“A subject of which you have spoken very little.”
Constance offered up a shrug. “Hardly the most stellar period of my romantic career, such as it is, or was, but somewhat comical in retrospect.”
“Perhaps you would care to elucidate the reasons behind your marital
discord?”
Constance gave it careful thought. “I can do that in one sentence. Boy meets girl, girl falls in love with boy, girl marries boy, boy turns out to be an asshole, girl divorces him.”
“Brevity, as they say, is the soul of wit.”
“And what of your marriage?” Constance asked. “I believe you once promised to reveal the reasons behind your employment at this second-rate college. You said it was the fault of your former spouse.”
“Yes, that is true. Yet I find it a trifle difficult to relive those toxic memories. But I shall try if you insist.”
“I’m waiting with bated breath,” Constance said. “Whatever the hell that means.”
“In point of fact, the word ‘bated’ is a contraction of the word ‘abated.’ So the term ‘bated breath’ means a condition in which one nearly ceases breathing in anticipation of—”
“I’m not really that interested in the derivation of the phrase, Ishmael,” she said. “Just tell me the story.”
And so, after a deep breath, I commenced my soliloquy. I told Constance that I had made the acquaintance of Amanda Archer, née Blackstone after I had just completed my master’s degree and was supporting myself as a teaching assistant while studying for my PhD.
“Amanda and I had first encountered each other as a result of a minor traffic mishap at a supermarket parking area. Later, she postulated that we were destined to meet as our respective vehicles were drawn together, as if by some magnetic cosmic force of destiny, or some such poppycock. I was prepared to claim that it had been her fault but when she stepped out of her vehicle, I was so taken by her breathtaking beauty that I blamed myself for the damage. We chatted briefly and I was able to determine that she was a woman of some education and a great deal of charm and kindness. I was immediately infatuated. We exchanged the usual papers and telephone numbers and then we parted.
“I confess that, at this time, I had not had much experience with the female of the species. Books were my mistresses, if you will. I am loath to admit it, but at the age of twenty-two I had not yet engaged in sexual relations with any representative of the fair sex. Much to my surprise, Amanda telephoned me several days later and, following a short discussion concerning insurance auditors, she invited me to attend a concert with her.
“We convened frequently thereafter and she relieved me of my virginity on our second encounter. Apart from pure lust, I felt a strong fondness for her that I believe was requited, for she showered me with physical attention. After a mere two months of dating, we tied the matrimonial knot, so to speak. Clearly, I should have gotten to know her better prior to our betrothal, but I am sorry to admit that I was hopelessly smitten.
“It soon became apparent that we had very little in common, save for an unflagging sexual attraction. She had lied to me about having received a bachelor’s degree and demonstrated no interest in culture of any sort. She did not read the books I had recommended, and I soon learned that her preferred genre consisted of slightly pornographic romance novels, which stimulated her lust to such a degree that she constantly wished to engage in carnal relations. She told me on numerous occasions that she found me stuffy and that I was a dullard. Moreover, the kindness that she had once displayed toward me had gradually transformed itself into disdain and mockery.
“I soon realized that I felt no real love for Amanda Archer, née Blackstone. I had fooled myself into believing that I had. As a result, I began to withdraw from her. This was partly due to the fact that I was working furiously on my PhD thesis and I spent much of my time in the college library. When I finally completed a first draft, my thesis was no less than six hundred pages long, although it was not due for another three weeks.
“By this time, Amanda Archer, née Blackstone, had grown bitter about my inattentiveness. Not surprisingly, she blamed my thesis for this, claiming that I loved my work more than I loved her. We fought relentlessly and I soon realized that she was in possession of a stormy temper.
“Two days before my thesis was due, I printed a copy, enclosed it in a plastic folder, and placed it on my desk. On the day upon which I was scheduled to deliver it to my sponsor, I was surprised to find that both the manuscript and my computer were missing. After a brief search, I located both the manuscript and my computer in the bathtub, which was filled with hot water and bubble bath suds. The manuscript was black, having been burned to a crisp, and I soon determined that it was unsalvageable. The computer was in pieces that were scattered in the water like metallic water lilies.
“Predictably, the university did not believe my claim that my spouse had destroyed my thesis. As a result, I was dismissed from the PhD program. We were divorced two months later with the provision that I pay her alimony once every month for eight years, as I was the breadwinner. So endeth the reading.”
“Wow,” Constance said when I had completed my tragic monologue.
“I suppose I am partly to blame. I should have insisted on a longer engagement prior to marriage. When I reflect upon it, I conclude that I was simply starved for affection.”
“Why do you suppose she wanted to marry you in the first place?” Constance said.
“I believe she thought that my pursuit of a doctorate meant that I was going to be a medical doctor and thus quite wealthy.”
“In other words, she was a gold digger.”
“I believe so. Had I known, I would have disabused her of her incorrect notion regarding doctorates prior to our marriage.”
Constance gave me a look of perplexity and frowned. “But I thought you had a PhD. Don’t you?”
“Yes. I received my PhD one year later.”
“From what institution?”
“Irvin University.”
“Do you mean Irvine? The one in Southern California?”
“No. Irvin.” I then spelled it.
“I don’t believe I’ve heard of that one,” Constance said.
“That might perchance be because it is an internet university, ” I said sadly. “Four thousand dollars for a PhD.”
“I see.”
“It is an utterly worthless piece of paper but, amazingly, this so-called Irvin University was actually accredited,” I said. As Constance put forth a look of sympathy, I felt an odd wave of emotion sweep over me. “I had once hoped to secure a position at Harvard or Yale or another prestigious university but, alas, only Longfellow would accept me.”
Constance, doubtless perceiving the expression of utter desolation on my face, reached over the table and placed her hand over mine. “I’m so sorry, Ishmael.”
“I sincerely thank you for your sympathy, but I am afraid I have only myself to blame for my poor judgment.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself, Ishmael,” she said. “You were young, innocent, and you acted on impulse. I would guess that testosterone probably played a role as well. You’re hardly the only person who has ever made a poor choice. It happens all the time.”
I merely shrugged and stared off into space.
Chapter Fourteen
It was with considerable apprehension that Balthazar and I motored to the hospital the following day to pay a call on Abigail. What fictional character, we wondered, would fill the delusionary void in her brain on this occasion? Would she remain Daisy Buchanan or revisit the life of Anna Karenina? Given the plethora of novels that she had consumed throughout the years, it was entirely possible that we would stride into her hospital chamber and be greeted by Hester Prynne, Becky Thatcher or even Tinkerbell. The mind virtually boggled at the possibilities.
When we entered her room,
her head was propped up on her pillows and she was manipulating the remote control. As soon as she noticed us, Abigail smiled and placed the contraption beside her on the bed.
It was I who first tested the conversational waters. “Good morning,” I ventured, deliberately refraining from the use of a given name, lest she again react with annoyance.
She studied my face carefully, as if examining the geographical details of a globe. “And who might you be?” she asked. “Have we met?”
Who indeed was I? Vronsky or Gatsby? On an impulse, I said, “My name is Ishmael Archer and, yes, we have indeed met.”
“And what exactly is the nature of our relationship?” she asked.
“We are particular friends.”
“I see.” After ruminating upon this information for a moment, she turned to Balthazar. “And who is this gentleman?”
Balthazar smiled. “I am your father, Abigail,” he said.
“Abigail?” she said. “Is that my name?”
“It is,” I said. “Abigail Bird.”
She gave forth a giggle. “That’s a rather absurd name, don’t you think, Ishmael?”
“On the contrary. I think it suits you.”
“May we sit down?” Balthazar asked.
“Of course,” Abigail said. “How very rude of me. Forgive me.”
Simultaneously we lowered our buttocks upon the two plastic chairs near her bed. Abigail looked at Balthazar. “Are you certain you are my father?” she said. “I don’t recall ever seeing you prior to this occasion, but I admit that I am somewhat confused and have been since I awakened.”
“Yet it is the truth,” Balthazar said.
Abigail sighed. “I have so many, many questions. Where do I begin? I don’t know where we are or why I am here or much of anything at all. Isn’t that peculiar?”
I was about to launch into an exhaustive explanation regarding her whereabouts and other items of information regarding her circumstances when Dr. Van Buren stepped into the room and bid the three of us good day.
“Another gentleman caller!” Abigail said. “I feel quite popular this morning.”
Van Buren glanced questioningly at Balthazar and me and from the look on his face, I gathered that he had not yet visited Abigail today and was thus unaware of this new development.
“I don’t think we have met before either,” she said to the doctor.
After a moment of hesitation, he said, “My name is Martin.”
“Hello, Martin. I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said. “I am Abigail Bird or so I am told. This is my particular friend Ishmael Archer, and my father.”
“We have met,” Dr. Van Buren said. “They are close friends of mine.”
Abigail gave forth a delightful smile. “How nice.”
At that, Dr. Van Buren said, “Would you please excuse us for a moment, Abigail? The three of us must attend to some important business.”
“Please do come back,” she said. “I have so enjoyed our conversation—it has been so very illuminating— and there is absolutely nothing of interest on the television.”
“As I’m sure you both have already deduced, she has amnesia,” Dr. Van Buren stated when the three of us stood in the hallway. “Not the best possible outcome but not the worst by far. Follow me.”
As we strode down the corridor, Balthazar and I offered the doctor a detailed recapitulation of every word that had transpired between Abigail and ourselves. He was particularly relieved to hear that we had not mentioned anything regarding her reasons for being in the hospital, informing us that any mention of her fall and subsequent coma could very possibly upset her. Moreover, the doctor explained that nothing could be done to resolve the amnesia but added that her memory could very well return on its own.
“In the meantime, we must make sure to keep Abigail away from books,” he said. “We do not want her to take on any new identities.”
The following day, Abigail was moved to the psych ward. As Dr. Van Buren was not schooled in the science of psychiatry, he placed her in the hands of Dr. Olivia Partridge, a somewhat frazzled woman who possessed the annoying habit of pausing in the midst of sentences, as if the words that exited her mouth were separated by ellipses. Balthazar and I convened in Dr. Partridge’s office, for we both had numerous queries regarding the continuation of Abigail’s care.
“Here is the…good news, ” Dr. Partridge said. “Abigail’s prior personality has not, and will not, change appreciably. Her past life will…simply be…a blank.”
“But she just learned her name and who we are,” I said.
Dr. Partridge formed a lopsided steeple with her fingers. “Yes, I am…aware,” she said. “You both may…help by reacquainting her with…the superficial details of her current life such as her job, her residence and so forth. This will help her to function normally and be comfortable in her old surroundings.”
“She seems quite eager to learn about these things,” Balthazar said.
“I am glad to hear it,” Dr. Partridge said. “Some sufferers…of amnesia are…resistant.”
After a moment of hesitation, I asked, “And the bad news?”
“She will not be able to recall…past emotional attachments.”
I frowned. “So if Abigail had an affection for, let us say, a certain individual from her previous life, she would no longer recall that emotion?”
“Correct,” Dr. Partridge said. “Unfortunately, it’s impossible…to go that deeply into her psyche. Emotional memory exists…at a much higher level. However, she will be capable of…feeling new emotions.”
Balthazar sighed. “Well, I suppose that’s preferable to living her life as Anna Karenina or Daisy Buchanan. Don’t you think so, Ishmael?”
I was disturbed by Dr. Partridge’s professed inability to reawaken Abigail’s past feelings, but I did not wish to undermine Balthazar’s shaky optimism so I merely said, “Indeed.”
“One more thing,” Dr. Partridge said. “For her own good…I will attempt to instill in Abigail’s mind…via hypnosis…a total lack of interest in…literature. I’m sure you…understand why that is essential.”
Of course, this particular component of Dr. Partridge’s strategy saddened me but I fully understood why it was necessary.
“So be it,” I said.
Dr. Partridge’s treatment, combined with the information provided to Abigail by Balthazar and me, proved remarkably successful and after a few weeks, Abigail was dismissed from the hospital and permitted to return to her apartment, which Balthazar and I had cleared of all works of fiction. I visited her at least four times a week to make certain she was faring well. Although I was deeply distressed by Abigail’s loss of emotional memory, as well as her disinterest in literature, I attempted to remain confident that she would eventually regain her past identity and thus recall the details of our relationship. Of course, I found the present situation nearly unbearable for, having finally found a woman for whom I felt a profound affection, she had been taken away from me in a most unpredictable way.
Having witnessed the depth of my despair, Eliot invited me to his abode for dinner, as he had promised some time before. Apparently, he was no longer consumed by our competition over which of us would assume the duties of dean for he did not mention the subject. I found this sensitivity to be most admirable. He wished only to cheer me up, which would prove impossible, though I was grateful for his attempt. Even Sandra was sympathetic to my tragic plight.
As it was a warm evening, Eliot, Sandra, and I consumed our dinner outside on Eliot’s terrace, which afforded us a breathtaking view of the valley and the mountains.
“So,” Eliot said after I had explained Abigail’s state, “what’s the prognosis?”
“Nobody really knows,” I said.
“Maybe she’ll wake up one morning an
d her memory will just magically return to normal,” Sandra said.
“That is always a possibility and one to be hoped for,” said I.
“You’re quite fond of her, aren’t you, Archer?” Eliot said. “Feel free to decline from answering that if you find it inappropriate or too personal.”
I paused, momentarily uncertain as to whether or not it would be prudent to divulge my true feelings for Abigail. “Truth be told, Eliot, I’m afraid my feelings for her have ventured far beyond mere fondness.”
Sandra stared at me and said, “I don’t mean to meddle, Ishmael, but have you fallen in love with this woman?”
“Sadly, I fell in love with the version of Abigail that existed prior to the accident. Yet, I have decided to begin the courtship anew.”
“And she loved you?” Sandra asked.
“That I do not know. And I may never know, for at this time she possesses no memory of our past together.”
Sandra reached over the table and took my hand. “I’m sure she’ll fall in love with you again, Archer. You’re a pretty lovable guy.”
“Thank you.”
“Even if she doesn’t recall you from her past life, I imagine that she is the same person emotionally,” Sandra said.
“We shall soon discover whether or not that is true,” I said.
Later, Sandra excused herself, after informing us that she was drowsy from having consumed too much of the grape. Eliot walked inside and returned momentarily with another bottle of wine. We spoke of literature for a bit and then he rather abruptly changed the subject.
“Ever thought about writing another novel, Archer?”
“I’m sorry to say that I have given up the art of writing fiction.”
“Why?”
“Simply put, I believe I lack the gift for it.”
“I disagree,” he said. “Your prior attempts were clearly imperfect but I enjoyed them.”
“You’re kind to lie,” I said.
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 17