Page 68 of An Immaculate Deception

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, sinhá,” Maria das Dores says, wearing her white apron and standing just beyond the threshold, as if not wanting to enter. “It’s normal to feel faint on a hot day like today. Let me get you a little sugar water, it’ll sort you right out!”

I told Maria das Dores earlier that Mother was brought here to recover at home, and that she was confused and still getting her bearings.

“Why…” I cough. “Why did you come in here?”

I am hopeful that she wandered in here because she recognized her room.

“I…” She looks around, lids fluttering. “I was just looking for a mirror.”

“A mirror?”

I glance at the mirror behind her and feel a surge of dread. I forgot about the mirrors! She’s going to see that she doesn’t look like the nineteen-year-old girl she believes herself to be.

She is out of sorts and unwell. Being in this room hasn’t brought back her memories, as she still doesn’t remember me. On the contrary, it seems to have destabilized her.

It pains my heart that she didn’t recognize her own room. She’s slept in this room for the past nineteen years. How could she not remember it? I usher her away from the room before she has a chance to look in the mirror and fall apart. Once we’re all back in the dim hallway, I close the door. Maybe it’s for the best if Mother avoids her room for the time being.

She’s only been awake for a couple hours, and already there has been an alarming incident. I must be more vigilant. I must keep an eye on her at all times.

“That perfume scent made me ill at ease,” Mother says.

Lavender rose. I shudder, as that scent also brings me nauseating memories.

“Has your discomfort passed now?” I ask.

“Yes, mostly.”

“At any rate, we must tell Doctor Lobo about it.”

“Leandro.” She lightly touches my arm. “Those jewels, the perfume…I was wondering who they belong to?”

I feel dazed for a moment. Her face is a mask of innocence. She truly doesn’t remember.

But she wants to remember. She wants to know.

Perhaps I should tell her right now. Can she handle it?

I’m suddenly furious that Doctor Lobo left me alone with her so quickly, and with so little direction. I am no physician. He best come back tonight as he promised. I scratch the side of my head.

“They’re my mother’s,” I say, hoping that this phrasing will spark a memory without shocking her further. “Passed down from her grandmother.”

She looks disturbed.

“Same for the dresses?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time your mother visited?”

“What?”

“When was the last time your mother slept in that room?”

This sends a cold shiver down my spine. The familiar burning feeling creeps up my insides. I cannot orient my mind to anything other than the truth. The last time she slept here was weeks ago, before I moved her down to the senzala.

I despise lying to Mother, so I don’t.

“Several weeks ago.”