I didn’t recall, until Rosa started shaking my memory, that I had told him I would take care of him.

Rosa and I began to breathe in rhythm as we fell asleep. In the morning we’d write our dreams into journals, make love, and then I’d go to the piano. I practiced scales, invented arpeggios, and sang to Rosa. Sometimes we’d drive into the mountains, to places we’d found and claimed as our own. The sky was clear in that part of the state for more than three-hundred days a year, and after a big snow the amplitude of the light could be deafening.

The phone rang one day as we were lying on the couch watching television.

“Drew Clements, please.”

“Speaking.”

“I’m calling from the Iowa State Psychiatric Hospital in Ames.”

“Yeah?” I had the fleeting sensation of the smell of Band-Aids.

“I’m calling in regards to a patient we’re admitting for treatment. Steven Metzger. Do you know this gentleman?”

“I knew him in high school.”

“On his admission form he named you as the party responsible for his care. Is Mr. Metzger covered on your health insurance? Or are you paying for his hospitalization out-of-pocket?” She asked the question as if I was expected to make a choice between the two.

“I’m not responsible for Steven Metzger. He’s just an acquaintance.” The fingers of my right hand ran staccato scales on Rosa’s thigh. I recited some of the details of Steven’s history, keeping myself out of it as much as possible. I tried to avoid looking at Rosa, but I knew she was listening.

“Well,” the woman said. “You’ve been very helpful.” I really hadn’t tried to be. “I’ll pass this information along to the medical staff.” She hung up sounding disappointed.

Rosa’s eyes locked onto mine as I looked up. “Drew?” she said. “What was that all about? Who’s Steven Metzger?”

“He’s just this guy I knew in high school. It’s not important.” I heard the branches of a Ponderosa pine as they scoured the front window.

“Sounds important to me.” Rosa pulled herself up. “Why haven’t you told me about him?”

I realized that I hadn’t really thought of Steven since I had left Michigan. “Nothing to tell,” I said. “He’s there, we’re here. He’s historical.” Heading toward the kitchen, I said, “You want some more tea? Anything?”

There was a short silence, and then, “Yeah, ‘T’ like in truth, Drew.” She had me there.

I made the tea and carried two cups into the living room. Rosa asked me questions about Steven, and I answered them: No, I didn’t think he was dangerous. Yes, he was probably psychotic, in a mild sort of way. No, I didn’t think his mother knew where he was.

Yes, I think he’s probably fixating on me, since I had been with him on his way out, so to speak. I didn’t recall, until Rosa started shaking my memory, that I had told him I would take care of him.

But really, I had meant only until he wasn’t high anymore.