The kindly Mr. Coddington reminded me to give Mrs. Whitaker her potion, every day at noon.
“Now, Norma,” he said. “You mustn’t forget. If you do, our dear Mrs. Whitaker will grow deathly ill, and we don’t want that to happen.”
I suffer from amnesia (Mr. Coddington tells me this; I, myself, am unsure). Mr. Coddington said that one day I had forgotten, and it almost cost poor widow Whitaker her life. But Mr. Coddington showed up just in time to make things better: deus ex machina.
I do not remember this—forgetting Mrs. Whitaker’s potion, or even that I was supposed to give her a potion; and certainly I don’t remember what happened when it wasn’t given to her. I remember only Coddington’s reminder and warning.
I find it strange that an amnesiac person would be given this duty. But, as Mr. Coddington says, it is not my job to ask questions, but to make sure Mrs. Whitaker is kept safe. And this is what I’ll do; that is, until my memory fails me again, as it has apparently done before.
I don’t know who Mr. Coddington is, or of his relationship to Mrs. Whitaker (a nephew, maybe?); only that he is a nice and caring person. He wants what’s best for our dear widow.
According to Coddington, the late Mr. Whitaker died “some time ago.” He left to his wife a big house in a quiet suburb of a loud city. Sometimes the house seems too big: it feels, at times, lonely and dark and cold, full of shadows and memories.
It was late autumn. Most of the leaves had fallen, and there was a winter chill in the wind.
I took residence in a small, mostly unfurnished room in the upstairs. I was no maid. My only duty was to give Mrs. Whitaker her potion at midday, every day.
I lived without charge (save for my one small duty) in the widow’s house. A grocer, a young man by the name of Quincy, delivered all the necessities every Friday. It was paid for by the inheritance left to the widow Whitaker.
Mrs. Whitaker seemed in fine condition for one with such a life-threatening illness. That potion certainly was magical. She prepared wonderful meals, three times a day, for the both of us.
There lived on the grounds a black cat. Mrs. Whitaker called him Morton, and claimed he was over thirty years old. This, I knew was ridiculous. The cat was a wild thing. My lady did not feed it. He preyed on birds and mice and whatever unfortunate rodents he could find. He roamed eternally about the grounds, keeping a distance from humans. The limbs of the bare and twisted maple in the back lawn were a favorite spot of his.
At 10 AM I left the estate, for a walk through our quiet town. A rough wind rustled the branches of the stripped trees, tossed leaves across the streets.
I came to a small grassy hill on the outskirts of town. A huge and ancient oak grew upon its summit. I sat with my back against the bark, as I had done many times, and read from a book of poetry I had brought.
I returned just before noon. I took the potion mixture from the secret spot in my room (Mr. Coddington said I must keep it hidden). I heated a pot of water on the stovetop. I measured the correct dosage of the mixture into the bottom of a drinking glass. Then I filled the glass with water, stirring it. I took to Mrs. Whitaker the potion.
“Here, Mrs. Whitaker,” I said. “Take your medicine. It will keep your bones strong.”
“Okay, dear,” she said. “You are such a lovely girl, Norma.”
The next day Mrs. Whitaker was coughing when I gave her the potion.
“Here, Mrs. Whitaker,” I said. “This will help with your cough.”
“Thank you. You are a lovely girl, Marisa.”
“My name is Norma, Mrs. Whitaker.”
“Okay,” she said vaguely, smiling.
Her behavior was odd. I wondered if the potion was not working.
That evening I came downstairs for dinner. But Mrs. Whitaker had not prepared dinner. I was worried. I found her sitting in a rocking chair in the dark living room.
“Mrs. Whitaker,” I said, “are you alright?”
“I’m fine, dear,” she said. “But can you tell me when John will be home? I miss him terribly, I’m afraid.”
John was the name of her deceased husband. I did not know what to say. I was frightened for her. I wished Mr. Coddington had given me a means by which to contact him.
“I’m sure he’ll be home soon,” I told the widow.
“You’re probably right. You are such a lovely girl.”
I went into the kitchen and prepared dinner.
Two mornings later Mrs. Whitaker was sitting at the dinner table. Her head was in her hands and she was crying.
“What is wrong?” I asked.
“I can’t find Morton. Holly will be back from school soon. And she would very much like to play with him. He is over thirty years old, you know. That is very old for a cat. He may have died.”
“I’m sure he is about,” I said. “Shall I go and search for him?”
“Oh, please do,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “Have I ever told what a lovely girl you are?”
“You may have mentioned it, Mrs. Whitaker.”
I opened the back door and saw the black cat scuttle up the maple tree.
“Morton is up in the tree,” I said to Mrs. Whitaker.
“Oh, thank goodness. Holly would be so sad if he had died.”
“Who is Holly?”
The widow looked at me with a soft smile, her eyes vague, empty. “My daughter, of course.”
Mrs. Whitaker seemed to be losing all connection to reality. Was this her illness? If so, then the potion was not working. I thought of increasing her dosage. But maybe her deteriorating mental state was a side effect of the elixir. I did not know what to do. I really needed to speak with Mr. Coddington.
As was my custom, I went for a stroll about town. I returned in time to give Mrs. Whitaker her potion. On a whim, I increased the dosage. If it didn’t help, what harm would there be?
“Here you are, Mrs. Whitaker,” I said. “This will ease your worries.”
“You really are a lovely girl.”
Next day she was worse than ever.
I found her in her private chambers, lying on her bed, weeping.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“Oh,” she said, between sobs, “I am pregnant and my dear John has gone off to war. He may never see his child.”
She was a pitiful sight. I felt terrible for the poor widow.
On this day I decided not to give to her the potion, for I thought it might be the source of her madness.
