Page 72 of The Dead Come to Stay
“No offense, but youaresupposed to have a photographic memory,” Gwilym reminded her.
Jo rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t work like that,” she protested (again). “You have the hippocampus, right? And you also have the frontal cortex. That’s your executive command center—”
“For people who have those,” Gwilym added.
“—and it’s how you sort the important memories from the not-important ones.Andyou have a neural matrix map for retrieving and rebuilding them, but noteverythingis episodic.”
“You’ve lost me.”
Jo waggled her fingers, then stuck another piece of bread in her mouth before answering. More slowly.
“You take a prescription, right?”
“Adderall.”
“You take it every day, in the same spot, at the same time. Your brain will compress all those memories of taking it into a single, long-running episode. Which is why it’s easy to forget whether you did it or not.”
“Which is why I have a Monday-through-Friday pillbox,” Gwilym said, nodding. “What does that have to do with your front door?”
“Memory isn’t stored; it’s re-created,” Jo said. That was partly what made it a fascinating study (and a very well received book in her once-upon-a-time back catalog). “You have bits and pieces, and you have to pull them together again to make a coherent picture. Usually with some embellishment from context.”
“Wait a sec, does that mean you make up stuff to fill in the gaps?” He frowned. “Don’t make me doubt you, Jo; it will upend my whole religion.”
Jo laughed and assaulted the samosas with knife and fork.
“I don’t have the same static and emotional clutter that most people do. I tend to remember details for themselves. But I still use association. Ronan Foley, for instance, is a surprised pigeon in a raincoat.” She had to pause long enough for Gwilym to stop laughing before adding, “He didn’t look like a pigeon. But he had wide eyes which looked that much wider for being heavy-lidded, and stared at me like he’d just hit a window.”
“I’m suddenly frightened to inquire what I remind you of,” Gwilym said, rubbing his eyes.
“Well, don’t get murdered and I won’t need to make a statement. Anyway, they found out who he was without my help.”
“I want to see his picture, now. Can I?” Gwilym asked.
Jo shrugged. “I’ve not seen it. Apparently, they printed his obit. You can probably look it up. Butnot now!” she added, watching him reach for his phone. “Actually, though, I have a photo to show you. It’s an earring.”
Jo pulled out her phone and called up the image. “Care to comment?”
Gwilym starred at it a moment, turning the phone around and around.
“It’s not an earring,” he said. “It’s a nose ring. Like the ones they found in the Upper Euphrates. You know, Kish? Tell Ingharra?”
“What.”
“Tell Ingharra! It’s a famous archeological site, third millennium BC.”
Jo choked, reached for water and sputtered through a half swallow.
“As in three thousand yearsbeforeyear one? What the hell?”
“So, the site kind ofspansthe period, so it might not be exactly as old as that. I mean, that sort of filigree design is all over ancient Egypt, too. And nose rings were pretty popular.” He leaned forward suddenly. “Did I just tell you something you didn’t know?”
“Yes, a lot.”
“Sexy, isn’t it?” he asked.
Jo tossed a napkin at him. “How about you tell me things I don’t know regarding Augustus John. Like why Augustus did Evelyn’s painting and not the others.”
“Right, right.” Gwilym reached down to retrieve a file from his satchel. “We’re gonna have some name confusion, so I’ll deal with that first. Evelyn’s sister was Gwen Ardemore, right? Well, Augustus had an older sister, too,alsonamed Gwen.”
