Authors: G. H. Ephron
Amnesia (7 page)
“Hurricane?” I asked.
“Tropical storm,” Annie whispered. Then, seriously, “How do you work with someone like that?”
“Like what?”
“Someone who's so ⦠sexually charged. It's just there. All the time. You know, like an elephant in the living room that no one talks about. How do you keep yourself from being drawn in?”
I smiled. It was just the kind of question people are curious about but very few will come right out and ask. But then, asking questions was what Annie did. “I guess I compartmentalize. You can't ignore it. It's there. You recognize it's there. If you're attracted, then that's something to pull out and dissect. You say, okay, here's this emotional dialogue going on at the same time that there's a verbal and physical exchange. Part of it's coming from the patient, but part of it is coming from inside you. It's not that you shut down. You become hypersensitive. But instead of reacting, you start processing your own reactions.”
“Compartmentalize.”
“Right. I'm an expert at it.”
Annie was staring at me. Appraising. “Sounds like a good skill.”
Right, I thought. As long as it doesn't become a habit.
There was applause as a guy about my age strode up onto the stage. I wondered if I could get away with tight, low-slung blue jeans, a threadbare T-shirt, and that fringed leather vest. He conferred briefly with the lead guitar, blew tentatively into the mouthpiece of a harmonica, beat the air one, two, three, and the place started to rock.
We didn't talk again until the break between sets.
“So, was there anything in the police reports that struck you?” I asked.
“Just that the beating was long and especially brutal,” Annie answered.
“Suggests the killer knew Tony and didn't like him. But why kill him in the house and then drive her to the cemetery before shooting her? Makes you wonder if it was planned out in advance.”
“All of the weapons were right there in the house, waiting to be grabbed.”
“The police didn't find the gun. Do you think they used Sylvia Jackson's gun?”
“They?” Annie looked at me, surprised. “What makes you say âthey'?”
I'd said it without even being aware that I was thinking it. “I guess it's a lot easier to imagine what might have happened if you conjure up an accomplice.”
“Why would Sylvia Jackson accuse Stuart Jackson if he didn't do it?”
“Put yourself in her position. You wake up in the hospital. You're grievously injured, emotionally a mess, and you can't remember what happened to you. These caretakers and authority figures, these nice policemen, your anchors in a sea of confusion â they want you to remember. They make a suggestion
here, another one there. Was this what happened? Maybe it was like that? Well, it's only natural to start borrowing their suggestions, building on that until you have a whole, plausible explanation. Not deliberately, but unconsciously you start stitching bits and pieces to the ragged edges of the hole in your brain. Or perhaps not.” I shrugged. “That's the thing about memory. It's such an individual thing. You can't know what really happened.”
here, another one there. Was this what happened? Maybe it was like that? Well, it's only natural to start borrowing their suggestions, building on that until you have a whole, plausible explanation. Not deliberately, but unconsciously you start stitching bits and pieces to the ragged edges of the hole in your brain. Or perhaps not.” I shrugged. “That's the thing about memory. It's such an individual thing. You can't know what really happened.”
As we were leaving. I paused at the door to watch a dozen couples swaying to a slow, soulful blues. “Peter,” Annie whispered. She stood facing me, her back to the club. “See the guy standing near the end of the bar? The redhead wearing a Rangers sweatshirt.”
I looked over her shoulder. “I see him,” I said. The redhead she was referring to looked like a Marine. Medium height, solid and broad-shouldered, buzz-cut, he was shaped like a triangle. He stood ramrod straight. He and his buddies were watching a Bruins game. A tall blonde in jeans was attached to him at the hip and his hand rested casually on her bottom.
Annie reached for the finger I was unconsciously pointing. But it was too late. One of his friends had seen me, and now he was whispering and gesturing in my direction.
“Shit,” I said as the redhead swiveled to gawk at me. “Uh-oh. I think he may have spotted me.”
I swapped positions with Annie and sidled onto the dance floor, keeping my back to the bar. “Who is he, anyway?”
“That's the cop who's still at the hospital, sniffing around Sylvia Jackson.”
I tried not to look around at the owner of the signature, J. MacRae, Sylvia Jackson's handler. The other couples on the dance floor were draped all over one another. Holding Annie at arm's length and shuffling to the music wasn't going to make me inconspicuous. I pulled her close.
It had been a long time since I'd held a woman, since I'd danced with anyone. Dancing with Kate had been so easy. We
knew each other's bodies, our rhythms. Our contours fit like puzzle pieces. I closed my eyes and tried to remember, but the memory remained elusive. Annie was taller and she moved with her own sense of the music. She seemed to find an extra beat, a hidden syncopation, and she drew me into it. In spite of myself, I relaxed and let the rhythm of that syncopated bass line insinuate itself into my hips, make its way up into my spine, work its way up on through my shoulders and neck. Annie rested her head against me and I inhaled. She smelled like a fresh-cut melon.
knew each other's bodies, our rhythms. Our contours fit like puzzle pieces. I closed my eyes and tried to remember, but the memory remained elusive. Annie was taller and she moved with her own sense of the music. She seemed to find an extra beat, a hidden syncopation, and she drew me into it. In spite of myself, I relaxed and let the rhythm of that syncopated bass line insinuate itself into my hips, make its way up into my spine, work its way up on through my shoulders and neck. Annie rested her head against me and I inhaled. She smelled like a fresh-cut melon.
On the drive home, the semi-deserted streets seemed to fly by. I let myself into the house and turned off the porch light. A few moments later, there was my mother's shave-and-a-haircut knock at the door. I opened it.
She
s
tood on the darkened porch in her pink bathrobe and looked up at me defiantly. “I don't want to come in, but I can't sleep until I say something.”
s
tood on the darkened porch in her pink bathrobe and looked up at me defiantly. “I don't want to come in, but I can't sleep until I say something.”
“Hi, Mom. Sure you don't want to come in for some decaf? Tea? I've got some of those cookies you like from Carberry's.”
“The little Napoleon hats?” my mother said, leaning forward as if drawn inside by some magnetic pull.
“Come?” I stepped to one side.
She shook her head firmly. “No. I just wanted to say I'm glad you told me you were working on a case. And that whatever you do, I have no business saying yes or no. You've been doing what you thought was right since you were a little boy. It's what I brought you up to do.”
“Maybe if I explain ⦔
“No need to explain. I'm your mother. Not your keeper. So you don't apologize and I won't complain.” She bounced up on the balls of her feet. “Deal?”
How could I turn down such an offer? “Deal.” I gave her a hug and felt as if I'd been given absolution.
She held me at arm's length. “Cigarette smoke.” She sniffed. “Beer.” Then she leaned in close for another sniff. “Watermelon?” She shook her head and yawned. “Now I can sleep.”
A WEEK later, I was on my way to evaluate Sylvia Jackson. My appointment was scheduled for ten. At nine I was circling the hospital complex, an enormous, three-winged granite building tucked in the crook of an elbow where two highways meet. The Big Dig â Boston's massive, federally funded attempt to straighten the cow paths they call streets â had turned the hospital into a moat-surrounded fortress. The normal access road was now one-way, and the surrounding blocks had become staging arenas for earth-moving equipment.
Cursing the always courteous Boston drivers who cut me off, I hunkered down over the wheel and peered out through a rain-spattered windshield as I tried to figure out where the powers that be had hidden the temporary entrance to the parking garage. Boston has a strange philosophy about signage: If you don't know where you are, you don't belong here.
The garage was, of course, packed. My tires squealed each time I had to double back and climb to the next level of wall-to-wall vehicles. I passed up sliver after sliver of semi-spot left over after one of suburbia's answers to that pressing question, what to drive on a safari into the veldt, plumps itself into a space
and a half. In an act of desperation, I left my classic Beemer in a space on the roof marked “Maintenance/Reserved.” It was either there or squeeze onto the end of a row where I was afraid I'd get clipped.
and a half. In an act of desperation, I left my classic Beemer in a space on the roof marked “Maintenance/Reserved.” It was either there or squeeze onto the end of a row where I was afraid I'd get clipped.
By nine-thirty, I was staggering across a rickety wooden walkway that connected to the building entrance. I must have looked like a refuge, laden with bundles â two leather portfolios of testing materials, an enormous cloth shopping bag stuffed with binders and boxes, and a white Dunkin' Donuts bag that was slowly turning wet and brown as the coffee sloshed around inside. By the time I reached the building, my arms ached. As I entered the revolving door, the bag gave way and the coffee plopped down on the floor, splashing my pant leg and mingling with the mud on my shoes.
“Figures,” I grumbled to no one in particular.
I entered the cavernous lobby, looking back to watch the empty cup roll around as the revolving door swept it inside, then outside, then inside again. I sighed and approached the circular granite reception desk. The brunette roosting there was on the phone. I dropped my burdens, cleared my throat loudly, and waited, counting the hoops that pierced her left ear. I reached twelve before she swiveled around to me.
“I'm here to see a patient, Sylvia Jackson,” I told her. “Can you tell me what room she's in?”
With the phone still attached to one ear, she squawked, “It's not visiting hours. You'll have to come back at eleven.”
I interrupted her mid-swivel. “I'm Dr. Peter Zak and I have an appointment to see her.”
Without acknowledging what I'd said, she tap-tapped at her computer, paused, and then conceded, “Seven-Twelve West.”
I stopped in the men's room to wipe the mud and coffee from my shoes and pants. Then I continued to the elevator. I got off at the seventh floor, headed down the west wing corridor, and stopped at the nurses' station.
Two nurses were standing behind the counter, watching me
approach. I smiled, hoping for but not getting a smile in return. It was going to be one of those days.
approach. I smiled, hoping for but not getting a smile in return. It was going to be one of those days.
“I'm Dr. Peter Zak. I have a ten o'clock appointment to evaluate Sylvia Jackson. I'd like to check her chart before I begin.” I let my voice rise to a question mark at the end.
The taller one, with the unlikely name LOVELY pinned to her starched white chest, shifted her position to block the gap between the counter and the wall. A tornado wouldn't have mussed her blond helmet.
“I assume you have a release?” she asked, planting her hands on her hips.
I dropped my bags on the floor, wiped my forehead, and groaned. Nothing was going to be easy today. I took off my coat and folded it deliberately over the back of a chair, straightened my tie, and approached her.
“My understanding is that the lawyers have arranged for that.”
She looked unmoved. “I'll need a release.”
“Look. I have an appointment with Ms. Jackson. The court arranged it. Believe me, I wouldn't be here dragging all this stuff with me if it hadn't been set up properly.”
“I need to see authorization. I'm not the one in charge around here, you know. I don't make the rules.”
“Well, why don't you check with whoever does?” I paused and counted the holes in a ceiling tile. “My time is being paid for by the Commonwealth. I can wait.”
I sat down with what I hoped was a look of infinite patience.
Reluctantly, Nurse Lovely went over to the desk and looked at the telephone. I could tell she was trying to decide on her next move. After a few beats, she sat down, flipped through a Rolodex on the desk, and punched in four numbers. She waited, frowning.
I watched the clock on the wall as the minute and hour hands met at ten minutes to ten. I looked longingly at a coffeepot, just visible through a glass door at the back of the nurses' station. When I glanced back toward the desk, Nurse Lovely was glaring
at me. She quickly looked away, checked the Rolodex again, and punched in a bunch more numbers. Someone must have answered because she cupped her hand over the mouthpiece as she spoke. Apparently, the answer she got didn't please her. She shot the receiver back into its cradle.
at me. She quickly looked away, checked the Rolodex again, and punched in a bunch more numbers. Someone must have answered because she cupped her hand over the mouthpiece as she spoke. Apparently, the answer she got didn't please her. She shot the receiver back into its cradle.
I wondered about the animosity that radiated from Nurse Lovely. Nurses are often protective of their patients, especially when a patient needs the kind of long-term care Sylvia Jackson had required. Still, it seemed a bit excessive. Maybe I could kill her with kindness.
I approached the counter, smiling one of my most cheerful. “All set?” I chirped.
She muttered, “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
First I went over to the medication Kardex. I flipped through the cards on the metal rack until I found Sylvia Jackson's. I needed to know if she was taking anything that could affect her test results. She was on low doses of an antidepressant and something for seizures. No problem there. If she'd been sedated, that could have thrown off the cognitive tests.
As I leaned over to read, I could feel Nurse Lovely's eyes drilling holes in the top of my head. She stepped back when I passed in front of her to reach the metal chart rack.
“Okay if I sit here for a few minutes?” I asked, carrying the chart over to one of the desks.
Nurse Lovely gave me a tight little nod.
I hunched over the chart, checking the most recent entries in each section. Sylvia Jackson was making progress with her walking. Her speech was improving. Several times her therapists had noted “episodic dyscontrol.” I could understand why she might be irritable and easily frustrated. She could probably remember precisely what it was like to be completely physically functional. Her injuries had left her far from that mark.
Lovely directed me to a conference room at the end of the hall. There, I unpacked my notebooks and test instruments.
While I waited for Sylvia Jackson to be brought in, I thought about the gradual progress she was making in her recovery. Superimposed on an upslope of slow, steady improvement were sine waves, blips of emotional upheaval. Brain trauma affecting her memory and executive functions could account for her slow progress and her lack of emotional control. Even a nontraumatized brain would be overwhelmed by her ordeal. I imagined a pathetic, wheelchair-bound invalid, racked by depression, torn by frustration.
While I waited for Sylvia Jackson to be brought in, I thought about the gradual progress she was making in her recovery. Superimposed on an upslope of slow, steady improvement were sine waves, blips of emotional upheaval. Brain trauma affecting her memory and executive functions could account for her slow progress and her lack of emotional control. Even a nontraumatized brain would be overwhelmed by her ordeal. I imagined a pathetic, wheelchair-bound invalid, racked by depression, torn by frustration.
I didn't hear the wheelchair rolling into the conference room. I didn't notice the little squeak as the brakes locked. I looked up sharply when a light, whispery voice broke the silence, first with a breathy exhale, followed by, “Hello, you must be Zap.”
She extended her left hand as I reached across to shake her right.
“Dr. Zak. Pleased to meet you,” I said.
Pathetic she was not. She had a short cap of well-cut, shiny black hair with a curtain of glossy bangs that hung down over dark eyes fringed with long lashes. She wore jeans and a fitted, long-sleeved western-style shirt that showed off the swell of her breasts and a slender waist. Her generous lips, the color of a ripe persimmon, parted to a toothy smile in a smooth face devoid of any age lines.
I squeezed her hand and then tried to let go. But she held on as she settled back in her chair studying me, her head tilted at an angle. There were dark smudges under her eyes, her skin pale and translucent.
She exhaled and whispered, “Doctor.”
Finally, she dropped my hand. Annie's cryptic comment, “You'll see,” came floating back to me on a wave of warm, tropical air.
“I'm sorry I'm late, Ms. Jackson,” I said.
“Please, call me Syl,” she said as she gazed at me speculatively.
Already, I felt a pang of conscience. She was a heartbreaking
combination of ripe and vulnerable, without a clue as to what I was about. “Well, Syl, shall we get started?”
combination of ripe and vulnerable, without a clue as to what I was about. “Well, Syl, shall we get started?”
“Mmm,” she purred, looking with interest at the test materials I'd arranged on the table.
“I brought a lot of tests. We probably won't get through them all today.”
She gave me a slightly lopsided look. After an exhale and a pause, she said, “I was a little worried.” She exhaled again before talking, as if she had to blow up her own voice balloons. “I do everything a little slower these days than I used to.”
It occurred to me then that the tilt of her head, that angle of cool appraisal, probably wasn't intentional. The kind of brain damage she'd suffered would have caused everything on one side to droop. Likewise, the little breath that made me hang on the silence that preceded her words probably wasn't intentional. We take for granted that breathing and speaking are a single activity. But after brain damage, they can part company like a pair of gears that get wrenched apart. Anyone who is concentrating at every moment on the simple act of breathing will tire quickly. I made a mental note to keep that in mind.
I moved a chair away from the end of the table so she could pull her wheelchair in close. I rearranged my materials and riffled through the papers to find the first test protocol.
She locked her wheelchair in place and watched me expectantly. She leaned over, rested her hand on my thigh, and breathed, “Ready when you are.” She squeezed my leg. “You are misleading.” I felt a frisson of electricity and a tightening in my groin. Purely the autonomic nervous system kicking in, I told myself. “You don't look like a weight lifter, but you sure do feel like one.”
I stood up to adjust a window shade that didn't need adjusting. Coming on to people wasn't something she could control. I sat again, this time beyond reaching distance.
“Do you?” she asked. “Do you lift weights?”
Normally, I would have discouraged this. Sharing personal
information cuts across exactly the kind of boundary that's essential to a therapeutic relationship. But Sylvia Jackson wasn't my patient and our relationship wasn't therapeutic. To do the job I'd come for, I'd need her cooperation. Testing could take four or five hours. I smiled and shook my head.
information cuts across exactly the kind of boundary that's essential to a therapeutic relationship. But Sylvia Jackson wasn't my patient and our relationship wasn't therapeutic. To do the job I'd come for, I'd need her cooperation. Testing could take four or five hours. I smiled and shook my head.
“Run marathons?”
“God forbid!”
“It's got to be something,” she insisted. “Give me a clue.”
“Actually, I row.”
“I never thought shrinks were athletic. Now, rowing â isn't that something they do at Harvard?”
“And BU, MIT ⦔
“I used to date a guy who took me out on the river. We'd go out at sunset with a six-pack. Watch the students row.” She arched her back and purred. “So romantic. Is that where you go? On the Charles?”
“I'm there every morning, six A.M., rain or shine.”
“An obsession?”
Her remark left me momentarily speechless. It
had
turned into an obsession. I pride myself on being somewhat opaque, difficult to read when I need to be. She'd be easy to underestimate.
had
turned into an obsession. I pride myself on being somewhat opaque, difficult to read when I need to be. She'd be easy to underestimate.
“It's just something I like to do,” I said mildly, picking up my interview protocol and placing it between us. “Ready?” I asked.
“Shoot,” she said.
The conference-room door opened and Nurse Lovely rattled into the room. She was pushing a metal cart loaded with cups of medication lined up in orderly rows and columns.
“What the â ?” I started.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Lovely cut in, “but it's time to take these.” The cup that Lovely handed Syl was like a miniature Easter basket filled with multicolored eggs. She poured a cup of water and patted Sylvia gently on the back.
“Oh, Carolyn, already?” Syl groaned. “Seems like we just did
this.” She stared at the pills. She looked at me, then at Nurse Lovely. Then she gave a sly smile. “Did you meet Dr. â”
this.” She stared at the pills. She looked at me, then at Nurse Lovely. Then she gave a sly smile. “Did you meet Dr. â”
“Zak,” I filled in the blank.
Nurse Lovely nodded.
“He's got the most amazing leg muscles.”
“He does, does he?” Nurse Lovely raised an eyebrow in my direction and gave me a sour look. Was the lacquered hair real? A croquet mallet wouldn't dent its plastic perfection.
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