The Memory Man

The 14^th of December was a cruel, bitter day; the sort of day best left to be forgotten, save by the poets who would look at the barren trees and flat gray skies and think there was something there worth immortalizing. The town was quiet and still, the streets empty, no one bothering to embrace the agony of the winter cold unless absolutely necessary.

           I stoked the fire in my office. It was a feeble thing, the flames desperately licking the air the way a hungry dog licked a bowl. I looked to the clock. My four o’clock appointment was ten minutes late, but that was alright. On days like this, I always gave a fifteen minute window for arrival times. The heavier the snowfall the night before, the longer it took to drive into town. I stood, my knees creaking in protest, and walked over to my desk to check my appointment book. Augustina Romanov, my newest and last client of the day. She had called a week prior to set up an appointment. She was an elderly woman, that much was clear from her voice. She had a weak Russian accent, faded and lost to time. She didn’t give many details over the phone, and I didn’t ask. I liked to ask the questions in person. My father always said the best way to see someone honestly was to look in their eyes and shake their hand. My father’s simple advice, reflecting the man giving it, had never failed me once.

           A floorboard creaked in the hallway and a moment later there was a soft knock at the door. I called for whoever was there to answer and the door opened, revealing a small figure. She could not have been any more than five feet tall and reminded me of a turnip which had been left forgotten in a dark cabinet somewhere. She was small, gray and wrinkled. Her face, as lined as a city map, looked as if it would collapse in on itself at any moment. A nest of gray hair sat atop her head, with a small hat, decades out of fashion, pinned atop. She wore a heavy gray coat, dusted in a light sprinkling of snow. Her thin legs were clad in heavy nylons and she wore ugly black nursing shoes.

           “Mrs. Romanov, I assume,” I said, standing with a smile. I gestured for her to take the seat across from me. She moved slowly and removed her gloves as she did, revealing a pair of pockmarked hands.

           “It’s miss,” she said.

           “I’m sorry?” I asked.

           “It’s miss,” she said again, with more emphasis. “Not Mrs.”

           “Oh,” I said, sitting. “I am very sorry for my error.”

           “And you are Mr. Underwood, I assume.”

           “You are correct, ma’am.”

           The fire crackled and popped, as if also insisting it would be given an introduction.

           “Now, Ms. Romanov, may I ask how you came to find me?”

           “My sister-in-law’s cousin used your services a number of years ago. Martin Headstrong his name was.”

           “Oh yes,” I said. “Martin. How is he doing?”

           “Very good, now,” she replied.

           “I’m very glad to hear it,” I said, and I was. I always appreciated hearing my client’s success stories.

           “And I am hoping you received the forms I mailed to you as well?”

           Ms. Romanov unclasped her purse and pulled out a bundle of paper held together by a rubber band. I took them and unraveled them.

           “And I want to make absolutely sure you read the fine print?” I asked, looking down at the papers she had filled out in neat, slanted handwriting.

           “Yes,” she said. “There was quite a lot of it.”

           “Well, it is a complicated business.”

           I set the papers down and clasped my hands together in front of my desk.

           “Now, Ms. Romanov, the reason I always interview my clients in person is because I want to be sure they are of sound mind.”

           Ms. Romanov opened her mouth in offense and tried to protest, I held my hands up to silence her.

           “I am not saying you are not, it’s just a formality. I think you can imagine, in my line of work, I have no room for error or poor judgement.”

           She relaxed a little. “I understand.”

           “Now, please tell me why you want to have the procedure done.”

           “It is all in the paperwork, Mr. Underwood,” she said.

           I nodded. “I know, but I would like to hear a firsthand account, if you please.”

           The old woman sighed and shifted her eyes away from me, to the floor.

           “My husband died last fall.” She stopped, the subject clearly a painful one. They usually were. In my job I had heard a lot of similar stories, each with the same components: death, abuse, trauma. The stories spoken within these four walls were ones of pain.

           “I haven’t been able to move on. I cannot eat, sleep, laugh. Nothing brings me joy. I only have so many years left on this earth and I do not want them to be painful ones.”

           “Do you have children?” I asked.

           She shook her head. “No.”

           “Do you have any family?”

           “I had a sister but she passed ten years ago. The rest of my family are in Russia.”

           “What about your late husband’s family?”

           She shook her head. “Most live on the west coast.”

           “Are you truly prepared to do this?”

           “I have already made the arrangements.”

           “And you know once you do it, you cannot go back. The procedure is completely irreversible.”

           “I read the fine print, Mr. Underwood.” Her voice was clipped.

   I sighed. “What I am telling you, Ms. Romanov, is if there is any doubt, any whatsoever, please tell me know.”

           “Mr. Underwood,” she replied, her voice cold and stern. “Do I look like an indecisive woman?”

           “No, ma’am,” I replied.

           “And you would be right. I would never waste your time and I certainly would not waste mine.” 

           “Alright,” I said. “I think I have all that I need. We can get started.”

           I searched her face for any signs of fear or hesitation. There were none.

           “Do you have a ride set up for after the procedure?”

           She nodded. “I was going to take a cab. My address is listed on the paperwork. If you would be so kind as to call them for me.”

           “Of course.” I stood. “If you could please take off your coat and roll up your sleeve for me.”

           She did so. I unlocked the drawer in my desk and opened it. I pulled on a pair of rubble gloves and grabbed the the blue syringe that waited inside. At the sight of it, Ms. Romanov made no reaction. It wasn’t always that way. I had had clients jump, break down in tears and once a woman even laughed. Nerves did strange things to many people.

           “Ok, you may feel a small prick for a moment,” I said. I knelt down on the carpet next to her chair and, with a gloved hand, touched the sagging skin of her right arm. She didn’t watch me as I did, instead staring straight ahead at the wall above the desk. Her head was held high, her back straight, like a soldier marching into the battlefield. The needle’s head disappeared into the folds of her pale skin. I depressed the syringe and watched as the clear liquid dispersed and vanished. I leaned back on the balls of my feet and removed the needle from her arm.

           Several moments passed. I watched the old woman’s face. Her steady determination began to slowly vanish. The muscles in her forehead relaxed. She blinked, her eyebrows coming together. She looked around at me, and then to the rest of the office.

           “Hello, Ms. Romanov,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

           “I feel…” she stopped and continued to glance around the room, as if she would find the missing words there. “I feel a little cold.”     

           “Well, here is your coat, let me help you put it on.”

           I did so. She looked at me once again.

           “And you are?” she asked. She seemed a little embarrassed.

           “My name is Victor Underwood, you are in my office. Your name is Augustina Romanov.”

           She blinked again. “I am afraid I have no memory of getting here.”

           “That is quite alright. You are going to find you have no memories before this point in your life whatsoever.”

           She stared at me, her wrinkled face showing total incomprehension.

           “Well, that cannot be true.”

           “It is, actually, but do not be scared.” I quickly explained the procedure, how she had called me the week prior. I handed her the paperwork and showed her her own signature which was, in that moment, completely unrecognizable to her.

           Once I was done, I stood and walked back to my desk. I lifted my phone from the hook and dialed in the number to the local cab company. I gave the cab driver my office address and Ms. Romanov’s home address while she continued to stare at me, confused.

           “A cab will be here soon to pick you up,” I said, once I hung up.

           “Alright.”

           A few minutes later I saw a yellow cab pull up to the curb from out the window. A dark-haired man waited in the driver’s seat.

           “Your ride is here, Ms. Romanov. Would you like me to escort you out?”

           “No, no,” she said, her pride outweighing her confusion. “I am sure I can find my way.”

           She stood and I opened the door. She gave one last look back at me before walking down the hallway towards the front door. I shut the door and watched, through the window, as she climbed into the yellow taxi and the cab took off, vanishing around the corner and out of sight.

           For several more minutes I watched out of the window, listening to the fire in the hearth devour the logs. I thought of Ms. Romanov and wished her well. The clock struck five, but I stayed where I was, feeling no need, in that moment, to move out of my chair.

           Outside it was snowing.