The Memory Painter

Diana tried to buoy the group. “Everyone, it’s late. Let’s give him time.”


She continued to talk but Michael wasn’t listening—instead he was riveted by her eyes. How could he explain his certainty that she had been the woman he had just witnessed being burned alive in ancient Rome? The memory still fresh in his mind, he walked out before anyone could see him cry.

*

It was four-thirty a.m. and only six cars sat in Boston’s Neurological Institute’s parking lot. Diana got behind the driver’s seat of an old Jeep Cherokee. Michael climbed in beside her and closed his eyes. After a few tries, the car started and they pulled out.

The drive home to their apartment in Charleston took ten minutes. Michael felt the car come to a stop.

“Hon? We’re here,” Diana said softly, keys in hand.

He appreciated her not grilling him on the way home but could tell she was brimming with questions.