remembers things I’ve forgotten, prompting me the way Abigail does.” He put his face in his hands. “Oh, my God, Gerald, what am I going to do?” Gerald set his drink down carefully and put his arm around his friend’s shoulders, something he rarely did. And they sat there in the silent study, two old friends stuck at the wrong end of time.
❖
The pursuing, choking darkness had almost gotten him. Roman sat bolt upright in bed, trying desperately to drag air in through his clogged throat.
The room was dark. He had no idea of where he was or even who he was. All he felt was stark terror. The bedclothes seemed to be grabbing for him, trying to pull him back into that allconsuming darkness. Whimpering, he tried to drag them away from his legs.
The lights came on. “What’s wrong, Roman?” Abigail looked at him in consternation.
“Who are you?” Roman shouted at this ancient white-haired woman who had somehow come to be in his bed. “Where’s Abigail? What have you done with her?” He took the old woman by her shoulders and shook her.
“Stop it, Roman. Stop it!” Her eyes filled with tears. “You’re having a nightmare. You’re here in bed. With me. I’m Abigail, your wife. Roman!”
Roman stared at her. Her long hair had once been raven black and was now pure white.
“Oh, Abigail.” The bedroom fell into place around him, the spindle bed, the nightstands, the lamps—his green-glass shaded, hers crystal. “Oh, Pookie, I’m sorry.” He hadn’t used that ridiculous endearment in years. He hugged her, feeling how frail she had become. She kept herself in shape, but she was old, her once-full muscles now like taut cords, pulling her bones as if she was a marionette. “I’m sorry.”
She sobbed against him, then withdrew, wiping at her eyes. “What a pair of hysterical old people we’ve become.” Her vivid blue eyes glittered with tears. “One nightmare and we go all to pieces.”
It wasn’t just one nightmare, not at all. What was he supposed to say to her? Roman freed himself from the down comforter, carefully fitted his feet into his leather slippers, and shuffled into the bathroom.
He looked at himself in the mirror. He was an old man, hair standing on end. He wore a nice pair of flannel pajamas and leather slippers his wife had given him for Christmas. His mind was dissolving like a lump of sugar in hot coffee.
The bathroom was clean tile with a wonderful claw-footed bathtub. The floor was tiled in a colored parquet-deformation pattern that started with ordinary bathroom-floor hexagons near the toilet, slowly modified itself into complex knotted shapes in the middle, and then, by another deformation, returned to hexagons under the sink. It had cost him a small fortune and months of work to create this complex mathematical tessellation. It was a dizzying thing to contemplate from the throne, and it now turned the ordinarily safe bathroom into a place of nightmare. Why couldn’t he have picked something more comforting?
He stared at his image with some bemusement. He normally combed his thin hair down to hide his bald spot. Whom did he think he was fooling? Woken from sleep, he was reel-eyed. The bathroom mirror had turned into a magic one and revealed all his flaws. He was wrinkled, had bags under his eyes, broken veins. He liked to think that he was a loveable curmudgeon. Curmudgeon, hell. He looked like a nasty old man.
“Are you all right in there?” Abigail’s voice was concerned.
“I’m fine. Be right there.” With one last glance at his mirror image, Roman turned the light off and went back to bed.
❖
Roman sat in his study chair and fumed. Something had happened to the medical profession while he wasn’t looking. That was what he got for being so healthy. He obviously hadn’t been keeping track of things.
“What did he say?” The computer’s voice was interested. Roman was impressed by the inflection. He was also impressed by how easy it was to tell that the
❖
The pursuing, choking darkness had almost gotten him. Roman sat bolt upright in bed, trying desperately to drag air in through his clogged throat.
The room was dark. He had no idea of where he was or even who he was. All he felt was stark terror. The bedclothes seemed to be grabbing for him, trying to pull him back into that allconsuming darkness. Whimpering, he tried to drag them away from his legs.
The lights came on. “What’s wrong, Roman?” Abigail looked at him in consternation.
“Who are you?” Roman shouted at this ancient white-haired woman who had somehow come to be in his bed. “Where’s Abigail? What have you done with her?” He took the old woman by her shoulders and shook her.
“Stop it, Roman. Stop it!” Her eyes filled with tears. “You’re having a nightmare. You’re here in bed. With me. I’m Abigail, your wife. Roman!”
Roman stared at her. Her long hair had once been raven black and was now pure white.
“Oh, Abigail.” The bedroom fell into place around him, the spindle bed, the nightstands, the lamps—his green-glass shaded, hers crystal. “Oh, Pookie, I’m sorry.” He hadn’t used that ridiculous endearment in years. He hugged her, feeling how frail she had become. She kept herself in shape, but she was old, her once-full muscles now like taut cords, pulling her bones as if she was a marionette. “I’m sorry.”
She sobbed against him, then withdrew, wiping at her eyes. “What a pair of hysterical old people we’ve become.” Her vivid blue eyes glittered with tears. “One nightmare and we go all to pieces.”
It wasn’t just one nightmare, not at all. What was he supposed to say to her? Roman freed himself from the down comforter, carefully fitted his feet into his leather slippers, and shuffled into the bathroom.
He looked at himself in the mirror. He was an old man, hair standing on end. He wore a nice pair of flannel pajamas and leather slippers his wife had given him for Christmas. His mind was dissolving like a lump of sugar in hot coffee.
The bathroom was clean tile with a wonderful claw-footed bathtub. The floor was tiled in a colored parquet-deformation pattern that started with ordinary bathroom-floor hexagons near the toilet, slowly modified itself into complex knotted shapes in the middle, and then, by another deformation, returned to hexagons under the sink. It had cost him a small fortune and months of work to create this complex mathematical tessellation. It was a dizzying thing to contemplate from the throne, and it now turned the ordinarily safe bathroom into a place of nightmare. Why couldn’t he have picked something more comforting?
He stared at his image with some bemusement. He normally combed his thin hair down to hide his bald spot. Whom did he think he was fooling? Woken from sleep, he was reel-eyed. The bathroom mirror had turned into a magic one and revealed all his flaws. He was wrinkled, had bags under his eyes, broken veins. He liked to think that he was a loveable curmudgeon. Curmudgeon, hell. He looked like a nasty old man.
“Are you all right in there?” Abigail’s voice was concerned.
“I’m fine. Be right there.” With one last glance at his mirror image, Roman turned the light off and went back to bed.
❖
Roman sat in his study chair and fumed. Something had happened to the medical profession while he wasn’t looking. That was what he got for being so healthy. He obviously hadn’t been keeping track of things.
“What did he say?” The computer’s voice was interested. Roman was impressed by the inflection. He was also impressed by how easy it was to tell that the
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