Shadow Image by Martin J Smith

smoking?”
    She worked her hand into a pocket of her robe and pulled out something dark and foul. The remains of a cigar as thick as his thumb. As quickly as she pulled it out, though, she thrust it back in. “Macanudo Jamaica,” she said. “Almost Cuban, but don’t tell that man.”
    â€œWhat man?”
    She pointed her paintbrush over Christensen’s left shoulder.
“That
man,” she said. “Old bastard won’t let me smoke.”
    Christensen whirled around, startled to see that they were not alone. Vincent Underhill filled the room’s doorway, his face instantly recognizable even thirty years after he left public office. The hair was whiter, the jawline less chiseled than before, but the former governor was an indelible part of Christensen’s memory, though not, apparently, a part of his demented wife’s. Flustered, Christensen stood up and extended a hand. He pulled it back when it went unshaken.
    â€œWe told you people no paints,” Underhill said.
    Christensen still felt a need to introduce himself. “I’m—”
    â€œWe were very clear on that, as well as on the cigars.” The former governor was fully in the room now. He turned away from Christensen for the moment and patted his wife’s good arm. “Good morning, Miss Florence. Sleep well?”
    Floss seemed to appraise him. “I slept fine. You a doctor?”
    Vincent Underhill offered a tight smile, gave his wife’s arm a little squeeze. With his other hand, he gently plucked the paintbrush from her. He snapped the metal lid of the paint set closed and handed the box and the brush to Christensen.
    â€œHey,” Floss protested.
    Underhill studied the watercolor image on his wife’s drawing pad, then took the pad, too. He closed it, but that he kept. He tossed it onto the bed, away from Christensen, who wondered if, because of his mask, he’d been mistaken for a hospital staffer. He caught Underhill’s eyes searching his chest for a name tag.
    â€œActually, the art work is very therapeutic,” he said. “It’ll help with her fine motor skills, and some people think it’s a way for her to connect with some of her lost memories.”
    Christensen couldn’t interpret Underhill’s impassive face, so he continued. “And you probably know about the nicotine studies, how even one cigarette can improve communication between the neurons and the hippocampus. That’s the learning and memory part of the brain.” Still no reaction. Christensen, nervous, rushed to fill the silence. “So, actually, in terms of recall, she may be one of the few people who actually
should
smoke. No one’s quite sure why it works that way, just that it does. So—”
    â€œLet me be very clear about this,” Underhill interrupted. His voice was stern but not hostile, a teacher talking to a misguided student. “From now on, please see to it that our family’s wishes are followed. No paints. No cigars.”
    â€œBut the cigars might—”
    Underhill turned away, busying himself with the remains of his wife’s last meal. Christensen surrendered. He still had his anonymity, at least. If he left now, there’d be no awkward explanation of why a marginally involved memory researcher from the Harmony Center was in the private hospital suite of a woman he barely knew.
    â€œSorry for the oversight,” he said.
    Vincent Underhill nodded his absolution. “Now if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to spend some time alone with my wife.”
    â€œYou’re not a doctor, then?” Floss said to her husband. “I’m confused.”
    Christensen found the hall a welcome relief. A different nurse, a woman, was at the nurse’s station, but she was on the phone. He set the paint set and brush on the counter without a word or even a wave, and headed for the elevator. He didn’t take off the mask until he