"Everything's weird, if you
think about it. What are memories, anyway? How do they work?"
"I've never thought about
that," she said, leaning back in her chair. She put her arms behind her
head and squinted her left eye, looking up at the ceiling. "I don't know."
"Exactly. I don't either. And I've done some thinking on the subject."
"Hmmm. Well, she obviously has some sort of a past, somewhere. People
aren't just blank slates that can be programmed to talk and walk and
interact once they're adults."
"What? Where'd you come up with that?" I asked her, leaning forward. "The
blank slates thing, I mean. Because we talked about it once. Did she say
something to you?"
"Um, no. I don't remember her mentioning it, anyway," she answered, a
little defensively. "I was just thinking that our memories are what make
us who we are, you know? I was thinking that it's probably pretty rough
when you don't know who you are, at least not for more than about six
months ago. That's when you met, right?"
"Something like that."
"About that."
"About what?"
"How you met?" Janine asked with a weird tone in her voice, like she was
scared she was approaching a touchy subject. I waited. "That's the part I
don't understand."
"What's not to understand?" I asked her, taking a sip of my own coffee.
"You don't think that it's pretty weird that she just showed up in your
house one day? With no memories of how she got there? In the bathtub, of
all places?" |