When I Was Jane

by Theresa Mieczkowski

  Identity. The word hangs in the air, mocking me.

  He leans over and looks me in the eye. “Are you following along?”

  “I think so.” In truth, I just want to go to sleep. “But maybe you can tell me all that again later, just in case.”

  “Don’t worry; I have been doing this for a long time. I will tell you these things as many times as necessary in order for you to understand. Now let’s continue.”

  We already know I have no memory of my name or the fact that I’m a wife and mother, but we have to start from the beginning. Dr. Patel has a list of information about me that Jason, my supposed husband, provided so we can compare my answers. If I have any.

  As it turns out, I know what year it is. I know who the president of the United States is. I know what a dog is and can name a dozen breeds, but I can’t describe how it makes me feel to pet one. I know The Rolling Stones are a band, the Titanic was a boat, and how many eggs are in a dozen.

  I don’t remember personal things from Jason's list such as my favorite flower, but when asked to sniff cards soaked with different scents, I hate the one that smells like lilies, just as Jason said I would. I don't know if I have any hobbies or if I have a favorite movie. I don't know if I have a family other than the doctor claiming to be my husband and the father of a child I’ve never met. I don't remember my address, my phone number, the names of my friends, or where I was going when I supposedly hit a corner going sixty-eight miles an hour and flipped my car into the side of a tree.

  After we finish, Dr. Patel gets up to check my IV.

  “What made them accuse me of drinking and driving?” I ask.

  “There was an empty bottle of champagne in your car. Your hair and clothes were soaked in it.”

  “But didn’t you say there were blood tests?”

  “There were,” he says. “And they indicate you hadn't had a drop.”

  “So why would there be an empty bottle in my car?”

  “I don't know. And as I said, this conversation is technically off-limits.”

  I groan. “How can personal information about me be off-limits to me?”

  “You have to understand, your husband is simply being protective in case you say something to incriminate yourself. But I can tell you that I have never seen you drink. Ever. Not at any of the hospital functions Jason has brought you to over the years. Also, you are a responsible mother; you would not leave a bottle rolling around in the car where it could hurt your child. Or damage someone’s head while traveling through the air at almost seventy miles an hour.”

  “Is that what happened?” I ask.

  He nods. “It would appear by your injuries that when you flipped your car, you took a blow to the back of the head in addition to hitting the side of your head on the door before your airbag went off. It is why your head trauma is…unique. They found the bottle, and considering your hair and clothes smelled of alcohol, they assumed you were drinking when you crashed.”

  I try to push past the emptiness, try to accept that his words are about me. But with no memory to back them up, my mind feels like a black hole caving in on itself.

  Dr. Patel puts a hand on my shoulder. “We already know there is brain trauma. Your hippocampus has been affected; we know this because it holds your memories, many of which you have lost.”

  “Will I ever get them back?”

  “Traumatic brain injuries vary from situation to situation. It depends on the impact of the injury and the location of the damage. Not only did you have physical trauma to the head from the impact of the accident, but you also seem to have injury to the tissue in the brain from a sudden acceleration and halting. The contents of the brain continue to move around inside the skull, resulting in damage to some tissue and grey matter.”

  “And you know this because I’ve answered a few questions?”

  “We know this because you have been through CAT Scans and MRIs. We were able to ascertain the areas of physical damage. But in order to diagnose how it affects you, we need you awake and alert and able to answer questions and process information.”

  I take a deep breath and exhale. “What if I never remember anything?”

  “It is too early to tell. But your level of traumatic brain injury is mild which means you are very, very lucky. You need to be patient.”

  “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

  “You are doing remarkably well just speaking with me for this long. Things could have been much worse. You nearly lost your life.”

  “But what good is a life when I can’t remember anyone in it or what I feel for them? Do people ever wake up not knowing who they are and then successfully return to their old lives?”

  He shakes his head. “You didn’t just wake up not knowing who you are. That’s more of a fugue state, which is a dissociative break and not usually due to physical damage.” He folds his glasses and slides them into the pocket of his shirt. “You had your memory knocked out of you. But if there comes a time we think there are any psychological hurdles preventing you from reestablishing your memory, we will need to work that out.” He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Of course, I will have to get through Jason to do that.”

  I lean back on my pillow and close my eyes, hoping to stop the pounding in my head. I can’t grieve the things my memory has lost since I have no idea what most of them are. If I were waking up to a life that had no husband or child in it, things might be different. But how does someone walk into an established life they don’t remember and carry on? Do they pretend for the sake of the child? What would I even talk to them about?

  Dr. Patel points his pen light at my eye and frowns. “We need to stop for now so you can rest.”

  “Can I watch TV?”

  “Absolutely not. You have a serious concussion; watching TV could cause convulsions.”

  “Can I read?”

  “No. I don't want you focusing on anything for too long. Your brain needs to heal.”

  “So I’m stuck here with nothing to do?”

  He meets my glare with a weak smile. “I'm sorry. We need to see how this injury manifests. Motor ability, cognitive ability. But first, your head has to heal along with the rest of your body. Just try to relax.”

  “Any ideas on what I do to relax?”

  A voice drifts in from the hall. “Maybe I can help with that.” The person I now know as Dr. Jason Gilbert, my husband, stands in the doorway, clean-shaven and showered. “Look, even I'm relaxed now,” he says, gesturing to his faded jeans, grey v-neck t-shirt, and unbuttoned Oxford with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

  I notice now how tall he is, how broad-shouldered, how lean and fit. Without the temper, he might actually be described as charming. And even more so because of the enormous bouquet of peonies he’s holding, elegant white globes with bits of fuchsia staining the tips.

  At least I have something else to add to the short list of things I remember: flowers.

  ~4~

  “I heard my wife was well enough to answer questions.” There is the smallest hint of resentment behind Jason’s friendly expression.

  Dr. Patel raises his hand in protest. “Now wait, Dr. Gilbert…”

  Jason leans casually against the door. “Don’t worry, Elliot. I promise to behave. I’m not here as a doctor, just a regular guy coming to see his wife. You wouldn’t deprive us of that, would you?” He flashes me a boyish grin and looks to the floor. “Not that I’d let you.”

  He meets my eyes again and holds the stare. I feel myself flush from head to toe.

  “Indeed.” Dr. Patel smirks. “Just so long as you follow the rules.”

  Before I can object, he bids me a formal goodnight and promises to return in the morning, leaving me alone with my husband—the complete stranger. I suddenly feel very insecure about my appearance and wonder if anyone thought to brush my teeth while I was unconscious. I quickly smooth down the sides of my hair and regret not insisting on a mirror.

  Jaso
n smiles and hands me the flowers as he slides a large duffle bag off his shoulder. “I brought a few things to make you more comfortable.” He pauses and looks at me apologetically. “And about the other day…I didn’t mean to scare you. I wasn’t myself.”

  I so hope that’s true because I certainly like this guy better than the one who was here earlier. I glance at the bag on the floor. Unless my memories are in there, I can’t imagine what he could pack to make me more comfortable.

  “Thank you for the flowers,” I say. “They’re really beautiful.”

  “They’re your favorite.” He grabs the plastic pitcher of water from my bedside table and drops the flowers in. “Not bad,” he says, assessing his clumsy arrangement. The heavy blossoms droop over the side of the small container, dangling lifelessly.

  I pull a few out and snap the bottom of each stem to help them stand upright. “They're from someone's garden, aren't they? June is peony season. It is June, right?” I can’t remember if someone told me that or not.

  “Yeah. Figures you’d never forget about your flowers. They're from our garden. You fill vases all over the house with these. But it looks like I picked a few duds.”

  “No, you didn’t. They just haven’t finished blooming. If we put these buds in sugar water, they’ll really open up.” I’ll have to tell Dr. Patel I remember facts about gardening. That has to be a good sign.

  Jason pulls an envelope from his back pocket. “Daisy’s coming to see you tomorrow. I thought you might want to see pictures of her first.” He takes a long, deep breath. “It would be best if she didn’t know her mother doesn't recognize her.”

  I nod at him and take the envelope. “Are you sure it’s a good idea for her to meet me?”

  Jason exhales heavily and runs his hand through his hair. “I already told her you’re alert enough now. I didn’t think you wouldn’t want to see her. I don’t know how I’d explain that to her.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” I say, though I don’t know if I believe it. “How old is she?”

  “Five. Well, almost. Next month.” His face softens as he talks about her. “She’s named for my grandmother. Her name was Margaret, but everyone called her Daisy. Nobody knew why Daisy was a nickname for Margaret, not even my grandmother herself, until my father brought his French girlfriend home to meet his parents, and she explained to them that Marguerite is also their word for the daisy flower.”

  I look through the photos. Daisy has sandy blonde hair just like Jason. It falls in ringlets around her face which, unlike his square jawline, is perfectly round with full, rosy, dimpled cheeks. She has his grey-blue eyes and thick eyelashes. I find a close-up of her face that takes up the whole picture. She's showing off a large, sweet smile filled with baby teeth.

  “That’s the before photo,” he says proudly.

  “Before what?”

  “She’s been waiting for a tooth to fall out. So far we have no sign of activity, which is a problem because she's the only one in her class who hasn't been visited by the tooth fairy. But she thought she needed a before picture for when it finally happens.”

  I pick up a photo of her and Jason on a carousel horse and another of her planting in a garden.

  “It's her favorite thing to do with you. You’ve taught her so much. Do you recognize anything?” he asks.

  “Yes, dahlias. I can tell by the shape of the bulbs.” I feel myself flush, realizing he wasn’t asking about flowers.

  There are photos of Daisy in a bathing suit building a sandcastle, eating ice cream with chocolate on her nose, blowing out birthday candles, but nothing that provokes any feelings or memories. I sense Jason’s hope building as I look at each one. He’s waiting for me to recognize something, but I can only disappoint him.

  He produces a wooden frame from his bag. “How about this one?”

  I recognize the two of them, but there’s a woman with them, too. Pretty, laughing. Large brown eyes and long, straight chestnut hair pushed over to one side so her cheek meets up with the little girl's. They’re holding on to one another affectionately.

  “Is this me?” I assume it must be, though it doesn’t seem right. I thought I’d have blonde hair for some reason.

  He hesitates for a moment. “This is us.”

  I look at the photo again and notice how Audrey’s hand rests comfortably against Daisy’s cheek. I close my eyes and try to imagine what it would be like to do that, but I’m unable to conjure the feeling. It’s bad enough that I don’t remember her, but I may never be able to act like I love her. It’s one thing to pretend I remember being a mother. It’s another thing entirely to be a mommy. Seeing them together like this, I can’t ignore the responsibility and commitment that I’m accepting by agreeing to pretend. With shaking hands, I return the frame to him. “I'm sorry. I wish I could remember. I truly do.”

  Jason stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks down with an indecipherable expression. “Right. Sure you do.”

  I watch him for a moment, waiting for any hint of something that could explain the awkwardness I feel around him. He must hate me for not being her; the wife he thought would wake up and remember him.

  “Who’s with her now?” I ask. “Your…I mean our daughter.” My tongue feels like it’s starting to swell.

  “My parents. They live nearby. She's their only grandchild, so she’s probably being spoiled right now.”

  “What about my parents? Dr. Patel said you wanted to be the one to tell me about my history.” I can sense something strange happening to me, and I squeeze my hand to stop the numbness from creeping into my fingers.

  Jason’s face darkens as he gathers the pictures into a pile. “Yeah, about that. You don’t really have much family.”

  Without warning, my stomach turns in on itself. A hazy shadow creeps across my eyes. His image begins to blur.

  “You grew up in—”

  I vaguely hear him swear.

  Jason stands over me with a stethoscope and barks orders at a nurse next to him.

  “It’s OK,” he says, but his face tells me it isn’t.

  When I try to answer my mouth won’t move. I stiffen up in panic and kick my leg.

  He puts his hand on my cheek. “Let it pass. Just give it a few minutes.”

  He positions his face over mine so I’m staring into his grey eyes. They’re the color of ocean water on a stormy day; I focus only on that and relax into the bed.

  When I open my eyes again, the nurse is gone. Jason gently removes the oxygen line from beneath my nose and reaches out to stroke my hair. “Sorry if I upset you. Maybe we won’t talk about family for now.”

  I nod up at him. A part of me doesn’t even want to know how many other people are out there waiting to be disappointed by me, by my lack of memories. I don’t want to meet them or watch them come in here and realize I’m not the person they think I am. Still, there are so many questions.

  I struggle to sit myself up in the bed. “But I was going to ask you this before. Is there a Wyatt in my family? I said the name when I woke up.”

  “You remember that?” He pauses for a moment. “He’s someone you dated before we were married.”

  “Sorry…that’s awkward. If it’s any consolation, I don’t remember him either.”

  Jason shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. It caught me off guard, that’s all. It was just an odd coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “I saw the staff sheet. One of the EMTs was named Wyatt. You must have heard it when they were tending to you. Or maybe you subconsciously thought of him when the first responders came because he’s a cop.”

  “Is he involved in my case?”

  “No, he lives in Maryland. You don’t keep in touch other than a yearly Christmas card.” Jason looks at his watch and starts to gather his things. “I’d better let you get your rest.”

  My stomach tightens. “What if it happens again?”

  “You mean the seizures?”

  I still feel shaky and lighthe
aded. “What if the nurse doesn’t come in to check on me? Could you stay?”

  “Yeah, of course,” he says.

  He lies down on the bed and gently slides one of his arms behind my pillow so his head rests against mine. This isn’t at all what I meant when I asked him to stay, but I don’t say a word. I’m too tired to care. The man almost lost his wife, and he thinks I’m her. I keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling and remind myself this is normal for him.

  A young nurse strolls in with a pouch of medicine in her hand, her long blonde ponytail swinging behind her. "Good evening, Mrs. Gilbert. Time for your painkillers.” She stops abruptly in the center of the room and her cheeks flush bright red. "Jason, I mean Dr. Gilbert, I…"

  Jason kicks his shoes off the side of the bed. “I'm not a doctor today. Just a regular person visiting a patient.”

  “Well, I am so sorry,” she says sweetly, exaggerating her southern accent. “But in that case, visiting hours are over.” She adds a syringe of fluid to the IV bag above my bed.

  He cranes his neck towards her. “Morphine?”

  She ignores him and leans her adorable face down to mine. “Welcome back, Mrs. Gilbert.”

  “Thank you.” I stare back at her and wonder if I’m supposed to know who she is.

  She bats her eyelashes a couple of times. “We’re all so glad you're OK. Let me know if you need anything, alright?” She strolls away, turning to look at us with a forced smile on her way out. “Well, g’night.”

  “Are we breaking the rules?” I ask once she’s gone. “She looked upset.”