Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  Against my will, my eyes were pulled upward. She hovered in the doorway—slightly larger, more full-formed, somehow more real than before. I stared in terrified fascination, unable to move and unable to break eye contact. I was overcome by the feeling that I had never been in this room before, that nothing—not me, not my desk, not my chair, nothing but the tiny woman—was familiar or real.

  She smiled, showing a row of small, even, white teeth that reminded me of a child’s. Her smile warmed her deep brown eyes, but they still retained a tinge of sadness, and were underscored by the smudge of tired circles. She was frail and thin, and looked as if she could be blown away by a weak wind. I felt compassion, almost a sense of friendliness, mingle with my fear.

  The tiny woman cocked her head and raised her lace cuff, beckoning for me to follow with a dainty gesture of her small, familiar hand. But I was momentarily unable to move as I watched her turn and float from the doorway. Then I followed as if hypnotized; I followed the apparition I knew could not exist.

  The tiny woman hovered over the coffee table; she pointed downward. On the table was a file. I grabbed it and pulled it open. My budget projections were nestled neatly inside, just as I had left them the night before.

  Simultaneously horrified and relieved, I looked up. The tiny woman smiled, and twisting and distorting like Clay’s cocoon, she disintegrated into the dust motes.

  6

  “So am I crazy?”

  Naomi Braverman tapped the papers she held in her lap and smiled. “Not terribly so.”

  “But sort of?”

  “Lindsey, I’m going to level with you—it’s very hard to make any kind of conclusive diagnosis on the basis of these tests.”

  “But I spent days with those people,” I whined.

  “I know, and I’m sorry, but about the only thing I can say is that the test results are inconclusive.”

  “Can you tell anything?”

  “I can give you all the specifics, if you’d like—” she waved a number of single-spaced reports at me “—but the bottom line is that on almost every test—on the neuropsychs and on the psychological battery—your scores were within, but pushing, the accepted boundaries.”

  “Pushing the edges of the sanity envelope?”

  “So to speak.”

  “But what does it mean?” I demanded.

  Naomi picked up a pair of wire-rim reading glasses from the table and placed them on the end of her nose. “Well,” she said, peering through the small, oblong lens, “your Rorschach and TAT show that you’re not psychotic, but that you do have an extremely active fantasy life. The IQ test indicates high intelligence, although you did exhibit idiosyncratic word usage, and your digit span score was surprisingly low.” She frowned. “Perhaps the digit span has to do with the meaninglessness of the material, because—” she pulled the bottom sheet from her pile and squinted at the small type “—your Wechsler showed no apparent attention, visual-spatial, or memory deficits using meaningful stimuli. On the other hand, one of the flaws of this type of test is that a high IQ can actually ‘fool’ it and hide a brain dysfunction.” She shook her head. “It’s all quite inconsistent.”

  “But what does it mean? Am I normal or not?”

  “Well, there’s always a great deal of latitude in interpreting these tests—and ‘normal’ is a relative term. What it really means is that we need to keep searching.” She took her glasses off and folded them on her lap.

  “More tests?”

  She nodded. “The neurological tests you already have scheduled are the logical next step.”

  “Great,” I said, staring at the broken cuckoo clock.

  “Look at it this way: Figure you passed the psychological and now we just need to make sure that you’re neurologically sound too.”

  “My mother always said a D wasn’t passing.”

  She smiled. “Think of it as a C minus.”

  We rocked in silence for a while. “So what should I talk about?”

  “You can talk about whatever or whomever you like. Or you don’t have to talk at all.” She leaned forward and put her glasses on the table.

  I chose not to talk at all. I rocked rhythmically and stared at the faded beak of the poor bird who would never be able to go inside his little house again. Well, perhaps someday he would. “Want to hear about my latest daymare?”

  “Sure.”

  “Or would you rather hear about my repressed childhood traumas? About how I was toilet trained when I was a year old? About my claustrophobia and how I wanted to marry my mother? Or how about how I was my father’s favorite and he died when I was thirteen?”

  “Were you?”

  “Was I what?”

  “Were you your father’s favorite?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I was. I have three brothers—I was his only little girl.”

  “And did he die when you were thirteen?”

  I nodded and rocked. “I’m not very good at this, am I?”

  “You’re doing just fine.”

  “My childhood was actually boring. Aside from my tyrannical mother, my brothers driving me nuts with their practical jokes—and except for my father dying—it was all pretty normal middle-class stuff.” We rocked in silence again. I noticed that Naomi had remembered her shoes today. “Clay was very handsome.”

  She nodded.

  “Not just your normal handsome—he was gorgeous, magnificent even. Women were always telling me how lucky I was while they were falling all over him. It didn’t matter if they were four years old or sixty years old—as long as they were female, they were crazy about Clay.” I could see him as he had been that first night, leaning against the bar in his blue flannel shirt, that irresistible come-on look in his eye.”

  “He pursued me,” I continued. “I wouldn’t have thought of pursuing him—I’d never set myself up for that kind of failure. But for some reason, he really wanted me. I’ve always wondered why. I know I’m all-right-looking—people often tell me I’m attractive—but he was beyond attractive and well into movie star.” I laughed. “I guess it must have been all my other fine qualities.”

  She smiled. “Must have been.”

  “He was a real romantic. He was always buying me extravagant presents—jewelry and flowers and lots and lots of clothes. Mostly clothes. Mostly clothes that were his taste, not mine—he went for pastels and things that were a bit too lacy and feminine for me—but it’s the thought that counts, right?” I shook my head, trying to shake away the tears of self-pity pricking behind my eyes. “For our first anniversary he bought me an entire living room set!” I stared at the lonely little bird. I blinked and few tears rolled down my cheek; I brushed them away with my sleeve and took a deep breath. “He was also the most attentive man I ever met.”

  “How did all that attention make you feel?”

  I thought for a moment. “Flattered. The first year we were married, he came to my office every day and took me out to lunch—sometimes to expensive places we couldn’t really afford, and sometimes to hotels we didn’t need because we could have just gone home.” I could feel myself blushing. “You know.”

  “I know.” She smiled again.

  “And he loved surprising me. He even surprised me with our honeymoon.”

  “How so?”

  “He was like a little kid—like a fun-loving little boy.” I smiled at the memory. “He decided our honeymoon was going to be his wedding gift to me. He wouldn’t tell me where we were going or how long we were going to be gone. He was so into it, he covered my eyes in the departure lounge so I couldn’t read the sign. It wasn’t until we were on the plane that I found out our destination was Oregon.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Excited. Kind of pampered, protected—taken care of, I guess.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, not really.” I paused. “Well, it did make it kind of hard. Like packing—I ended up with all the wrong clothes because I thought we were going to Mexico.�
�� I paused again. “And it was a real pain at work.”

  She nodded.

  “I never really liked camping.”

  She nodded again.

  “But he was right in the end. We had a wonderful time. We talked and made love and spent every second together. There wasn’t another human being for miles. And it was so romantic sleeping under the stars—even with the rocks. There are so many more stars out there. You can actually see the Milky Way floating behind the closer ones.” I paused. “Have you ever been to Oregon?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s the most beautiful place in the world.” I burst into tears. Naomi handed me the box of tissues that lay on the low table between us. I blew my nose loudly. I swiped at my eyes and blew my nose a few more times; finally my sobs subsided. “I wasn’t a very good wife.”

  “In what way?”

  “Oh, I just wasn’t any good at all that wife-type stuff. I’m sort of a slob and not very organized, and I can’t cook.”

  “Is that all there is to being a wife?”

  “Of course not, I know that—but that kind of thing was important to Clay. He had a working-class macho side of him—even though he had a college degree and was very smart. He was brought up in a strict Catholic home, and it had a very strong influence on him. I learned quickly never to discuss things like abortion or divorce—he was with the pope all the way on those two.” I laughed without any humor. “In some ways we were really mismatched. Our families always thought so—a Jew and a Catholic. You can imagine how well my mother received the news of our engagement.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Totally lost it. She said lots of terrible things—things I still can’t forget. Won’t ever forgive.” I crossed my arms. “I think she was happy when he died.”

  “Oh?”

  “And his family blamed me for his death.” I pushed down hard with my feet and rocked back in my chair. “Cancel those last two thoughts—neither is true. I don’t know why I said them. She cried at the funeral, and his father still calls me sometimes.”

  She nodded.

  “I took a couple of cooking classes at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education. We were madly in lust and tried to do all kinds of things for each other at first—Clay even cut back on his sports for a while. But he was no better at giving up his Celtics than I was at not overcooking the fish. I just have no flair for it.” I started to laugh. “One night he got so angry, he picked up his plate—filled with overcooked fish—and threw it across the room to the wastebasket!”

  Naomi wasn’t laughing.

  “Oh, it wasn’t that bad. All those hours shooting hoops paid off—almost all the fish landed in the garbage.”

  Noami still wasn’t laughing.

  “It wasn’t like he did things like that all the time. Actually, he wasn’t physically violent at all—he was loving and attentive and lots of fun. We really did have a lot of fun … He’d just had a few too many beers that night, that’s all.” I could feel the tears behind my eyes again. “The day he died is a total blank. A complete black hole. The entire day. Even though it didn’t happen until the afternoon, I don’t remember getting up that morning or having breakfast or anything.”

  “Have you ever had this kind of memory blackout before?”

  “That was the first and only time.” I paused. “No, no, that’s not true. There was another time. That’s right! It was about a year—no, it was Christmas—so it was six months before Clay died. Linda’s wedding. I have the same kind of black hole.”

  “Was anything traumatic going on at that time?”

  “No, no, it was just an ordinary time. I remember Clay didn’t want to go to the wedding, and we fought about it—but that was nothing new; he never wanted to do anything with my friends. But between the fight and the wedding brunch, there’s nothing. I remember the brunch, I remember Clay wasn’t there, but I don’t remember the ceremony at all. I know I went to the church, because there’s a picture. My friends all say I acted weird—that I had promised to tell them some secret and then pretended I had no idea what they were talking about.”

  “Did you have a secret?”

  “If I ever had one, it’s in the black hole.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Pretty strange, huh?”

  She nodded.

  “I know what happened the day Clay died because my brother Joel told me all about it. But it’s like it happened to someone else—like I wasn’t there. I know all the details—but I don’t remember experiencing them.” I looked down at my feet. “Although in some strange way, it’s almost like the memories are there—they’re just too far down to reach. I just can’t get to them.” I looked up. “This means I am crazy, huh?”

  She smiled kindly. “Posttraumatic amnesia is quite common, Lindsey. And incidentally, so are posttraumatic nightmares.”

  “How about posttraumatic guilt?”

  “Guilt about what?”

  “The whole thing.” I shrugged. “I’ve always felt guilty about the whole thing. Felt I should have been able to stop it. Should have been a better wife—better prepared somehow … If, if only I’d checked his adrenaline ampules, if only I’d been on top of things, Clay would be alive today.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  I thought about her question for a moment. “Yes and no.”

  Naomi looked at her watch. “I’m sorry, Lindsey, but our time’s up and we’re going to have to stop here for today.”

  “Oh,” I said, startled. “Oh, yes, right. The fifty-minute hour.”

  “We can pick up right here again next week if you’d like.”

  I stood up. “Actually, I could live without talking about this stuff. It’s making me feel kind of sick.”

  “That’s not surprising.” She got up and walked me to the door. “I hope the neurological testing goes well.”

  “It’s scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “Then it’s possible I might have the results for you next week.” She ushered me out the door. I found myself in a narrow and deserted hallway, two damp, balled-up tissues clutched in my hand.

  The nurse let me wear two johnnies. I put one on with the open flap in the back and the other with the flap in the front; with the two sets of strings tied, I was almost decent. She patted my hand as she turned me over to a talkative orderly who led me into the inner sanctum of one of the most high-tech, high-cost, high-volume radiology departments on the face of the earth. The joys of living in the hub of the medical universe.

  Russell Franklin—he ordered me to call him Rusty—told me more than I’d ever wanted to know about magnetic resonance imaging, or as he affectionately referred to it: MRI. “Look at this baby, will you?” he demanded proudly as he shut the heavy door, sealing us into a room almost completely filled by a ten-foot-long, five-foot-high, shiny white, alien-looking “thing.” The thing was an MRI scanner, a huge electromagnet, which—according to Rusty, who was quoting Dr. Smith-Holt—was going to “conduct the singing of hydrogen atoms” in my brain. Then the computer was going to draw some “really awesome pictures”—Rusty quoting Rusty.

  “Costs a small fortune—this scanner. This whole setup,” Rusty said. “Somewhere between three and four mil, including the room. The room’s got to be totally protected from radio waves. These babies are so powerful—” he slapped the machine playfully “—that one in the Big Apple picked up a shortwave broadcast from Vatican City. Can you beat that?”

  “Guess not.” I smiled weakly.

  “Come right on over here and lay yourself down.” He walked to the far side of the machine and pointed to a stretcherlike appendage. I followed slowly and saw that the machine was hollow, that it was actually a long, narrow cavity, and that I was expected to get inside it. I began to sweat. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You won’t feel a thing. Alls there’ll be is a magnet with about sixty thousand times the pull of the North Pole, and blasts of radio waves. Piece a’ cake.”

  “Piece a’ cake,” I repeated, not gettin
g too close.

  He grabbed my hands. “Any rings? Earrings? Pacemaker? Shrapnel from an old W W Two injury?”

  “Nope.” I smiled in spite of myself. “The nurse took all my jewelry.”

  “I got to double-check. With a magnet like this baby, you don’t want any interference. No gun, right?” He grinned. “Heard the one about some hotshot Mafioso guy?”

  I shook my head.

  “He refused to have one of these things—they wouldn’t let him bring his gun, so he said, ‘No way!’”

  I held my hands up. “No gun.”

  “Hop on.”

  I did as he said, although reluctantly. I lay on my back, and he fiddled with some supports to keep my head immobile, buckled a wide strap across my hips, and placed three blankets on top of me.

  “Snug as a bug in a rug,” Rusty said cheerfully. “Remember, don’t move a muscle and it’ll all be over soon. Once they pop you in the oven, you’ll be able to hear Dr. Smith-Holt through the speakers. Remember—piece a’ cake!” He waved and left me alone with the big white thing.

  There was a slight jolt and my stretcher began to slide noiselessly into the starkly white and starkly shiny tunnel. I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t move; I was trapped. First my feet and then my chest and then my head slid in. I felt as if I were being pushed into a drawer in a morgue.

  I couldn’t take a full breath; I couldn’t get the air to reach my lungs. The top was an inch from my nose; my arms were pushed up against my sides. It was narrow, it was close, and it was hot. There was another jolt and the stretcher stopped; I was surrounded, belted down and imprisoned inside the thing. Sweat ran between my shoulder blades. A coffin.

  “How are you doing in there, Mrs. Kern?” Dr. Smith-Holt’s voice blasted in my ear. I turned my head and noticed two sets of tiny holes marring the otherwise smooth surface.

  I tried to force air into my lungs. “It’s, it’s a bit tight,” I gasped to the holes on my right.