By Sylvia Wiseman '53

“Mike, Mike. Do you remember?” she was saying again as her voice drifted back to him, stirring away his own memories. He moved forward to walk beside her last few steps before they came to the parked automobile again it seemed unnecessary for him to answer he and she didn't notice, her chatter now almost like a hum of a motor, stuck for eternity at the same pitch.

It was that sound he dreaded. When the melody became some dissonant chord. When the softness turned into some unpredictable hysteria.

It was this he remembered when Emily poured the past down upon him like the bowl of lukewarm soup she had once dribbled over her lovely golden hair. He had felt more than heard this undercurrent of nerves before the time her small foot suddenly shoved down against his, which was on the accelerator, and crazily they were zooming through downtown traffic.

He began to watch anxiously and listen intently after the time he came home to a glowing blaze in the fireplace and saw her stack book after book upon the grates and watched her eyes smolder as the pages crumpled into water-thin ashes. He did not stop her. He was terrified by what that abrupt action itself might bring.

He started coming home earlier and earlier and occasionally would not go to the office for days. He would tell Emily it was a holiday and she never asked which one or questioned why there seemed to be so many at one time. If he had not owned his own company, he could not have stayed away frequently. He told his secretary there were family emergencies and he would call in for messages.

Finally the day came when he knew the watching and the waiting would have to be over. When he came that summer afternoon, he could not find Emily. He looked in all the rooms. Called her name over and over. Walked around the house several times. And then called the police to report her missing. He sat by the telephone, falling asleep sometime just before dawn.

At first he thought his cramped, aching body had caused him to awake, but then he knew it was a sound, like mice chasing across the rafters. But not that either. Emily? He called. Was she crawling over the unfinished planks? What nursery rhyme was she singing? A chill rippled through his stiffened muscles.

Cautiously he moved to the attic stairway, pulling the folded ladder down while trying to stare up into the darkness. He walked up a half dozen steps until he saw what he knew was the true end of his life. In the shadowy light, Emily huddled against a beam, clawing at the wood, silvers of which were already clinging to her bleeding fingers. She made no sound of pain. She did not respond as he kissed her cheek before he backed down the steps to call 911.

“Mike, Mike. Will you remember?” Those were the last words he heard her say as the medics placed her frail body on a stretcher.

He had not been necessary in Emily's life since the day he followed the ambulance to the hospital. Her hands were bandaged. His heart left as an open wound. After the hospital, Emily went to Safe Haven.

After two nights alone, he moved into an apartment, taking his belongings and a few pieces of furniture. The house remained vacant until the recent neighborhood change. He arranged to sell the property.

Bringing Emily to this house once more was his gesture of saying a final goodbye. She would not miss him. It was only his presence that stirred up her agitation. Left alone in that sterile room, the doctors said she was tranquil, manageable. Safe Haven. The name pleased and displeased him.

Emily settled into the car, hands folded in her lap, eyes closed. They left in silence. He was moving to another state. Perhaps years would pass before he replayed these memories. He knew he and Emily were finally going home.