The Map of Lost Memories by Kim Fay

inching toward the car.
    Cicadas seethed in the night. Her head dropped between her knees, and her breath came in rolling heaves, choking her until she was vomiting in the grass. With one hand she pulled her hair away from her face, and with the other she gripped the side of the car, as if it could keep the world from spinning. Finally, she stood up. She went back to the house, because she had no choice. She paused at the window beside the door. The curtain was loose, and through the gap she could see that Roger had shoved Simone against the wall. His hand cupped her chin, his fingers digging deep into the bruise. They were arguing, both of them talking fast and furiously at the same time. Irene could not make out what they were saying. The gun was on the desk. Could she get to it fast enough? And even if she could, she had never shot a gun before. She stepped away from the window, and as she pushed at the door, Simone screamed. Irene saw Roger fall backward, his hand clutching his throat. “You bitch!” he shouted, the words gargled.
    “Run! Run, Irene, run!” Simone tripped over Roger, who was up on his hands and knees. He grabbed for the hem of her skirt, but the lace was delicate, and as she kicked out at him, it tore away.
    Irene was already in the car with the motor running when she looked back and saw Simone’s silhouette fastened into the brightness of the doorway. Then it pulled away, dissolving as she stumbled down the steps. She ran to the passenger side and climbed in, shouting, “Go!”
    Soft earth spun from the tires, and Irene cursed the rain-soaked ground, her entire body tense as she put the car into reverse, rocking it backward, then pitching it forward, and then back and forth again until it lurched past the porch. She saw Roger in front of the car at the same instant she felt the collision. She stomped on the brake pedal. The clutchshuddered. The car jerked, and she was thrown against the steering wheel. The engine sputtered out.
    “You hit him.” Simone gasped. The shoulder of her blouse was dark with blood. She jumped out of the car and hurried around the hood, kneeling, disappearing from view.
    Irene caught a flash on the floorboard in front of the passenger seat. She reached for the brass letter opener from Roger’s desk. It was smeared with blood. She climbed out of the car.
    In front of her, Roger lay on his side, with one arm flung out, as if he had attempted to stop the car from smashing into him. The headlights picked out the wire of his eyeglasses, curving down behind his ear. His face was the color of tallow. She could not see where Simone had stabbed him, there was so much blood running down his neck.
    Irene looked until she found Simone on her haunches, balanced in the blurred space that separated the headlights from the darkness beyond. The grasses parted as Simone leaned forward, moving toward Roger on her hands and knees. She crawled cautiously around him as if she had been taken in by his tricks one too many times. She reached out for his face, but her hand dropped and she stroked the ground inches beyond where his cheek pressed against the damp earth.
    “Is he alive?” Irene asked.
    Simone held her fingers over his open mouth. They hovered there, splayed, searching for the suggestion of life. “There’s a hospital near the railway station,” she whispered. “It’s run by Swiss nuns. They’re discreet. It’s where I stayed after I lost the baby.”
    The weary ghost of a far-off breeze crept around the car. It might have foreshadowed relief, but Irene had been in Shanghai long enough to know that the subtle shift in temperature was a promise that would not be kept. “What will we tell them?”
    “He was already wounded,” Simone said, sounding uncertain. “We didn’t see him on the ground when you hit him with the car. It was an accident. We need to hurry. The hospital is half an hour away.” She stood. Dew left dark stains on her skirt. “I keep a blanket in the