudden notion—“how your father might have acted.”
I stare. “Are you serious?”
“Right, I almost forgot you’ve never met him.”
“I will not pretend to be my dead father.”
“Fine, then simply try to act calm, as if nothing is wrong.”
“But something is—”
He’s already swung open the door and stepped inside.