Marsha

“Oh! My! God!” Marsha panted as she tried to gather herself after…after what? “Where am I?”

John Weathers was breathing hard as well as he collapsed onto the pillow, looking utterly spent. He apparently managed just enough remaining energy to smile. “I think you’re coming back to earth.”

Still breathing hard, Marsha asked, “What?”

“Maybe you went into outer space with that last one,” John said, still trying to catch his breath, rubbing his hand across his chest. “Or that one sent you to the moon or beyond. Personally, I hit Jupiter.”

Confused and somewhat dazed, Marsha again asked, “Where am I?”

“Right here.” He tucked her head onto his chest, so it rested beneath his heart. “Safe in my arms. Where you belong.”

Her heartbeat mirrored his. She shook him off, turned onto her back, and lay there wondering… “What day is it?”

“I know we broke the sound barrier with that climax, but believe it or not…” he looked at the bedside clock. “Technically, it’s Memorial Day—since it’s two in the morning.”

Marsha lay still, her breathing beginning to slow. “Where am I?”

Now, it was John who sounded confused. “You’re in my bed. We just had heart-stopping sex. Sex of the century, I’d say.”

“What day is it?”

John raised himself on one elbow, resting his chin on his hand and peered closely at her. “We went to bed on Sunday night, but now it’s Monday. Two o’clock in the morning.”

“What day is it?”

Sitting up slowly and sliding closer to her, he said, “Monday. Memorial Day.”

“Where am I?”

John looked concerned. He got out of bed and handed her a glass of cold water. “Drink this.”

She did. “What day is it?”

“Marsha, are you all right?”

She was confused, knowing she must look as bewildered as she felt. “I can’t think.”

* * * *

John started to check Marsha for signs of a stroke. “Stick your tongue out.”

She complied. It didn’t droop, nor did her eyes or mouth.

He ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

Marsha spoke in sentences—the same repeated sentences, but still, they were complete.

“Raise your arms.” He knew his concern added a firmness to his voice, but he couldn’t help it.

Her arms reached upward. She didn’t look quite right, not with it at all. John resisted the urge to tease her with Earth to Marsha, anybody home? To say that would be downright suicidal. Okay, it doesn’t look like she had a stroke but… Should I take her to the hospital? And tell them what? I broke my ex-wife when we climaxed? Geesh, how would that go over? Was the sex relevant? Was it a stroke, even though she only seemed to have memory loss? Hell, only has memory loss! What the hell am I thinking?

Marsha sat up and looked down at herself. “Why am I naked?”

John was getting seriously worried as she got up and began walking around the room, aimlessly picking up random articles like a box of tissues, a cufflink, a brush.

She picked up a picture of his mother, Emma Jean. “Why is this here?”

When Sunny’s fiancé suffered a head injury, John knew the doctors asked basic questions like what was the day, date, year. He tried again. “What day is it?”

Marsha frowned. “I just asked you that!”

That was more like it. John quickly backtracked. “Right. Okay. Who’s the president?”

“The old fat guy. That Republican.”

“If I say Donald what do you say?”

“Trump.”

Yes! He tried again, thinking their conversation could help her connect the dots. “Who’s the president?”

“I am.”

John laughed. Well, seems she still has that same old spunk in her. Still smiling, he prodded further. “Not the president of our relationship. Of the United States.”

She looked at him perplexed. “I’m lost. Where are my clothes? Why aren’t I dressed?”

John was sure now—something was wrong. Marsha had had enough time to recover from the sex, but she was most certainly not herself. Who could he call? He couldn’t call his oldest daughter, Skye, the mother of quadruplets who didn’t need any more to worry about and, for sure, needed her rest. He’d call Sunny and say as little as possible.

He looked at the clock and groaned. It was nearly three a.m. Still, Sunny was his best bet. She was a little out there herself, and his wild-child could advise him due to her past experiences with Jesse, who’d had retrograde amnesia in the recent past. Reluctantly, he pressed his contacts and called her. A few seconds passed, and he feared the call would go to voicemail.

“Hullo,” a groggy voice answered. “What’s up?”

“It’s me. Uh, I think I broke your Mom.”

Sunny’s voice perked up. “What? Uh, how did you do that?

“We, uh, had really, uh, good sex…”

“You and Mom? Really? Aww. Or did you finally have enough and send her to the moon like Ralph Kramden did in the old Honeymooners TV show?”

John turned his back to Marsha, shielding his call for help, “She’s out of her mind.”

“So? That’s nuthin’ new! You woke me up to tell me that? She’s been batshit crazy as long as I’ve known her.”

John growled. “You don’t get it. She lost her memory. I’d no more lay a finger on her than Kramden would.”

“Memory loss? That’s probably a good thing. Now, we can all start over. Maybe we’ll all be better off.”

“Seriously. Stop it. I don’t know what to do. Take her to the hospital? I don’t think it’s a stroke. I tested her.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I remembered what you told me about Jesse’s amnesia and tried those questions. She thinks she’s the president and doesn’t know where she is.”

“Are you two high again? You woke me because she’s high on cannabis? Half the time, she’s out of it.”