by Sibel Hodge
And that’s when I really start to question myself. Did I really wake up in that place? Did I really escape? Or have I imagined the whole thing? Is this some kind of relapse?
‘I think you can let us be the judge of what’s wasting our time.’ Summers gives Liam a courteous smile. ‘What happened when Chloe was released from hospital?’
‘She was signed off work, so she was just at home, recuperating from it all. She seemed to be OK—a little depressed, still, about losing the baby. She still had trouble sleeping, too, but things were getting back to normal, or so I thought.’
‘Did you contact her while you were away in Scotland? Maybe we can establish exactly what day you went missing, Chloe.’ Summers looks pointedly at me.
‘I rang her mobile phone when I arrived, but then I was up to my neck in work and didn’t have time to contact her. We’re launching a new diabetes drug soon, so it’s been a very hectic time.’
‘You work for Devon Pharmaceutical?’ Summers asks.
‘Yes.’
‘What does your job entail, exactly?’
‘I oversee the manufacture of our drugs, amongst other things.’
‘Does Devon Pharmaceutical carry out animal testing?’ Summers crosses his legs.
‘Yes. And I can see where you’re going with this, but our company has never been a target for that in the past.’
‘So you’ve never personally received any threats in connection with your work?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Let me just confirm that the last time you spoke to Chloe was on the sixth of May, when you arrived in Scotland?’ Flynn asks.
‘Yes.’
Flynn writes it down. ‘She didn’t mention that she was going anywhere or doing anything in particular?’
‘No.’ He glances at me, wearing a look of concern. ‘She hasn’t been out of the house much since the miscarriage.’
‘And she didn’t tell you anything that could be cause for alarm?’ Summers asks.
‘Definitely not.’
‘Did you fly back from Scotland today?’ Flynn asks.
‘Yes, although I wasn’t due back for another four days. I got the taxi to drop me off at home on the way back from Stansted airport. Then I left my suitcase there, got my car keys, and drove here straight away.’
‘Was there any sign of disturbance or forced entry at your house?’ Summers again.
‘No. I didn’t notice anything like that, but of course I only had a quick look.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you’d do a thorough check when you get home and let me know.’
‘Of course.’
‘Can you give us the names of any friends or family who might’ve seen you before you disappeared?’ Summers asks me then.
‘Liam’s all the family I have,’ I say. ‘And my best friend Sara is in India, travelling.’
‘What about your family?’ Summers asks Liam. ‘Would they have checked up on Chloe while you were away?’
‘No. I’m an only child, and my parents were middle-aged by the time I came along, so they passed away years ago. There’s only my cousin, Jeremy, and his wife, Alice, but they live in Kent. The last time we saw them was at my party when they stayed the night and left the following morning.’
‘How about any work colleagues?’ Summers asks me. ‘Anyone you were close to at the college you might’ve seen?’
I think of Jordan then, but it’s not as if he would come to the house. If Liam found out, he would’ve got angry. ‘No,’ I say softly. ‘They’re just colleagues, not friends.’
Summers lets out a deep breath and stands. ‘Well, we’ll start making some enquiries. I’ll liaise with Dr Traynor to see when you’ll be fit enough to accompany us out to the woods. And if you think of anything else, let us know, OK?’ He pulls a card out of his pocket and hands it to me, but Liam is closer and takes it before I can.
Liam shoves it into the pocket of his suit jacket. ‘We will.’ He stands up. ‘Perhaps I can have a word with you before you leave?’ He angles his head towards the doorway, and a look passes between them both. Liam leads the way into the corridor, and I see him talking earnestly to Summers and Flynn. Summers looks over at me briefly.
I fidget with the bed sheet as Summers nods several times and Flynn writes something down in his notepad before leaving. When Liam returns, he sits on the bed next to me and takes my hand in his. I try to look him in the eye but find I can’t. Instead, I stare at the sheets.
‘Whatever am I going to do with you, my love?’ He strokes my hair gently.
6
‘How are you feeling?’ Dr Traynor enters the room, forcing the swirling thoughts of panic in my head to stop abruptly.
‘Tired. I’ve got a headache and still feel a bit sick.’
‘That will be the concussion. It’s only mild. You’ll feel more like your normal self in a few days.’
But what is my normal self, I want to ask. I don’t know anymore, not after what he and Liam have told me. I sit up, pushing the bedside table away. The remains of a stodgy lasagne and soggy chips sitting on top of it making me feel sick now. I’d managed to pick at it but the fear and anxiety has bitten away at any hunger.
‘No appetite?’ he asks.
‘Not really.’
‘You need to eat to regain your strength.’
‘Have you eaten the food here?’
‘Good point.’ He smiles and sits down next to me. ‘Has your husband left?’
‘Yes. He needed a shower and something to eat. He’s coming back later with some clothes and toiletries for me.’
‘Good. In the meantime, let’s carry out a few tests if you’re up to it, shall we?’
‘OK.’
‘I’m going to ask you a series of questions to check different areas of your memory. Just answer them as quickly as you can.’ He opens the notes on his lap and clicks the top of his pen. ‘What’s your full name?’
‘Chloe Benson.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Poplar Close’
‘How long have you lived there?’
‘Just over two years.’
‘Good. Who am I?’
‘Dr Traynor.’
‘Which year is it?’
‘2013.’
‘Which month is it?’
‘May.’
‘Who is the Prime Minister?’
‘David Cameron.’
‘Can you count backwards in threes starting from five hundred?’
‘497, 494, 491, 488, 485, 482, 479, 476, 473, 470—’
‘OK, that’s good. Can you count backwards in sevens?’
The sevens are harder, but I manage. He recites five lines of poetry and asks me to repeat them back to him, which I do.
He hands me a sheet of paper with various shapes on it. After I’ve studied it, he takes the paper away and says, ‘Where did you grow up?’
‘Here in Welwyn Garden City. Then I went to university in London and moved back here afterwards.’
He scribbles something down. ‘What did you study at university?’
‘English. Then I did a teacher training course.’
‘Which shapes were on the piece of paper I just showed you?’
‘Stars, triangles, squares, oblongs, something that looked like a palm tree.’
He tells me a sequence of words that I have to repeat back to him. Then a sequence of numbers. He holds up cards with pictures of different animals on them and asks me to call out which one he’s holding up. Finally, he closes his notes and places the pen on top. ‘Good. Very good.’
‘It doesn’t feel good from where I’m sitting.’
‘You have what is called amnesia. It could be from the bump to your head. After a concussive injury, brain cells not destroyed are sometimes left in a vulnerable state for a time but eventually heal themselves. It could also have been brought on by a delayed side effect from the antidepress
ants.’ He pauses, as if he’s making me aware some bad news is coming. What could be worse, though, I have no idea. ‘We did a blood test when you were admitted and found Silepine in your system, which is a sleeping tablet. Apparently, your GP prescribed it to you at the same time as the antidepressants to help you sleep. It’s possible they gave you some kind of similar reaction to what happened with the Zolafaxine.’
‘What? But I…they…no.’ I try to speak, but my mouth just flaps open and closed. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with my mouth. ‘I don’t take sleeping tablets. I’ve only ever taken them once in my life when I was having trouble sleeping at university. They made me feel so terrible and drowsy the next day that I’ve never taken one since.’
‘Silepine aren’t like the old sleeping tablets. They don’t have the horrible drowsy effect the day after.’ He looks at his notes. ‘We only found a moderate amount in your system, but nevertheless, if you were allergic to them, it could have caused you to exhibit the same psychosis-like symptoms as before. Hallucinations and amnesia in themselves are also adverse side effects of Silepine, although, again, they’re very rare.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t take them. I…’ I can’t speak then. It’s just not possible. Any of this. It’s not real. How can it be? But I can’t deny I took them when a blood test proves I did.
‘When the hospital released you after the incident with the antidepressants, we advised you not to take any other medications. Sometimes, once you have a reaction to one it makes you more susceptible to have a reaction to other drugs.’ Dr Traynor clears his throat. ‘But it would appear that you did take them. What other explanation can there be for them being in your system?’
‘Why would I take them, then, if you told me not to?’ I challenge him.
‘I’m afraid we can only advise patients on their care. Sadly, they don’t always take our advice. Liam has mentioned you were still having trouble sleeping, so it’s possible you decided to take them anyway. Or perhaps the grief became more severe and escalated into depression once more and you wanted to harm yourself.’ He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Depression can sometimes be difficult to assess.’
I know all about it being hard to assess. I never knew about Mum until it was too late. But even so, I stare at him with alarm. ‘You mean I…wait. You think I took them to try and kill myself?’
‘It’s possible. Or it could’ve been a cry for help. And that’s what we’re here for. To help you.’
‘No, I wouldn’t have done that. I just wouldn’t.’ I must look wild as my gaze flits around the room, hardly resting on one thing while I try to make sense of what he’s saying. The bits and pieces of me don’t seem to fit together properly anymore. Everything’s wrong, out of place, like a scattered jigsaw puzzle.
‘Unfortunately, you can’t remember exactly what did happen, so it’s entirely possible that you did.’
‘But I know I’d never try to kill myself.’
He remains silent. Just looks at me in a calm, doctorly way that says he’s seen it all before and nothing surprises him anymore.
‘What do you mean by a moderate amount, anyway? How much would I have taken?’ A tingling sensation starts under my scalp. I rub the back of my head against the pillow.
‘Probably only three or four tablets. Enough to make you very sleepy.’
‘But will I get my memory back?’ I ask shakily. ‘I’ve lost seven weeks. I need to know what happened. I need to know if…’ What do I say? If I’m mad? If I’m hallucinating? If I tried to commit suicide? ‘I need to know if there’s someone out there who’s going to come back for me.’
‘The brain is a very complicated piece of machinery, and unfortunately, there’s no cure for amnesia, but many forms do fix themselves. Sometimes patients with amnesia that’s not caused by a brain injury experience the return of their memories spontaneously or over time. It’s a waiting game, I’m afraid.’
I feel a pain in my chest, as if someone has dealt me a swift blow. ‘A waiting game?’ Waiting for some unknown person to come back and kill me. Lost in limbo until he’s caught and locked up.
‘I have no definitive answer for you. Your memory could return in a matter of days, weeks, or even months. It could return in bits and pieces or it could happen all at once. Your long-term and short-term memory seem to be functioning correctly. It’s just this small period of time that is missing. But I’m very optimistic you’ll make a full recovery eventually.’
‘And in the meantime, I won’t know if this person is still after me.’
‘I’m sure the police are doing all they can.’ He smiles, as if that’s supposed to reassure me somehow. It doesn’t. Nothing will until I know what really happened. ‘The police have spoken with me about you accompanying them to the area you were found wandering.’
‘They said they would talk to you.’
‘I think we need to wait at least a day and see how you’re feeling then. Physically, you have no major injuries, although you’re still a little weak. We’ll take the drip out tonight, but I want to make sure you’re strong enough before you leave the hospital, even if it’s only for a short while.’ He stands up, presses his folder of notes to his chest. ‘Try not to worry too much. Getting stressed won’t help your recovery.’
How can I not worry? It’s already burrowing a dark tunnel beneath my sternum.
‘Another doctor will be in to see you later to do a psychiatric evaluation.’
Too weary to speak, I can only nod.
~~~~
I’m sipping a cup of tea the orderly has just brought round the ward. I don’t usually have sugar in it, but I asked for three in this one. All the better to get my strength up. I don’t want to stay in this place any longer than I have to in case I end up in the loony bin again.
I’ve been going over and over it my head, and I’m sure now. Absolutely positive that what I described did really happen. It wasn’t a hallucination. It wasn’t a relapse.
It must’ve been the head injury that’s made me lose my memory. I just don’t know how I got the injury, or how I woke up in that place.
Or was it the sleeping tablets?
Think, Chloe!
But the more I think, the more muddled my head gets.
I flip the sheets back, swing my legs over the bed, and sit up. The room tilts before my eyes. I take a deep breath and gently touch the lump on my head. It’s solid, like a hardboiled egg under the surface.
I wait for my vision to clear and stand up, gripping onto the bedside cabinet with my left hand for support. On unsteady legs, I tentatively test the weight on my sore ankle. It’s painful, but at least I can support myself. I’m wearing one of those horrible hospital gowns with lots of ties at the back that you can never do up properly yourself. Holding onto the back of it for modesty with my right hand, I take small steps around the room. Back again to where I started. When I turn round to repeat the exercise, a man is standing in my doorway, watching me.
I freeze.
He has a shock of grey hair, thick grey eyebrows, and a grey goatee beard. He’s wearing dark green cord trousers, a white shirt with a small stain of something that looks like coffee on the front, and a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbow, giving him a grandfatherly appearance. The look on his face…it’s creepy, like he recognizes me somehow, but I’ve never seen him before in my life.
‘Stay there!’ I say, pressing the emergency bell by my bed.
He smiles but doesn’t make a move towards me. ‘Very good move, Chloe. You want to make sure I’m not a threat, but I can assure you I’m a doctor.’
A nurse rushes to the room. ‘Is everything OK?’ She glances between the man and me.
I point a wobbly hand at him. ‘He says he’s a doctor, but he doesn’t look like one. Is he?’
She gives me a relieved smile. ‘Yes, this is Dr Drew.’
It’s then I notice the ID badge pinned to his shirt pocket, although it’s too far away for me to read. I sit on th
e bed, my shoulders relaxing with relief. ‘Thanks,’ I tell her.
‘Do you need anything else?’ she asks.
‘No. Thank you.’
She walks out, and Dr Drew takes off his ID badge, holding it out for me to inspect. I take it and read: Dr Albert Drew, Consultant Psychiatrist, Mental Health Unit, Queen Elizabeth II Hospital.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble, handing it back to him.
‘No, that was very wise, under the circumstances.’ He nods to the chair beside the bed. ‘Do you mind if I sit?’
‘I don’t mind.’ Or maybe I did, depending on what more bad news I was going to get.
‘Do you recognize me?’ he says after he gets comfortable, resting his hands on his ample belly.
‘No. Should I?’
He gives me a warm smile. ‘I was in charge of your treatment when you were admitted in April.’
‘Oh. Right. I…I don’t remember that.’
‘Yes. So Dr Traynor informed me.’ He steeples his fingers. ‘Do you think you could tell me what happened before you were brought in this time?’
I flop forward, cradling my head in my hands, my long hair swinging down over my face like a curtain. ‘Oh, God,’ I groan. I don’t want to go over it again.
‘I know this is very traumatic for you, but we’re all here to help you.’
I lift my head and search his eyes, looking for some kind of trap, but all I can see is kindness and compassion there.
‘Tell you what, let me rustle up some tea and biscuits, and I’ll come back in a minute.’ He leaves the room.
I swing my legs back into bed, pull the sheets over me, and stare at the ceiling. He returns a few minutes later with two mugs of tea that look like dirty dishwater and a plate of biscuits on a tray. He puts them on the bedside table then settles back into a comfy position on the chair and waits for me to speak. I ignore the foul-looking tea and tell him what I’ve told everyone else.
He watches me expectantly, nodding every now and then without interrupting me.