Page 152 of Life Out of Order

There’s something a little off about her: she has a spacey, thousand-mile stare and seems uncoordinated, as though she has had a mild stroke. “Okay,” I say. I hold the door open for her. She steps inside, wipes her feet daintily on the mat, then makes a beeline for our beige sofa and sits down in her wet clothes. I offer to take her coat. She wrestles with it, still sitting, until I peel it off her as though she’s a child. I hang it in the front hall to drip. When I turn back to the woman, she is staring at her hands as though she’s never seen them before. I detour to the linen closet and grab a towel. When I offer it to her she looks confused. “You must be cold, you should get yourself dry.” I mime drying my hair. I’m beginning to wonder if she’s been in a car accident, or maybe she’s been mugged? She rubs her head with the towel for exactly as long and in exactly the same manner as my demonstration. “Would you like some coffee? I just made a pot, or I can make tea?” She hesitates, then says, “Coffee would be nice, thank you.” I get it for her, along with sugar and oat milk half-and-half. She starts to take the cup from the tray, and I say, “Hold on, don’t burn yourself.” I put everything down on the table in front of her.

She reaches out slowly and touches her finger to the side of the cup, pulls away, does it again. “Hot?”

“Um . . . yeah. Hot. Wait a few minutes.” I sit across from her. I’m pretty convinced that she has some kind of brain injury, but I don’t see any sign of recent trauma. There’s something about her that seems familiar, but I can’t place her. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No,” she says “. . . thank you.” She stares at me for an uncomfortably long time. I stare back at her.

“Did you want to leave Alba a note?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here.” She continues to stare.

“I could write it down for you. The message?”

“Yes.”

The coffee table is always covered with my notebooks and other random paraphernalia. I find a pad of paper and a pen. “Okay.”

“Friday, June 13, 2098.” She says it without emotion, as though it has no significance for her. I wonder if this woman is a time traveler from the future? Wouldn’t that account for the odd manners, the weird affect?

“Friday, June 13, 2098,” I repeat, jotting it down. “And can I tell her who the message is from?”

“Oliver,” she says.

“Oliver?”

“Alba’s husband,” she says.

My throat contracts and I feel cold all over. I close my eyes and bow my head. I don’t question what she has said, because I know it is true.

When I open my eyes she’s still sitting there, watching me stoically. I want her to leave, but I need to know some things. “Who are you?” I ask her.

She smiles politely. “My name is Isadora.”

I feel ill. It can’t be. “And how do you know Alba?”

“I’ve known Alba since she was a child. We were children together.”

Oh, no. How is this possible? My mind races. “So if you knew Alba as a child, you must know her family? Henry? Clare and Beck?”

For the first time she seems engaged in the conversation: her eyes widen, her whole face livens up. “Beck! Yes, Beck and Clare, I know them! I love Beck. Clare is nice. Clare is Alba’s mother. Beck is my mother. Who are you?” Isadora asks suddenly.

“I’m Zachary Purcell.”

“Ah,” she says, her voice sad but her face expressionless. “The other husband.”

That stings. “How do you know Oliver?” I ask her. “Does he know Beck and Clare?”

Isadora looks a little blank; her eyes roll up, her irises almost disappear for a second, then she’s back, staring at me. “I don’t know if Oliver knows Beck or Clare. I have no information. I met Oliver on Sunday, August 18, 2013.”

“You’re very—precise.”

“Of course.”

“That was thirty-five years ago. How old are you?” And how old is Oliver?

Oh. Of course.

“You might be surprised.” Although she uses the phrase correctly, she inflects it strangely, with the emphasis on be.