by Heidi Lowe
Our earlier encounter was probably why the nurse, a plump redhead with a mean, take-no-shit look on her face, regarded me warily as she set me down on the bed.
"Where do you want to go?" she goaded. "Just tell me where, and we'll make it happen."
She knew I couldn't do that. I scowled at her but said nothing.
"So I take it you still don't remember anything?"
Reluctantly I shook my head. The head I hated more than her right at that moment. That was my real prison, though in this case I was on the outside looking in. A prison of my memories, locked away behind an impenetrable wall. No visitation had been granted.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
On this question, I burst into tears, weeping into my hands. "Waking up here. I don't even remember my name. What the hell is wrong with me?"
"I can't answer that," she said, her tone somewhat sympathetic.
"Well who can?" I shot her an angry look through my tears. "I want to talk to the doctor."
"And you will, in due time. But right now you need to rest."
"You said I was in a coma for four days. Don't you think I've rested enough?"
She didn't answer, just poured me a glass of water, before busying herself fixing the bedsheets of the empty bed beside mine. There was something about her indifference, her refusal to get into any type of argument with me, that calmed me, albeit slightly. Was that her thing? She'd probably been doing this for decades, had dealt with worse patients than me, and knew exactly how to handle us to keep us sedated.
"Where am I?"
"In a hospital."
I tutted. "Which hospital?"
"Oakwood General Hospital, Oakwood County, Utah."
I'd asked in the unlikely event that the name would jog my memory, but it didn't. Nor the county, nor the state.
"How did I get here?"
"The bus you were on crashed into a bridge, plummeted into the lake."
"Oh my God." I sat up again, still aching all over. "Was anyone else hurt?"
She looked at me, her expression dark. "You were one of the lucky ones. Some weren't so lucky."
People died? I didn't need to ask, her face said it all.
"Where was the bus coming from?"
"It was an intercity bus. Started in Washington, but it made multiple stops along the way. There's no saying in which state you got on, if that's what you're thinking. We already thought of that."
I slumped back down, twisted away from her, feeling hopeless. Where was I going, but better yet, where had I come from? Surely someone remembered me boarding? What about the driver?
I turned around to face her again. "The driver might remember me, right? Maybe we could ask him or her?"
"That's going to be a little difficult. He had a heart attack, died as soon as he got here." She took the empty cup from me, which I'd downed in one go, and started towards the door. "I'll get you some more water and let the doctor know you're awake."
I didn't thank her. She didn't expect me to, I knew that. When I was alone again, I wept quietly to myself, whoever the hell I was.
The doctor was a good-looking Indian man who'd carried out a bunch of tests on me – written, spoken, and physical – then tried his best to explain, in non-medical jargon, what had happened to me. Which, as it turned out, was something he himself couldn't explain.
"You suffered severe head trauma, but after careful examination we've determined that there was no lasting neurological damage. What that means, is that what's happening to you is more psychological. You have what we call retrograde amnesia, or more specifically psychogenic fugue. Very little is known about it, other than that it usually follows a traumatic incident..."
His voice was gentle, soothing, but did little to soften the blow.
"...the part of the brain that holds the procedural memory, i.e. your unconscious memory, is unaffected. That's why you're able to speak, walk, read, etc. And from what we can see, your semantic memory is still intact, hence why you can remember very general knowledge about the world..."
"...no way to determine when, or even if, your memory will return, though we've only seen extremely rare cases where a person never fully recovers their memory..."
The sedative they gave me after that revelation came as a blessing. I was too distraught to stay awake.
A new day had come when my eyes sprang open. A new roommate, too. A middle-aged woman now occupied the bed beside mine, a magazine spread open on her lap while she snored away.
I reached for the TV remote and switched on the television. A local news channel came on. I listened with the volume low, so as not to wake my sleeping roommate.
North Dakota and Minnesota left in ruins after the Red River flooded a few days prior; friends of the leader of the Heaven's Gate suicide cult broke their silence; work had commenced on Oakwood's oldest bridge, following the bus crash; some apparently famous town mascot, a horse named Pony, gave birth to its second foal.
The month: April. The year: 1997.
I must have been so engrossed in the news, I didn't hear the snoring cease.
"The world goes on as usual," said a croaky voice. The woman sat up and put on her glasses. "No matter what happens to us, everything continues as normal. I suppose there's something comforting about that."
"I don't think so," I said, switching off the TV. "It means that the life I left behind also continues on..." There was nothing comforting about that. Not knowing who I was before, and who, if anyone, I'd left behind. Were there people waiting for me, expecting to hear from me? Did I have a family, kids who missed me?
Her smile was warm. "Were you one of the people in the bus crash? You don't sound like the locals."
I nodded, though it hurt to. "At least I know that much about myself. I'm not from around here."
She closed her magazine, set it on the table. "I can't imagine what that must be like. But count yourself lucky you didn't wake up in a stranger's bed, beside a man claiming to be your husband of thirty years."
My eyebrows shot up. "You're...like me? You lost your memory too?"
"That's right. They say my name's Claudia, and the three twenty-somethings that are calling me Mom look like me, I know that. Plus the pictures around the house, those are definitely me, but...well, you know. I can't remember any of it."
Was her situation worse than mine? Having the family but being unable to remember them? It must have been hell for everyone.
"Do you know what happened to you?"
"The man who claims to be my husband says we lost our granddaughter recently, that I was very close to her. Doctors say that must have triggered it. And between you and me, if I was so distraught that I lost my memory, I don't know if I want to get it back. It's selfish, I know."
It might have been, but I knew where she was coming from. There was something freeing about leaving all the pain of the past behind. Because everyone had pain in their history. I probably wasn't an exception. I wondered what baggage I'd left behind.
"You don't look sick. What are you doing in this place?"
"I checked myself in. It got too overwhelming being in that house with strangers. It's best for everyone that I stay here for a while."
Although she knew no more than I did, she was the only person I could ask about this place, seeing as she was a local. I wanted to find out as much as I could about my surroundings. Who knew how long I would have to stay there?
"Do you know what Oakwood's like?"
"Seems nice enough. Quiet. A place where nothing happens. That's the impression I got of the town when my family showed me around it, trying to jog my memory. Why, are you thinking of sticking around?"
I shrugged. "I don't think I have a choice."
I didn't. But how was any of this supposed to work? The day would inevitably come when they discharged me from the hospital. Where would I go from there? A woman without a name, a history, how was I supposed to function in society?
FIVE
Hospital food left
a lot to be desired. No meal was satisfying – either nutritionally or to the taste buds. Which was particularly grating, because I had a crazy appetite.
One evening, once I'd gobbled down a bland, almost meatless, tasteless shepherds pie, and Claudia had fallen asleep for the sixth time that day, I bit the bullet and hauled myself out of bed. Nurse Misery, the grumpy, unfriendly redhead, had told me that I'd been in hospital for over a week. Over a week cooped up in bed, with no idea of what I looked like. There was a mirror in the adjoining bathroom, but I'd refused to look at it, afraid of who I would see.
Sooner or later, I reasoned, I would have to face the music. Now was the time.
My body was still battered and bruised, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as it had when I'd woken from my coma.
I switched on the bathroom light and peered at the woman in the mirror. A complete stranger. I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting, but she wasn't it. Long lashes set around big, brown eyes. A button nose that fit perfectly on my small face. Uncombed brunette hair that had been left to grow wild.
I touched my face. Soft, pale flesh devoid of wrinkles. That was a pleasant surprise. How old was I exactly? It was difficult to tell. Late twenties?
For several minutes I stared at myself, hoping that my memories would be triggered by seeing the most familiar of faces.
"Hi, I'm..." I started. "Hello, my name is..."
Nothing. I didn't know my name or my face.
Frustrated, I hit the mirror, expecting the glass to shatter. But I was still weak.
I slammed out of the bathroom, even more frustrated at my failure to cause destruction.
I had to get out of that room. I grabbed the green hospital robe that hung on a hook on the door, pulled it on before creeping out into the corridor. If anyone tried to stop me, I decided, I would tell them I was searching for the chapel.
I didn't know what the time was, but the halls were quiet. I got the feeling that this hospital didn't get a lot of action.
The nurse at the nurses station had her head down as I traipsed past her, and didn't notice me go by. The smell of disinfectant invaded my nostrils.
It didn't seem like a big hospital. I passed the ER and the ward, then took a right when I reached the end of the corridor. A doctor walked past, gave me a dubious look, but didn't stop me.
There was a sign on the wall that pointed to the Therapy Room. As I approached, I could see through the long windows that there was a piano inside.
A piano in a hospital? It seemed almost too bizarre to ignore. Curiosity piqued, I slipped into the room and peered around. Comfy looking cushions were spread across the floor; an easel sat in one corner; board games, playing cards, and children's toys in another; and on the far end of the room, a black digital piano shone and glistened.
Taking the unspoken invitation, as if some invisible force was pulling me toward it, I made my way across the room and settled on the piano seat. I lifted the cover and stared down at the keys, before playing a glissando – hitting all the keys in turn. Something about the action felt...natural.
Without knowing what I was doing, I fixed my fingers and began to play. My initial thought was that I would make an absolute racket, and have all of the patients screaming for me to shut the hell up.
It took a while watching my fingers work miracles, sliding across the keys with dexterity and skill, before I realized that I was playing. Really playing. The tune, I didn't recognize, but it sounded pleasant.
Slowly I closed my eyes and let myself be taken over by the music. I felt it in my soul. I lost track of all time and place.
Who knew how long I sat there hitting those keys, blasting out melody after melody, no stopping in between to contemplate what I would play next, before jumping to the next one? At least half an hour.
It was only when I did stop to stretch my fingers, that I heard clapping behind me. Startled, I spun around to see a young boy in a hospital gown standing with a nurse.
The boy, who looked no older than twelve and had a sickly, pallid hue to his thin frame, seemed to be putting all the energy he had into those claps, his grin weak.
"Oh, I didn't know I had an audience," I said, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks.
The nurse, a blonde who wore her shoulder-length hair in a neat French plait, gave me a warm smile, revealing immaculate white teeth. "Please don't stop on our account."
"That was so awesome," the boy said, eyes wide and bright.
"Thank you," I said, shoving my hands between my thighs, embarrassed.
"All right, Orion. We agreed just five minutes," the nurse said to the boy. "Go back to bed. I'll get in trouble if anyone catches you out here."
Orion huffed and puffed but did as he was told. I waved goodbye to him as he reluctantly departed.
"I'm sorry. When he heard you playing, he insisted on watching," she said to me.
"I didn't know if I was supposed to be here or not. I just saw the piano and couldn't resist."
She smiled again, the friendliest sparkle in her eyes. She was beautiful in a subtle way, like she didn't know it. Serene and humble.
"No one ever uses this place for its intended purpose. It's supposed to be where patients come to relax, unload the stress from their treatments, their ailments, that sort of thing. Mostly visitors just dump their kids in here to keep them quiet."
I watched her pick up the cushions and arrange them neatly in the corner of the room.
"The best we've ever gotten out of the piano is Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, so this is a pleasant surprise." She chuckled. "You play beautifully."
"I know!" I said, looking down in wonderment at my hands. Only when she chuckled again, and I looked up and saw that one eyebrow was raised, did I realize how conceited I must have sounded.
"Modest," she laughed.
My cheeks burned. "I'm sorry, I'm just surprised myself. I didn't know I could do that."
She gave me a whimsical frown. "You didn't know you could play the piano? That's the strangest thing I've ever heard."
I looked down, not amused, feeling stupid.
Then something must have clicked for her, because she said quickly, "Oh, you're...Jane Doe, aren't you?"
I groaned. "I wish people would stop calling me that."
"Yeah, you don't really look like a Jane to me." She smiled, came closer, and tilted her head as she regarded me, sized me up. "You're more an Abigail."
I didn't hate the name.
I tried it out. "Hi, I'm Abigail. Nice to meet you." It worked. "I've been trying to decide on a name. Abigail works."
She shook my hand. "Nice to meet you, too, Abigail," she said with a laugh. Was she ever not in a good mood? Maybe this persona went with the role? Then again, judging by Nurse Misery's character, it clearly wasn't a prerequisite for getting the job.
"You know you're sort of a celebrity around here now? Everyone's talking about you."
I groaned again. "The idiot who can't remember her name, or where she comes from. I bet."
"No one's saying that. Nothing interesting ever happens in Oakwood. Any news is fascinating to the residents."
"So I keep hearing. Have you always lived here?"
"I grew up not far from here, in an even smaller town. I've lived here about ten years."
Why couldn't she have been my nurse instead of Nurse Misery? She was everything a person could ask for in a nurse: sweet, funny, easy on the eye. Was there a possibility of getting a swap without insulting her coworker?
"What's it like...really like? I might be here awhile. I just want to know if I'll be okay," I said miserably. A fish out of water, as new to the world as a newborn baby.
"Well, without sounding too biased, I'd say Oakwood is about the nicest and safest place anyone could hope to get amnesia in." She winked at me. "You'll be just fine."
For some reason, perhaps because her voice was so soothing, I believed her. After all, if someone as nice as she was could live here, it couldn't have been that bad.
&
nbsp; I let out a heavy sigh anyway. This still wasn't home, no matter how friendly the residents were.
"I don't know where home is, which means I'm always going to feel empty."
She gave me a sympathetic look. "Home is where the heart is...Abigail."
I didn't understand what she meant by it, and searched those deep blue eyes for meaning.
"I know it sounds cliche, but it's true." She patted me gently on the hand. "And you'll get your memory back, in time. Until then, welcome to Oakwood."
She had this extraordinary ability of taking the bizarre out of my situation and allaying my fears about the future.
I got a glimpse of her name tag. Tiffany.
"Is it all right if I play a bit more? It kind of comforts me, makes me feel closer to my past."
"Take all the time you need. Hey, maybe you were a concert pianist in your old life?"
She said farewell and left me alone in the room.
A concert pianist? The thought brought a smile to my face. If that were the case, there would be information about me somewhere, right? Maybe I was great once.
I resumed playing, Nurse Tiffany's encouraging words driving me. This was the first time I'd smiled since waking up in the hospital.
SIX
The idea of a therapy room like the one I'd stumbled upon in a hospital seemed odd to me at first. How could a couple of instruments, some games, and mismatched cushions provide any type of therapy to anyone, right?
Well, as it turned out, everything about the room was therapeutic. Playing, I found, relaxed me like nothing else. Nor reading, nor watching TV, nor listening to Claudia talk extensively about how odd her family seemed. Alone with the music, I truly lost myself, just closed my eyes and sank into a deep trance, letting the melodies sooth me. The whole thing was a miracle. I couldn't remember my own name, yet Mozart and Debussy's piano solos (as identified by one of the other patients) hadn't been extinguished from my memory. This amnesia thing made no sense.