smoking?â
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. âMacanudo Jamaica,â she said. âAlmost Cuban, but donât tell that man.â
âWhat man?â
She pointed her paintbrush over Christensenâs left shoulder.
âThat
man,â she said. âOld bastard wonât let me smoke.â
Christensen whirled around, startled to see that they were not alone. Vincent Underhill filled the roomâs 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 Christensenâs memory, though not, apparently, a part of his demented wifeâs. Flustered, Christensen stood up and extended a hand. He pulled it back when it went unshaken.
âWe told you people no paints,â Underhill said.
Christensen still felt a need to introduce himself. âIâmââ
âWe were very clear on that, as well as on the cigars.â The former governor was fully in the room now. He turned away from Christensen for the moment and patted his wifeâs good arm. âGood morning, Miss Florence. Sleep well?â
Floss seemed to appraise him. âI slept fine. You a doctor?â
Vincent Underhill offered a tight smile, gave his wifeâs 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.
âHey,â Floss protested.
Underhill studied the watercolor image on his wifeâs 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, heâd been mistaken for a hospital staffer. He caught Underhillâs eyes searching his chest for a name tag.
âActually, the art work is very therapeutic,â he said. âItâll help with her fine motor skills, and some people think itâs a way for her to connect with some of her lost memories.â
Christensen couldnât interpret Underhillâs impassive face, so he continued. âAnd you probably know about the nicotine studies, how even one cigarette can improve communication between the neurons and the hippocampus. Thatâs the learning and memory part of the brain.â Still no reaction. Christensen, nervous, rushed to fill the silence. âSo, actually, in terms of recall, she may be one of the few people who actually
should
smoke. No oneâs quite sure why it works that way, just that it does. Soââ
âLet me be very clear about this,â Underhill interrupted. His voice was stern but not hostile, a teacher talking to a misguided student. âFrom now on, please see to it that our familyâs wishes are followed. No paints. No cigars.â
âBut the cigars mightââ
Underhill turned away, busying himself with the remains of his wifeâs last meal. Christensen surrendered. He still had his anonymity, at least. If he left now, thereâd 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.
âSorry for the oversight,â he said.
Vincent Underhill nodded his absolution. âNow if youâll excuse us, Iâd like to spend some time alone with my wife.â
âYouâre not a doctor, then?â Floss said to her husband. âIâm confused.â
Christensen found the hall a welcome relief. A different nurse, a woman, was at the nurseâs 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 didnât take off the mask until he
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