Page 70 of An Immaculate Deception

“Perhaps. Her personality may adjust to her new frame of reference, her current state of mind, if you will.”

I think of her higher voice and softer demeanor. Her polite shyness around me. The way she ends sentences with a question mark. Walking about the house like she is a guest and not the mistress of it.

I don’t like it.

“There is no need to panic,” he says. “This is probably temporary.”

“Probably?” My panic deepens.

He glances at the house cryptically. Through the window I see the silhouette of Mother sitting in the parlor, faintly illuminated by a brass lamp.

“Allow me to assess her condition tonight, at dinner. Then tomorrow I shall stop by again and we will speak in private further. But you must try and remain calm. She can sense your distress, and she won’t understand it. It will make her uneasy. Try and act like”—he snaps a finger, as though gripped by a sudden notion—“how your father might have acted.”

I stare. “Are you serious?”

“Right, I almost forgot you’ve never met him.”

“I will not pretend to be my dead father.”

“Fine, then simply try to act calm, as if nothing is wrong.”

“But something is—”

He’s already swung open the door and stepped inside.

42

Doctor Lobo kisses Mother’s hand upon greeting her, and she smiles brightly at him, cheeks flushed. My soul leaves my body and hovers near the ceiling, and that is the place from which I watch her bat her eyes at him.

As we head to the table, Doctor Lobo tells of visiting my grandmother in such a convincing way that for a moment I wonder if he really did. As I listen, I am more and more confounded. This can only be a lie. Why go so far with the charade? It’s like this is entertainment to him.

As I watch Mother make her plate, I’m terror struck that she’s forgotten how to chew or swallow or that if she does swallow, her digestive system won’t work properly. Will the food become lodged in her esophagus, or fail to break down inside her body?

But she barely pays attention to the food, being instead so focused on Doctor Lobo’s stories about Vienna that she hardly seems to notice what she’s putting in her mouth. She eats and chews and swallows without problem, while nodding and smiling at Doctor Lobo. She sits up with a straight posture and covers her mouth when she laughs, which is distinctly unlike Mother, who doesn’t laugh much at all.

The two of them fall into a natural rapport. In fact, they are entranced with each other, brazenly flirting at times. I cannot fathom how the same woman I knew could behave this way. What if Mother never returns to normal? The passion fruit juice goes down the wrong pipe and I start having a coughing fit, which halts their conversation, and after a bout of hacking, I regain my composure. My silence, that is.

Because I don’t say much. I am frightened to open my mouth. I sit there and watch them, vexed by the spectacle before me. I know I am being unsociable, unpleasant perhaps, but it is better this way. If I say the wrong thing I can trigger the stupor. Besides, what have I to say to this stranger who wears Mother’s body like a cloak?

This strange Madalena.

“What about you, Leandro?” Strange Madalena turns to me with a frozen smile. “Do you have stories to share from your time in Europe?”

Stories from Europe. Father completed advanced studies in Europe because he had the means and station in life to do so. But that would never be in the cards for me, and Mother, the real one, would know that. I open my mouth, and nothing comes out but air. I take a sip of the wine and let the silence hang. I know the smile has faded from her lips, and everyone is watching me.

“Oh, and have I told you about…” Doctor Lobo deftly changes the subject, picking up the conversation where they left off before she spoke to me. They carry on as though I was never addressed in the first place, as though I am merely a candle at their private dinner for two. When, later, she asks me how renovations are going—I have no idea what she’s talking about—I excuse myself to use the chamber pot.

When I return to the table, I catch Strange Madalena whispering to Doctor Lobo about me. She startles when she sees me and stills. It is uncanny to see her confiding in this man she barely knows over me. I sink into my chair and stare at the ticking seconds on the pendulum wall clock.

Doctor Lobo veers into a discussion about recent developments in the study of the mind. He talks about the “unconscious mind” and the idea that people often have suppressed memories and latent knowledge they are not aware of.

“Trauma that solidified in the psyche as repressed memories and thoughts. These patterns of thinking, though unconscious, can cause diseases in the mind well into adulthood.”

“Repressed…” I mutter. A shiver rolls through my flesh. That is the word he used to describe Mother’s missing memories.

Patterns of thinking lodged deep within the inner world, inaccessible to conscious awareness.

The past nineteen years of her life are trapped in her subconscious.