We found Marilyn’s house and a helpful neighbour who could supply some missing pieces of Marilyn’s identity, such as her real name. But the shock was too much for Marilyn and she seemed lost in a trance and unable to communicate.
For the first time since I met Marilyn I felt totally cut off from her and unable to help.
The neighbor woman was compassionate, but frustrated by Marilyn’s lack of response
The woman turned to me. “What’s the matter with her—why doesn’t she answer me?”
“She’s lost her memory,” I explained. “She can’t remember who she was.”
“Well, I can tell you who she was—Catherine Forrester—and she and her mother, Audrey, lived in this house for as long as I can remember.”
I pressed for details. “And there was a garage fire—is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes—and the heat was so intense, the coroner had difficulty identifying any remains. We assumed Catherine died in the fire along with her mother.”
“Why did you assume that?”
“Because they were both seen in the house. Catherine was attending university, but she was home that day, and so was Audrey. We never saw either of them again—until now.”
“What did the Fire Marshall say caused the fire?”
“He said there were accelerants stored in the garage. There might have been fumes and all it would take was a small spark to ignite an explosion.”
Marilyn was staring in horror—reliving some private nightmare.
“Oh, the poor dear—look at her. Please, bring her in—I’ll make some hot tea. She looks in shock.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s very kind.” I took Marilyn by the elbow and gently led her away.
Sitting in the dark parlor of the house, Marilyn seemed to recover somewhat.
The neighbor poured tea and helped Marilyn, lifting the cup to her lips and making her sip.
Gradually, some color returned to her cheeks and she was able to make short replies to simple questions.
“I should introduce myself,” the woman said. “My name’s Maria Carlucci and my husband and I have been living here the past twelve years.”
“I’m Scott Ferguson,” I said. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Catherine must be suffering from some sort of traumatic shock,” she said. “Perhaps, she witnessed the fire and the death of her mother.”
“We think it’s something like that—we just don’t know what happened. She was found wandering the streets.”
“I wish I could be more help—but we respect people’s privacy and didn’t really get to know the family—I don’t think anyone did.”
“Actually, you’ve been a tremendous help, Mrs. Carlucci.”
“I’m glad to cooperate and give any help I can.”
I looked over at Marilyn still dazed and disoriented. “I think she should rest.”
I gave my business card to the woman. “I might be back in touch—is that all right?”
“Sure, sure,” the woman whispered, staring compassionately at Marilyn.
She gave me her address and phone number and I thanked her again and helped Marilyn into the car.
On the way back to the apartment, she lay back in the seat and closed her eyes. I felt helpless—she was adrift in her own sea of sorrow and I was shut out of her grief.