The Memory Keeper

Chapter 3

The minutes on the mantle's clock echoed, even in the cluttered space Natalie called her office. She peered into what reflection the smudged latticed window pane would allow, trying to flatten an insistent fluff of hair, going as far as licking her hand and pressing it to the side of her head.

The little knock on the door startled her as though it was instead a rattling bang. She opened the door to discover Peter Sheinfeld standing there. When she looked up at him, apprehension flickered across his eyes, perhaps having realized what he was here for. Natalie knew it was never easy for a new client. The first session was always the hardest.

He wore a black trench coat. His wheat colored hair was damp with Coldton's ever present fog, and from his head he pulled his newsboy cap again, twisting it in his hands as he edged over the threshold and past her, where she stood holding the door open.

He smelled of clean soap and smoke. She closed her eyes. The scent seemed to grow a hand just long enough to caress her lungs for a moment, because she could hardly breathe.

He turned and touched the little clay statue of a woman on the shelf by the window. Without turning to look at Natalie, he asked, "Quite lovely... Where did you get this?"

She opened her mouth to answer but stopped short, suddenly stumped. The statue had brown hair, large blue eyes, and a sand-colored cloak. One would say it looked a lot like Natalie herself. The clay was chipped, and as though it had sat in the sun for some time, the paint was faded in some spots. The mind weaver bit her thumb nail. "You know, I cannot seem to remember where that old thing came from. Perhaps it was already here when I moved in."

Peter nodded. "I see." Another little touch, and it tilted too far, hitting the hard wood floor in dozens of pieces.

The two of them stared at it for a few moments in stunned silence. After a little scratch to the side of his nose, he said, "How clumsy of me..." He looked down at it, his expression wrought with sincere regret.

She did not care about the statue, having no recollection of where it had emerged from, anyway. She felt lost in his gaze, taking in the sweep of his wheat-colored hair, the crescent-shaped shadows beneath his lashes, but he must have taken it as total disappointment. Apologizing, he bent to collect the pieces, and she as well, but made no move to help.

"Really, do not worry yourself. It's nothing," she said.

He paused, holding one of the statue's arms, turning it around between his fingers. With a little smile, he said, "It looks quite a lot like you, don't you think?"

"I cannot say that did not occur to me."

He swept up the rest of the broken pieces, then stood and walked over to the trash can by the coffee maker to dump them. When he turned back, she was still knelt in the same spot.

"I can replace it," he offered.

Brushing make believe dust from her dress skirt, she stood and grinned. "Like I said, it's nothing." She gestured to the coffee maker. "Coffee? I have tea, as well."

He shook his head.

Sweeping over to her desk, she stuffed her schedule into the top drawer, shoved books and a case of pencils out of the way. "How this works," she said while organizing, absently slipping a pencil behind her ear, "is through hand contact and a level gaze into each other's eyes." She paused and peeked through her lashes to see his expression.

Peter stood with his hands in his pockets, watching her.

She took a deep breath. "I know you asked me to erase these memories. It can be done by mind-weaving, which is what I do. The only difference is, you asked about a person. A memory on its own isn't the same as a person. We are talking about a collection of memories, and asking that they be replaced until this person is... erased."