Her Thirties Part 85

Amber aka Cindy 1935

The vibration of my phone on the bedside table was driving me insane. I wanted to smash it into a printed circuit.

Wisely, I passed on the option and finally fumbled the cell into my right hand and pressed talk. Marilyn’s concerned voice cleared away the few remaining cobwebs of sleep.

“Scott—are you okay? I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“I phoned your office and Nancy said you called in sick.”

“Hungover, is more accurate,” I rasped sheepishly.

“You sound in rough shape.”

“I am. You know a home remedy?”

She laughed. “Moderation—but it’s too late for that.”

“I’d say so.” My throat felt like razor blades.

“Drink three glasses of cold water and take an aspirin—call me back when you’re feeling better.”

I managed to swing my legs out of bed and make it to the kitchen.

I chugged one glass of water—swallowed two aspirins and finished a second glass. The third glass took me about ten minutes to drink, but by that time, I actually was feeling better.

I phoned her back.

“You sound better,” she laughed.

Just hearing her voice was a tonic to me—despite my vague guilt of spending the night drinking with Cindy and Erin. I winced at the memory.

“Why don’t you come over for coffee?” she suggested.

“I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

I hung up as the memory of last night floated before me in a swirl of black spots. I squeezed my eyes shut and reminded myself, I was faithful—but I sure as hell flirted with a fantasy.

Was I so different from Abe? The thought appalled me.

But with eyes shut, I now could see Marilyn’s eyes staring back at me—huge, dark and somber. Cindy, the temptress, faded like a mirage

The magnetic lines between us were strong. Merely picturing Marilyn’s face was enough.

She was the Moon and I was black water. Her presence alone attuned me—tugged at me—and bound me.

And I gladly surrendered.

It was close to eleven when I spotted Ella through the shop window as I rang the doorbell. She waved and I waved back. She was waiting on a customer.

Then, the lock clicked and admitted me.

Marilyn was still in her housecoat and slippers, but had made coffee. It smelled delicious. I could get used to perked coffee, I told myself.

“I made toast too,” she said, “you need to eat something.”

“Don’t I get a good morning kiss?”

“I’ll decide on that after I hear about your night.”

My face fell and she guessed why.

“So tell me about it,” she said drolly. She sat down opposite me, in her white housecoat, her two hands cradling a blue coffee mug.

“We went to the Wheat Sheaf Tavern and had pub fare and way too many drafts.”

Unswervingly, she went for the prize. “Were Cindy and Erin there?”

“Yeah—they dropped in later. I had no idea they were coming.”

“No idea, huh?”

“Seriously, I didn’t.”

“She’s always had a thing for you,” she whispered.

I looked at her as if she shot me with a pistol.

“What are you talking about?”

“Amber—she’s always hung around waiting for her opportunity. I’m not surprised.”

“Her name’s Cindy,” I said.

“In this time, that’s what she calls herself.”

“Wait a minute—are you saying Joey was pursued by a redhead?”

She nodded.

“It didn’t matter. We were inseparable—and she knew it. She still had to try though—I could never figure out why.”

“And you figure that’s what Cindy’s game is—she’s a clone of Amber?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea what a clone is, but I know what Amber is. We all grew up together on the same street. Her father kept watch over the neighborhood—always calling the police. It doesn’t surprise me how she turned out.”

“Stop!” I said. “My head’s hurting. None of this makes sense. You’re Catherine—you grew up on Havelock Street.”

“I did.”

“Then, how do you reconcile that fact with Marilyn?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?” I repeated dumbly.

“That’s right—I don’t—I can’t. I’ve got two sets of memories and so do you.”

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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