by Joy Fielding
Dr. Klinger, as he introduced himself solemnly, giving equal weight to each syllable, also checked her pupils, her heartbeat, and her blood pressure, then ordered a battery of blood tests. When she asked what they were for, he explained, with a noticeable trace of impatience, that they were trying to eliminate various physical causes for her amnesia. When she urged him to be more specific, he appeared put out, as if the answers should be self-evident, and told her they were seeking to eliminate alcohol, drugs, AIDS, and tertiary syphilis as possible causes of her condition. Her eyes widened in alarm. Tertiary syphilis was something she’d never even considered.
“Do you really think I might have syphilis?” she couldn’t help but ask, finding the idea almost amusing.
“Not really,” he replied, sounding as if it were an effort to speak. “I’d consider it more of a possibility if you were black.”
Even without knowing who she was, she knew she was offended by the casual cruelty of this remark. I’m a curiosity to them only because I’m white, she thought. If I were black, I’d be dismissed as drunk or stoned or in the final stages of dementia brought on by my rampant promiscuity. She felt her hand form a tight fist underneath her purse, and fought the urge to slam it against the good doctor’s face.
“What else are you checking for?”
His voice was dry, disinterested. “We’re doing a series of metabolic tests to rule out thyroid, kidney, or liver problems. Also any chemical derangement or vitamin deficiency.”
“How long will that take?”
“We should have the results back in about an hour. In the meantime, we’ll do an EEG.”
“That’s where you stick a bunch of wires in my head?”
He didn’t bother with a reply until the wires had been placed at appropriate intervals in her scalp.
“An EEG records brain waves, lets us see any abnormalities. I don’t think we’ll find anything in your case.”
“Why do you say that?”
He shrugged, said nothing.
“You think I’m an alcoholic, don’t you?”
“I think there’s that possibility.”
She was so angry now that it took all her concentrated willpower to keep from leaping off the table and lunging for his throat. Did he treat all his patients with such careless disdain? “If I were an alcoholic,” she began slowly, swallowing her rage, “wouldn’t my body be in some stage of withdrawal right now? I mean, I haven’t had anything but mineral water to drink in two days, and it hasn’t been a problem.”
“There’s really little point in speculating. Why don’t we just wait until we get the results from the blood tests back?”
Why don’t we just stick one of those vials of blood up your tight ass, you patronizing, condescending twerp! she thought but didn’t say.
The EEG revealed her brain waves to be perfectly normal. Dr. Klinger pursed his lips into something appropriately smug, his lips curling downward like a Fu Manchu mustache. “What now?” she asked as he scribbled a few undoubtedly illegible words on his clipboard.
“We’ll wait for the blood tests to come back,” he said, as he had said earlier. “In the meantime, I’ll consult with Dr. Meloff about a CAT scan.”
His back was to her and he was already half out of the room as he was speaking, so she didn’t hear what exactly they were going to do until Dr. Meloff spoke the same words some time later.
Dr. Meloff, a staff neurologist, was consulted when the blood tests revealed no traces of thyroid, liver, or kidney problems, no chemical derangement, no vitamin deficiency, no hint of alcoholism, drug abuse, AIDS, syphilis or other brain-damaging infections. He was a good-looking man with a full head of dark hair, graying slightly at the temples, and an easy smile that went well with his relaxed manner. “I’m Dr. Meloff,” he said, looking over her chart and shaking his head, suppressing a chuckle. “So, you’re not quite yourself today, are you?”
She could only laugh in reply.
“That’s better,” he said, examining her pupils as had the resident and intern before him, then turning her head this way and that. “What’s my name?” he asked casually.
“Dr. Meloff,” she stated quickly, automatically.
“Good. Follow my finger.” He directed her eyes to follow the path he was tracing through the air. “Now, this way.” His finger trailed beyond her line of vision. “No, don’t move your head. That’s it. Good. Very good.”
“What’s very good?”
“On the surface, there doesn’t appear to be anything physically wrong with you. You don’t recall any blows to the head? A fall, perhaps?” His fingers were probing her scalp, massaging the back of her neck.
“No, nothing. At least nothing that I can remember.”
“What is it, exactly, that you do remember?”
She groaned. “Do I have to go through this again? I’ve already been over everything with the police and the other doctors. I’m sure it’s all down on the chart somewhere ….”
“Indulge me.”
He said it so sweetly that she couldn’t resist. Dr. Klinger could take a few pages out of this man’s book, she thought, noting that Dr. Klinger had left the room. “I don’t remember anything about myself at all,” she told Dr. Meloff plaintively. “All I know is that I found myself at the corner of Cambridge and Bowdoin and I didn’t know what I was doing there, how I got there, or who I was. I had no identification; I was alone; I didn’t know what to do. So, I walked around for a few hours and then I checked into the Lennox Hotel.”
“Under what name?”
“I made one up.” She shrugged. “Cindy McDonald. The police have already checked it out. I don’t exist.”
He smiled. “Oh, you exist all right. A little underweight, perhaps, but you definitely exist. What’s my name?”
“Dr. Meloff.”
“Good. So, you spent a few nights at the Lennox Hotel and then turned yourself over to the police.”
“Yes.”
“How did you pay for the hotel?”
“I found some money in my pockets,” she said, and almost laughed.
“Why didn’t you go to the police immediately?”
She took a deep breath, preparing her body for the lie that was to follow. The police had asked her the same questions. She gave the doctor the exact reply she had given them. “I was confused,” she began. “I kept thinking my memory would come back at any minute. I don’t know why I didn’t go to the police right away,” she concluded, picturing the neat little stacks of hundred-dollar bills and her blood-spattered dress, knowing full well.
If he doubted her, he gave no such indication. “But you have no trouble remembering the events of the past few days?”
“No trouble at all.”
“What about current affairs? You know who’s President?”
“I know who’s President,” she told him, “but I don’t know if I voted for him.”
“Stand up,” he told her, helping her down from the examining table. “Close your eyes and balance on your right leg. Good. Now, the other leg. What’s my name?”
“Dr. Meloff. Why do you keep asking me that? I don’t have any trouble remembering who anybody else is, only who I am.”
“You can open your eyes now.”
She opened her eyes to the unpleasant sight of Dr. Klinger. “The patient’s CAT scan is waiting,” he said as if she wasn’t there, denying even her presence in the room, diminishing what little remained of her sense of self. Dr. Meloff took her arm. “It’s all right, Dr. Klinger,” he said, guiding her out of the examining room. “I’ll accompany Ms. McDonald to X-ray.”
Her smile was almost audible as they stepped into the hall.
The X-ray department was located in the hospital’s basement. Patients wandered the tired-looking corridors, looking frightened and confused, generally ignored by the staff unless pressed to do otherwise. Everyone appeared distracted, overtired, overworked. They all looked as if they wished they were somewhere—anywhere—else.
“What’s going to happen?” Her voice carried faint traces of a whine.
“Okay, just relax, this isn’t going to hurt.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You’re just going to take a little ride.”
She sat up, about to object.
“No, lie still. I promise you, you won’t feel a thing. Try to relax. It’ll be over in about ten minutes.”
“And then what?” she asked as she felt the table delivering her into the mouth of the machine.
“Lie very still,” instructed the technician. “Close your eyes. Have a nice little rest.”
“I’ll see you in ten minutes,” Dr. Meloff called as the darkness covered her like a soft blanket.
Her body vibrated gently to the soft hum of the machine as she inched her way through the tunnel. She wanted to open her eyes and look around but was afraid to. She couldn’t remember whether they had told her to keep her eyes closed. She could only hear them repeating to her the importance of lying still.
Don’t move, she whispered silently. Don’t turn your head. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
It’s only for ten minutes, she reminded herself, wanting to scream. Only ten minutes and then she’d be out of this damn contraption. Surely, she could hold on for ten minutes. Ten minutes was a very short time in the general scheme of things. Ten minutes wasn’t too long to ask of anyone.
Ten minutes was an eternity. It was an endless succession of seconds to be gotten through, to be overcome. She should never have agreed to these tests. She should never have come here in the first place. She should never have turned herself over to the police. She should have stayed in the Lennox Hotel until her money ran out and she had no other choice.
She should have run away when she had the chance. How many people, after all, got the chance for a whole new life? How many people got to wipe the slate clean, or had it wiped clean for them? She’d been handed a chance many people would kill for. Had she killed for it?
No, she admonished herself, don’t start thinking about that! Not now. She had to stop worrying about who she might be and what she might have done. Wasn’t that why she was here? So that they could find out for her?
What was so all-fired important about knowing who you were anyway? Look at the number of people in this world who knew exactly who they were and look how miserable they were! No, she’d been given a chance to start again fresh and she’d carelessly, thoughtlessly, thrown it into the garbage along with her coat and her underwear. And now she was stuck. Stuck in the middle of some monstrous machine that was taking pictures of her insides and undoubtedly sneaking peeks into her soul as well. Stuck in the middle of a mystery that would most likely be better left unsolved. Stuck in the middle of a life she had tried to abandon.
Don’t panic, a little voice repeated silently in her ear. In another few minutes, it will be all over.
What will be over? she demanded of the voice. What exactly will be over?
Calm down. Calm down. Try not to get excited. Try not to get upset. You know you only get into trouble when you get upset.
What do you mean? What trouble? What trouble do I get into when I get upset?
Relax. Try to stay calm. You know it doesn’t do any good to lose your temper.
How do I know that? How do you know that? Who are you?
The voice was swallowed by the hum of the machine. She heard nothing further but the stillness, felt herself returned to the womb, as if she were floating in a suspended state, waiting to be born. Behind her closed lids, she saw colors, large splotches of purple and lime green. They formed a kaleidoscope, dancing before her, bursting forward and then retreating into the darkness, only to reappear seconds later. Follow us, they beckoned. We’ll guide you through the darkness.
She followed them until they vanished in the glare of a bright sun, and she found herself stranded in what appeared to be a tropical rain forest. Large leaves hung wet from exotic trees as she stumbled through the dense, highly foliated jungle. The earth seemed to be growing up her legs like tall winter boots. Was she sinking? Had she stumbled into quicksand?
A breeze swirled about her head, threatening to wrap itself around her neck like a boa constrictor, then suddenly dissipated, losing its power, and vanishing. It reemerged seconds later as a steady hum, no longer threatening. She felt her body suddenly freed of its narrow constraints.
“There now, that wasn’t so awful,” a familiar voice reassured her as she opened her eyes.
“Dr. Meloff?”
He smiled. “And I didn’t even have to ask you.”
She sat up, bewildered. Where was she? More to the point, where had she been? “I must have fallen asleep.”
“Good for you. You probably needed the rest.”
“I had the strangest dream.”
“Judging from what’s been happening with the rest of your life, that’s not too surprising.” He patted her hand. “I’ll have the nurse take you back upstairs while I try to figure out the results of your scan. I won’t be too long.”
He wasn’t. Within the hour he returned with the news that her scan was perfectly normal.
“So, what now?”
“I’m not sure,” he said and she laughed, appreciating his honesty.
“You never answered my question,” she told him, watching him raise one eyebrow. “About why you keep asking me your name.”
“Checking for something called the Korsakoff’s syndrome,” he replied sheepishly.
“Sounds like a book by Robert Ludlum.”
He laughed. “Yes, it does. Have you read any?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just testing.”
“And this Korsakoff’s syndrome, what exactly is it?”
“It involves a loss of memory. The patient can’t recall anything from one minute to the next, so they confabulate constantly.”
“Confabulate? You mean lie?” He nodded. “Confabulate,” she repeated. “What a lovely word.”
“Isn’t it?” he agreed. “Anyway, you tell them your name and two minutes later, they can’t remember it, so they make something up.”
“But why would they do that?”
“People who suffer from amnesia often find it a useful tool not to make others aware of the extent of their condition. That way they’re able to gather more facts about themselves with no one being the wiser.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Nobody said forgetting who you are was going to be easy.”
She smiled. “So you’ve decided I don’t have this Korsakoff’s syndrome?”
“I’d say we can forget Mr. Korsakoff. Besides, it’s a syndrome usually related to alcohol abuse, and we’ve definitely eliminated that.”
“What haven’t you eliminated?”
“My best guess, and that’s all it is,” he stressed, “is that your amnesia is due to some sort of psychological trauma.”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You think it’s all in my head,” she stated almost angrily, then laughed. “You’re trying to tell me the fact that I have nothing in my head is all in my head.”
He smiled. “I’m trying to tell you that you may be suffering from an acute nonpsychotic syndrome.”
She could feel her body becoming restive, impatient. “Could we speak English here, please, Dr. Meloff?”
He chose his next words slowly, deliberately. “Everyone has a limit to their tolerance of anxiety. When that limit is reached, some people choose escape through the sudden loss of memory. It’s called a fugue state and it’s most often characterized by f
light. When the life situation becomes too stressful, the individual chooses to deal with it by not dealing with it at all, by escaping.”
“Come on, Dr. Meloff, people live with great amounts of stress in their lives every day. They don’t just go wandering off forgetting who they are.”
“Some of them do. Others have nervous breakdowns, beat their kids, have affairs, rob a bank, even commit murder. Hysteria comes in a variety of shapes and sizes.”
She looked up at the ceiling, suppressing a few unwanted tears, the image of her bloodied dress dancing before her eyes. “So you think I’m some sort of hysteric?”
“There’s a big difference between being a hysteric and suffering from hysterical amnesia. Hysterical amnesia is a coping mechanism, a form of self-preservation, if you will. It involves a loss of memory involving a particular period in a person’s life, a period usually associated with great fear, rage, or deep shame and humiliation.”
“It sounds like you’ve been reading up on this.”
He grinned. “I stopped and had a few words with one of the staff psychiatrists on my way back here.”
“Maybe I’m the one who should be talking to the psychiatrist.”
He nodded agreement. “I’d like to run a few more tests first. Just to make sure there isn’t something we’ve overlooked.”
“Such as?”
“I was thinking of a magnetic resonance scan. It’s different from the CAT scan in that it takes an image of the brain using a magnet rather than an X-ray. There’s also something called a BEAM test, which stands for Brain Electrical Activity Mapping and is a computerized analysis of brain activity, rather like an EEG. We might also consider a PET-scan, which stands for Positron Emission Tomography, and which tests the metabolism of the brain using radioactive material.”
“You’re going to nuke me?”
He laughed. “Maybe we’ll leave that one out.”