Was Frannie interested in some man? Alice knew that Frannie had lost a boyfriend during the Second World War, but as far as she was aware, there had never been anyone else in her life since, although there had been that time when they were teenagers and Elisabeth had seen a half-finished letter sitting on Frannie’s desk. When Elisabeth asked who she was writing to, Frannie had apparently been so flustered, she had actually (Alice thought Elisabeth must be making this part up) blushed. She had said she was writing to “an old friend,” but Elisabeth had been convinced from her reaction that it was a “secret lover.” “Probably someone else’s husband,” Elisabeth had said, with a knowing, cynical look. “I expect they meet at motels in the middle of the day.” Alice had been deeply shocked and wasn’t able to look Frannie in the eye for weeks after.

“Come on, let’s go downstairs,” said Frannie. “Your mother is making lunch.”

As they walked out of the room and down the hallway toward the stairs, Frannie said, “Walk alongside me, Alice.”

“I am,” said Alice.

“No. Properly. That’s it! See! We can walk side by side, without tripping all over each other, can’t we?”

“We sure can,” said Alice, wondering if Frannie had gone a little senile in 2008.

As they reached the top of the stairs, Alice stopped abruptly at the sound of a deep, familiar male voice. “Alice, my dear! I was just coming up to collect you!”

“How are you, Roger?” Alice peered over the banister, horrified to see him at the bottom of the stairs. He was all out of context without Nick. He was a visitor you planned for (steeled yourself for), not someone who looked comfortably up at you from the bottom of your stairs, as if he belonged in your house.

“Never better,” Roger called back. “It’s you we’re worried about!”

Frannie’s eyes met Alice’s and she lifted a wry eyebrow. She wasn’t senile. She was still as sharp as a tack.

“Is she up, then?” Alice’s mother emerged from the kitchen and looked up at them.

Alice walked behind Frannie down the stairs, glad to see that although she was behaving oddly, she didn’t seem that much frailer than Alice remembered.

Barb and Roger stood at the bottom with their palms lifted, like ministers welcoming the congregation, identical weirdly evangelical expressions on their faces.

“Did you have a good sleep, Alice?” asked Barb, trying in vain to take Frannie’s elbow. “Rest is the best thing for you, I’m sure. I suppose everything has come back to you now?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Are you hungry?”

Roger took Alice by the arm and led her into the dining area, behind Barb and Frannie, his fingertips solicitously pressed to the small of her back.

“Don’t hover, Barbara!” snapped Frannie, as Barb fussed about the best seat for her at the long pine table.

Alice sat down next to her, anxious to escape the oily feel of Roger’s fingertips. She watched in fascination at the relaxed way her mother tilted her head coquettishly up at him. Thankfully, she was no longer wearing the exotic salsa-dancing outfit from the day before, but she was wearing a rather low-cut T-shirt and capri pants, and her long hair was up in a jaunty ponytail.

“Now, I’ve made a nice tuna salad for our lunch. I chose that specifically for you, Alice, because fish is brain food. Roger and I have been taking fish oil every day, haven’t we, darl?”

Darl. Her mother just called Roger “darl.”

Roger didn’t seem to have changed at all in the last ten years. He was still tanned and polished and pleased with himself. Had he had plastic surgery? Alice wouldn’t put it past him. He was wearing a pink polo-necked shirt, with a gold chain nestled in graying chest hair. His shorts were just a little too tight, revealing muscular brown legs.

As Barb turned to go back toward the kitchen, Roger gave her a playful, not-at-all-discreet slap on the bottom. Appalled, Alice averted her eyes. (Roger, she remembered, owned a waterbed. “The ladies love it,” he’d told Alice once.)

Frannie gave a low chuckle and laid her hand over Alice’s in sympathy. Alice distracted herself by examining the long pine table in front of her. She’d dreamed about this table at the hospital. Nick was sitting at it, while she was cleaning the kitchen. He’d said something that made no sense. What was it?

Elisabeth came into the room, lifting her handbag over her shoulder. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where are you going?” asked Alice desperately. She needed support to help her cope with Roger and her mother. “Are you coming back?”

Elisabeth gave her an odd look. “I’m meeting some people for lunch. I’ll come back if you like.”

“Who?” asked Alice, trying to keep her there for longer. “Who are you meeting?”

“Just some friends,” said Elisabeth evasively. “Anyway, make sure you listen out for the phone because I’ve left three messages for that Kate Harper about tonight’s party but she still hasn’t called back.” She looked at Alice. “You still seem very pale. I think you should go back to bed after lunch.”

“Oh, I agree!” said their mother as she walked in from the kitchen, carrying a glass salad bowl. “I’m packing her straight off to bed after lunch, don’t worry. We need to get her completely recovered before those little terrors are back.”

Alice looked at the big glass salad bowl her mother was holding and for no particular reason the name “Gina” came into her head.

It’s always about Gina. Gina, Gina, Gina. That’s right. That’s what she’d remembered, or dreamed, Nick saying as he sat at this table.

“Who is Gina?” asked Alice.

The room became extremely still and silent.

Finally Frannie cleared her throat. Roger looked at the floor and fiddled with the chain around his neck. Barb froze at the entrance from the kitchen and hugged the salad bowl to her stomach. Elisabeth chewed hard at her lip.

“Well, who is she?” said Alice.

Elisabeth’s Homework for Dr. Hodges One thing I’ve been thinking about a lot is how I would feel if I lost ten years of my memory, and what things would surprise me, or please me, or upset me about how my life had turned out.

I hadn’t even met Ben ten years ago. So he would be a stranger. A big scary hairy stranger sharing my bed. How could I explain to my old self that I had accidentally fallen in love with a silent mountain of a man who designs neon signs for a living and whose most passionate interest is cars? Before I met Ben, I was one of those girls who was deliberately, prettily ignorant about cars. I described them by size and color. A big white car. A small blue car. Now I know makes and models. I watch the Grand Prix. Sometimes I even flick through his car magazines.