"What did you make of what you have just witnessed?"
Isabel snuck into the guest bedroom and settled into an overstuffed armchair at a penumbral corner. She was still wearing the same dress, though her jewelry was gone. I watched her reflection in my makeup mirror, as I was removing the war paint from my face, clad in my two-part, lilac-strewn pajamas. I felt naked and embarrassed and violated.
"They did pretty well." - I hedged my answer, not sure where she might be leading.
"They did rather too well." - She triumphantly proclaimed, her eyes shining.
"What do you mean by that?" - I enquired, my curiosity genuinely awakened.
"Pray, tell me, what was I wearing when we first met?"
I couldn't conjure the image, no matter how hard I tried.
"I am not sure." - I finally admitted defeat
"What was the color of the curtains in your mother's kitchen?"
"White, with machine embroidered strawberries or raspberries or something of the sort."
"What was the first horror movie that you have seen?"
"I can't be expected to remember that!" - I exclaimed.
"Of course you can't, dear. No one can. You'd be lucky to get one response out of three correct, you know." - She agreed - "This is the point I am trying to make. Didn't you find my family's omniscience and total recall a trifle overdone? Didn't you ask yourself for a minute how come they are all blessed with such supreme, marvelous memories?"
She sounded distant and heartbroken as she said:
"I have changed my will, you know. They couldn't fool me with their slick off-the-cuff ready-made know-it-all responses! It's all yours now. Sleep well, my true friend and, henceforth, my only heir!."
She glided over and kissed me on the cheek, once, like a butterfly alighting.
*****
I was woken up by a wet kiss planted on my lips by Isabel's husband.
"What do you think you are doing?" - I hissed and withdrew to the top of the bed - "If you don't leave the room this instant, I will scream!"
He looked hurt and baffled as he slid off the mattress and stretched his monolithic corpulence.
"What's wrong?" - He enquired - "Anything I did to offend you last night? You shouldn't have asked all these questions if you didn't want to hear my answers, you know!"
"Where's Isabel?" - I demanded.
He eyed me queerly and pleaded sadly:
"We are not going to go through all this again, are we, dear?"
"Go through what and I am asking you for the last time: where is Isabel, your wife?"
He sighed and collapsed on the bed, depressing it considerably as he held onto one of the bedposts:
"I will call Dr. Milton. Promise me you won't do anything stupid until he has had the chance to see you."
"I am going to call the police on you. Isabel announces her intention to disinherit you and the next morning she is mysteriously gone. Dead, for all I know!"
"Isabel is alive and well, I give you my word." - Said her husband and, for some reason, I believed him. He sounded sincere.
"Then why can't I see her?"
"You can, once Dr. Milton arrives. Is that too much to ask? He will be here in less than half an hour. Edward already apprised him of the situation last night."
"Last night?" - I felt confused - "What situation? And who's Dr. Milton?"
He got up and made to leave when I noticed that my makeup compact was gone.
"Where are my things? What have you done with my things?"
"They are in the next room. Dr. Milton will let you have them after he has made sure that they include nothing dangerous."
"Dangerous?" - I exploded - "Am I a prisoner here? I insist to use the phone! I am going to call the police right now!"
"Please, for your own good, don't exit the room." - Said my uninvited visitor - "I have covered the mirrors here and have removed your make up pouch but I can't well take care of all the reflecting surfaces: windows and such."
"Mirrors? What are you going about? You need professional help. I am a therapist. Won't you tell me what the problem is? What have you done to Isabel? Are you afraid to look at yourself in the mirror? Are you terrified of what you might see there? Have you killed her? Are you tormented by guilt?" - It wasn't very professional behavior but I decided that I had nothing to lose by abrogating the therapeutic protocol. Clearly, I was being held hostage by a gang of killers or a murderous cult.
"Isabel." - Said a familiar voice from across the threshold.
"Thank God you have arrived!" - Cried Isabel's husband - "She is having one of her attacks."
Into the chamber came Milton, clay pipe, eternal dungarees and all. He was accompanied by a young woman that looked startlingly familiar. She glanced at me from across the room. She smiled. She appeared to be friendly, so I reciprocated, hesitantly.
Milton said:
"I hope you don't mind that I have asked your therapist to join me. She told me everything about last night. You invited her here as your guest, you remember?"
I didn't remember anything of the sort. Still, I appraised my "therapist" more attentively. She was a mousy, inconsequential thing with an excruciatingly bad sartorial taste. She stared at me through a pair of dead, black, enormous pools that passed for eyes. Her hands were sinewy and contorted and she kept fidgeting, clasping and unclasping my makeup purse, and rearranging a stray curl that kept obscuring her view.