Remember Me Read Online Free Page B

He keeps telling me I have brown eyes."

    "What color are your eyes?" Amanda asked.

    "Look at them," I said, slightly exasperated. "Can't you tell?"

    Amanda glanced over her shoulder. "It's too dark. Are they green?"

    "Good girl," I said. "We'll let you live." Daniel took a corner at the same speed he was taking the straightaways.

    "Hey, Dan, slow down. It's only a party we're going to."

    "I just don't want to be late," he said. "Jo had better be ready."

    "She'll be ready," I said. "Jo is always ready."

    Jo wasn't ready. I told Daniel and Amanda to wait while I ran in to get her. Jo's mother answered the door. I didn't mention this earlier, but Jo's mother and Amanda's mother were sisters, which meant, of course, that Jo and Amanda were cousins. The reason I didn't mention it before was because Jo and Amanda were so different I forgot they were related. Their mothers were even less compatible. The only thing they had in common was that they both were divorcees.

    Mrs. Parish would have given me her right arm had I needed, but Mrs. Foulton wouldn't have twisted her left wrist to let me see her watch had I asked the time. The lady wasn't hostile toward me, just busy. That was her excuse for everything—she had so much to do. She was head nurse at a hospital with a million hospital beds, and Jo had grown up practically an orphan. That was Jo's excuse for being so weird.

    But Mrs. Foulton was hostile toward her sister. She loathed Mrs. Parish. Jo said it was because her mother blamed Mrs. Parish for the collapse of her marriage. Years ago Mrs. Parish was supposed to have had an affair with Mr.

    Foulton. When Jo told me the story, I didn't believe a word of it. But that was one of the things with people older than your parents—it was impossible to imagine they had ever had sex.

    "Oh, Shar, Jo's in her room," Mrs. Foulton said when she saw who it was, quickly pushing open the screen door before turning back to the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand, a cigarette in her mouth. It always cracked me up to see someone in a starched white medical uniform with a cigarette in her mouth.

    "Thanks," I said, stepping into the house over a pile of newspapers and magazines. Mrs.
    Foulton had so much to do, how could she possibly have time to clean up? Yet it was a beautiful house, a big house. Mrs. Foulton didn't have to kill herself going to work every day. Her husband had left her with enough bucks to give her the leisure to follow all the afternoon soap operas. It was Jo's opinion that her mother was obsessed with helping people because she felt guilty about not really liking them.

    "Off to work?" I asked.

    "I am at work," the lady replied, throwing her coffee into the kitchen sink and stubbing her cigarette out on the top of an open beer can. "This is my 'lunch break.'" She picked up her car keys. "Tell Jo I don't want her bringing her Ouija board to Beth's party."

    "I don't think it's going to be that kind of party, Mrs. Foulton."

    She stopped at the door, digging in her bag for her lipstick. When she wasn't in a hurry, she could be attractive.

    She had a great Roman nose, very authoritative. I couldn't imagine Mr. Fbulton having left her years ago for a roll in the hay with Mrs. Parish. Then again, I couldn't remember when Mrs. Foulton had not been in a hurry, nor had I ever seen Mrs. Parish anything but patient. I often wondered what Mr. Foulton must have been like. Jo wouldn't talk about him.

    "How do I look?" she asked, touching up her lips.

    "Like a nurse," I said.

    She flashed me a dangerous smile. "You're worse than Jo. Who's that out in the car?
    Dan?"

    "And Amanda, yeah."

    Mrs. Foulton brightened, which was the equivalent of smog forming a rainbow.

    Amanda was the one person Mrs. Foulton felt—besides those dying in hospital beds—was worthy of her time. She threw her lipstick back in her bag.

    "I'm going to say hi to her. 'Bye."

    "Goodbye, Mrs. Foulton, and you take special care of yourself, 'cause