"Look, Quinn. Martha and me . . ."
"Don't say it, 'cause I got her. She looked all around, this incredible beauty, and she chose me! I was in heaven; still am. I'm the luckiest guy in the world."
"We're both fortunate, Quinn. I love Betsy, just the way you love Martha."
"I know; I'm not jelouss, but you and Martha have this thing between you that goes so far back I get dizzy thinking about it. My wife loves you; do you know that Ben? Only it's a different kind of love; not the sex kind. I can't even understand it."
"Think of us like sister and brother. . . "
"Bull shit! That's a piss-poor analogy," he said as he opened another can and changed the subject. His remarks made me a tad uncomfortable.
"We didn't show you the upstairs because Howie is taking a nap in our bedroom," he continued.
"Howie?"
"He flew in from Santa Barbara, California on a red-eye. He's only here until Sunday night when we drop him off in Boston for his flight back to the west coast." Quinn added, "We didn't want to wake him, or be talking about him while he might overhear. He's napping in our room at the top of the stairs" When I didn't comment, he continued.
"He's Martha's cousin," Quinn grumbled. "The guy is a story and a half. Martha's aunt, Howie's mother, called and practically begged her to let him fly out for a couple of days. You know Martha; she doesn't do no very well."
"What's his problem?" I asked.
"Let's take a walk," Quinn said. "We'll let Martha and Betsy alone to get acquainted." I followed Quinn down to the water's edge as the women waved from whicker rocking chairs on the wide verandah.
"Howie was about to become Father Abbott, a Catholic priest when a drunk in a half million dollar motor home broadsided him. He spent thirty-one months in a coma."
"God, that's terrible."
"He came out of it; yes and no. He's suffered a bunch of operations, mostly on his brain. After he came out of the coma, he underwent a year or so of therapy. Now he's at least functional but the sad part is he lost nearly all of his memory."
"You mean the accident?" I picked up a stone and attempted to skim it across the water.
"If that was all, he could deal with that," Quinn answered. "Howie doesn't remember any details of his prior life; family; studying for the priest hood, college . . . a blank slate and he can't find the chalk."
"Everything is gone?"
"It's like he didn't have a life. There are zero personal memories. Do you know what a dissociative fugue state is?" One look and he continued. "I guess not. Anyway, he's fine with physical functions and general learning; math, history, general knowledge . . . stuff like that, but he can't tell you how or why he knows what he knows or how or when he learned it. He can even spout some sports trivia and Christmas carols and stuff like that. It's weird talking to him."