The Mask

  dirty dishes, she said, "How's the situation with the adoption agency? Does it look like they'll give you and Paul a child soon?"

  Carol hesitated.

  Grace glanced at her. "Something wrong?"

  Taking the dish towel from the rack and unfolding it, Carol said, "No. Not really. O'Brian says we'll be approved. It's a sure thing, he says."

  "But you're still worried about it."

  "A little," Carol admitted.

  "Why?"

  "I'm not sure. It's just that.. I've had this feeling..."

  "What feeling?"

  "That it won't work out."

  "Why shouldn't it?"

  "I can't shake the idea that somebody's trying to stop us from adopting."

  "Who?"

  Carol shrugged.

  "O'Brian?" Grace asked.

  "No, no. He's on our side."

  "Someone on the recommendations committee?"

  "I don't know. I don't actually have any evidence of ill will toward Paul and me. I can't point my finger at anyone."

  Grace washed some silverware, put it in the drainage rack, and said, "You've wanted to adopt for so long that you can't believe it's finally happening, so you're looking for boogeymen where there aren't any."

  "Maybe."

  "You're just spooked because of the lightning yesterday and the accident this morning."

  "Maybe."

  "That's understandable. It spooks me, too. But the adoption will go through as smooth as can be."

  "I hope so," Carol said. But she thought about the lost set of application forms, and she wondered.

  ***

  By the time Paul got back from the adoption agency, the rain had stopped, though the wind was still cold and damp.

  He got the ladder out of the garage and climbed onto the least slanted portion of the many-angled roof. The wet shingles squeaked under his feet as be moved cautiously across the slope toward the television antenna, which was anchored near a brick chimney.

  His legs were rubbery. He suffered from a mild case of acrophobia, a fear that had never become incapacitating because he occasionally forced himself to challenge and overcome it, as he was doing now.

  When he reached the chimney, he put a hand against it for support and looked out across the roofs of the neighboring homes. The storm-dark September sky had settled lower, lower, until it appeared to be only six or eight feet above the tallest houses. He felt as if he could raise his arm and rap his knuckles on the bellies of the clouds, eliciting a hard, iron like clank.

  He crouched with his back to the chimney and inspected the TV antenna. The brace-plate was held down by four bolts that went through the shingles, either directly into a roof beam or into a stud linking two beams. None of the bolts was missing. None of them was loose. The plate was firmly attached to the house, and the antenna was anchored securely to the plate. The antenna could not possibly have been responsible for the hammering sound that had shaken the house.

  ***

  After washing the dishes, Grace and Carol went into the study. The room reeked of cat urine and feces. Aristophanes had made his toilet on the seat of the big easy chair.

  Stunned, Grace said, "I don't believe it. Ari always uses the litter box like he's supposed to do. He's never done anything like this before."

  "He's always been a fussy cat, hasn't he? Fastidious."

  "Exactly. But now look what he's done. That chair'll have to be reupholstered. I guess I'd better find the silly beast, put his nose to this mess, and give him a good scolding. I don't want this to become a habit, for God's sake."

  They looked in every room, but they couldn't find Aristophanes. Apparently, he had slipped out of the house by way of the pet door in the kitchen.

  Returning to the study with Grace, Carol said, "Earlier, you mentioned something about Ari tearing up a few things."

  Grace winced. "Yes. I didn't want to have to tell you-but he shredded two of those lovely little needlepoint pillows you made for me. I was sick about it. After all the work you put into those, and then he Just-,'

  "Don't worry about it," Carol said. "I'll make you a couple of new pillows. I enjoy doing it. Needlepoint relaxes me. I only asked because I thought maybe, if Ari's been doing a lot of things that're out of character, it might be a sign that he isn't well."

  Grace frowned. "He looks healthy. His coat's glossy, and he's certainly as spry as ever."

  "Animals are like people in some ways. And when a person suddenly starts behaving strangely that can

  be an indication of a physical malady, anything from a brain tumor to an inbalanced diet."

  "I suppose I ought to take him to the vet."

  Carol said, "While there's a break in the rain, why don't we go outside and see if we can find him?"

  "Wasted effort. When a cat doesn't want to be found, it won't be found. Besides, he'll come back by dinnertime: I'll keep him in all night, and take him to the vet's in the morning." Grace looked at the mess on the easy chair, grimaced, and shook her head. "This isn't like my Ari," she said worriedly. "It's just not like him at all."

  ***

  The number on the open door was 316.

  Hesitantly, Carol stepped into the white and blue hospital room and stopped just past the threshold. The place smelled vaguely of Lysol.

  The girl was sitting up in the bed nearest the window, her face averted from the door, staring out at the twilight-shrouded hospital grounds. She turned her head when she realized she was no longer alone, and when she looked at Carol there was no recognition in her blue-gray eyes.

  "May I come in?" Carol asked.

  "Sure."

  Carol went to the foot of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

  "Okay."

  "With all the scrapes and cuts and bruises, it must be hard to get comfortable."

  "Gee, I'm not banged up all that bad. I'm just a little sore. It's nothing that's going to kill me. Everyone's so nice; you're all making too much of a fuss about me."

  "How's your head feel?"

  "I had a headache when I first came to, but it's been gone for hours."

  "Double vision?"

  "Nothing like that," the girl said. A strand of golden hair slipped from behind her ear and fell across her cheek; she tucked it back in place. "Are you a doctor?"

  "Yes," Carol said. "My name's Carol Tracy."

  "You can call me Jane. That's the name on my chart. Jane Doe. I guess it's as good as any. It might even turn out to be a lot nicer than my real name. Maybe I'm actually Zelda or Myrtle or something like that." She had a lovely smile. "You're the umpteenth doctor who's been in to see me. How many do I have, anyway?"

  "I'm not one of yours," Carol said. "I'm here because ... well. . . it was my car you stepped in front of."

  "Oh. Hey, gee, I'm awfully sorry. 1 hope there wasn't a lot of damage."

  Surprised by the girl's statement and by the genuine look of concern on her face, Carol laughed. "For heaven's sake, honey, don't worry about my car. it's your health that's important, not the VW. And I'm the one who should be apologizing. I feel terrible about this."

  "You shouldn't," the girl said. "I still have all my teeth, and none of my bones are broken, and Dr. Hannaport says the boys will still be interested in me." She grinned self-consciously.

  "He's certainly right about the boys," Carol said.

  "You're a very pretty girl."

  The grin became a shy smile, and the girl looked down at the covers on her lap, blushing.

  Carol said, "I was hoping I'd find you here with your folks."

  The girl tried to maintain a cheerful facade, but when she looked up, fear and doubt showed through the mask. "I guess they haven't filed a missing-persons report yet. But it's only a matter of time."

  "Have you remembered anything at all about your past?"

  "Not yet. But I will." She straightened the collar of her hospital gown and smoothed the covers over her lap as she talked. "Dr. Hannaport says everything'll probably come back to me
if I just don't push too hard at remembering. He says I'm lucky I don't have global amnesia. That's when you even forget how to read and write. I'm not that bad off! Heck, no. Boy, wouldn't that be something? What if I had to learn to read, write, add, subtract, multiply, divide, and spell all over again? What a bore!" She finished smoothing her covers and looked up again. "Anyway, I'll most likely have my memory back in a day or two.,,

  "I'm sure you will," Carol said, though she wasn't sure at all. "Is there anything you need?"

  "No. They supply everything. Even tiny tubes of toothpaste."

  "What about books, magazines?"

  The girl sighed. "I was bored out of my skull this afternoon. You think they might keep a pile of old magazines for the patients?"

  "Probably. What do you like to read?"

  "Everything. I love to read; I remember that much. But I can't remember the titles of any books or magazines. This amnesia sure is funny, isn't it?"

  "Hilarious," Carol said. "Sit tight. I'll be right back."

  At the nurses' station at the end of the hail, she explained who she was and arranged to rent a small television set for Jane Doe's room. An orderly promised to hook it up right away.

  The chief RN on duty-a stocky, gray-haired woman who wore her glasses on a chain around her neck-said, "She's such a sweet girl. She's charmed everyone. Hasn't complained or uttered a cross word to a soul. There aren't many teenagers with her composure."

  Carol took the elevator down to the ground-floor lobby and went to the newsstand. She bought a Hershey bar, an Almond Joy, and six magazines that looked as if they would appeal to a young girl. By the time she got back to room 316, the orderly had just finished installing the TV.

  "You shouldn't have done all this," the girl said.

  "When my parents show up, I'll make sure they pay you back."

  "I won't accept a dime," Carol said.

  "But-"

  "No buts."

  "I don't need to be pampered. I'm fine. Really. If you-"

  "I'm not pampering you, honey. Just think of the magazines and the television as forms of therapy. In fact, they might be precisely the tools you need to break through this amnesia."