by Joy Fielding
“It’s very hard on Dr. Whittaker.”
Oh, screw Dr. Whittaker! she almost yelled, biting down hard on her bottom lip to keep the words from escaping. She felt a trail of drool run quickly from her mouth to her chin, and she reached up with the back of her hand to wipe it away.
“There’s some tissues in the glove compartment.”
“I don’t need any tissues.” Jane felt an unwanted quiver in her voice, and realized she was close to tears. How could she move so fast between two such extremes? One minute she was laughing, the next she was crying. I’m acting like a child because I’m being treated like one, she told herself, staring out the side window, watching, as if on cue, a group of perhaps twelve children, their miniature fists clenching a common rope, marched along the sidewalk, bracketed on either end by several determinedly enthusiastic young women wearing T-shirts proclaiming their allegiance to the Highlands Day Camp.
The children were about six or seven years old, the girls outnumbering the boys by a margin of approximately two to one. If this were a more normal summer, would Emily be part of this smiling menagerie?
Jane felt an ache deep within the pit of her stomach. I may not be able to remember you, sweetheart, she thought, turning away from the children, but I know that I need you, and I think that you need me. She decided that she would definitely ask Michael to bring their daughter home.
Paula turned left onto Beacon Street. Another Beacon Street, Jane thought. Boston was full of them. “Stop!” she cried suddenly, and Paula’s foot jammed hard on the brake. The car sputtered its reproach, then lapsed into a noisy, quivering coma.
“What the hell …?”
“It’s Emily’s school!” Jane jumped out of the car and ran toward the simple two-story structure that was Arlington Private School.
“Get back in the car, Jane.”
Jane came to an abrupt halt at the sound of Paula’s voice but made no effort to return to the car. Indeed, she couldn’t have moved had she tried. Her legs were rooted to the concrete; her whole body was shaking. Something was racing toward her, gathering strength, like an enormous tidal wave, and she could neither retreat from it nor leap out of its path to avoid being swept away. She stood paralyzed, more with wonder than with fear, as another memory flooded over her.
FOURTEEN
“OKAY, does everybody have their tickets ready?”
Jane listened as the teacher’s shrill voice forced its way into her consciousness. She saw herself on the upper level of the South Station standing in the middle of a large gathering of children, their teachers, and a handful of parent volunteers, everybody tired after a full afternoon at the Children’s Museum in downtown Boston. She quickly counted the heads of the eight children, including Emily, who had been assigned to her care.
“Remember that the transit system is for everybody,” the teacher continued, “so no pushing or roughhousing, and keep the noise level down. Are we ready?”
And then, suddenly, a man—short, squat, his balding head jutting forward, his gaze directed toward the floor—was charging through the children, a disgruntled Moses parting the Red Sea, his hands shooting from his sides to push the children out of his way. One of the little girls fell against another child and both started to cry; a little boy narrowly missed being struck in the eye. The man, unrepentant, unforgiving, livid at the invasion of what he obviously considered his space, continued burrowing his way through the now-terrified children, while their teachers and parents watched in helpless fury. He was almost at the exit when Jane’s voice caught up to him.
“Hey, you!” she yelled, chasing after the man, swinging her large heavy purse into the air like a baseball bat and aiming it directly at the back of his head, hearing the two surfaces connect.
Absolute silence filled the area as Jane’s eyes scanned the hushed crowd. The teachers and other parent volunteers stood, mouths opened and eyes wide with shock; the children stared at her with something approaching awe. Or perhaps it was fear, Jane thought, experiencing the same sensation as the man spun around to confront her.
Oh shit, Jane thought. He’s going to kill me.
Instead, the man, about fifty, muscular, ugly in his rage, began shouting, “What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?” before running off.
Am I crazy? Jane wondered. Why is it always me doing these things? I didn’t see anyone else charging after him, rushing to the children’s defense. Her eyes sought out the eyes of the other adults present, but each pair of eyes merely stared back at her, as if afraid to do or say anything that might set her off again. Only one woman, a mother whose hand was draped protectively across a little girl’s shoulders, stared back at her with anything approaching approval. Even Emily hung back, as if she felt somehow responsible for her mother’s outrageous behavior.
“What is it?” a voice asked, coming up behind her.
“What?”
The tidal wave vanished, leaving Jane high and dry, coated with the bitter residue of her memories. She turned to see Paula’s worried gaze, the same look that had shaped the faces of the parents and teachers of Arlington Private School.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” Jane asked Paula, watching her take an automatic step back.
“You’re going through a very hard time.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“It’s the only way I know how to answer.” Each woman avoided looking directly at the other. “Come on, Jane. Get in the car. We’ll go home.”
“I don’t want to go home.” The adamancy in Jane’s voice caught both women by surprise. Paula winced as if she half-expected Jane to strike her. Well, isn’t that my usual routine? Jane asked herself silently. Lose my temper and endanger my life? It’s a wonder I’m still alive. It’s a wonder my husband hasn’t had me institutionalized. I’m obviously certifiable. Why else are my memories nothing more than a collection of temper tantrums?
Unless these memories are trying to tell me something. Unless there is some significance to what my subconscious is choosing to reveal. Or worse. Perhaps these memories are simply the hors d’oeuvre, leading up to the main course, laying the groundwork for the final pièce de résistance, the specialty of the house, the ultimate act of indiscretion that netted me almost ten thousand dollars, a bloody dress, and an empty head. Am I really as crazy as my subconscious would have me believe? Why these memories, and not others?
“I want to see Michael.”
“You’ll see Dr. Whittaker at dinner.”
“Now.”
Paula was trying to usher Jane toward the open car door. “Dr. Whittaker is a very busy man. You wouldn’t want to barge in on him when he’s seeing patients.”
“That’s exactly what I want to do.”
“I don’t think it would be a good idea.”
“Take me to see my husband,” Jane commanded. “Now.” She climbed into the car and slammed the door after her.
“You’re being unreasonable.” Paula resumed her position behind the wheel, and began struggling with the car’s ignition.
Jane was unapologetic. “It’s what I do best.”
“I’m afraid you can’t go in there. Oh, Jane! Is that you? My God, I didn’t recognize you.”
The receptionist stared at Jane through large, cumbersome glasses. But even the glasses failed to keep the alarm from registering on her otherwise nondescript face. Do I look that awful? Jane wondered, trying to catch a glimpse of herself in the glass of the painting behind the receptionist’s desk, appropriately a Renoir of two young girls embracing beside a piano.
“Rosie,” she began, taking note of the woman’s name tag, and pretending to remember her, “I really need to see my husband.”
“Can it wait a few minutes? He’s busy with a patient at the moment. Is he expecting you?” There was a worried cast to her mouth that suggested she already knew the answer.
“I tried to tell you, Jane,” came a voice from somewhere beside her. Christ, was Paula still here? Did the woman never t
ake a break?
“He’s not expecting me, but I’m sure he’ll see me if you just tell him that I’m here. And that I’m very anxious to talk to him.”
The receptionist, whose name tag fully identified her as Rosie Fitzgibbons, knocked gingerly on the door to Dr. Whittaker’s inner office and then stepped inside, angling her body in such a way that none of the inner office was visible to anyone in the outer reception area.
“We shouldn’t have come. Dr. Whittaker will be very upset with me.”
“Oh, go take a hike,” Jane muttered under her breath, rubbing her head, thinking it clearer than it had been in days.
A sharp cough drew her gaze to the row of chairs across from the receptionist’s desk. A forlorn-looking woman sat with her small daughter on her lap, the child pale and fidgety, refusing to play with any of the toys that lay scattered at her feet like discarded tissues. She alternated between coughing fits and whimpering. Her mother checked her watch, more, Jane suspected, to avoid Jane’s scrutiny than because she needed to know the time. A large Mickey Mouse clock stared down at the woman from the wall beside the door. Directly underneath the clock sat a middle-aged man and a young boy with a pronounced harelip, who could either have been his son or his grandson. You never knew these days. The young boy was totally involved with several model airplanes, using his father’s (grandfather’s?) crossed feet as a makeshift runway. Had one of those toy planes been the culprit that took off part of Michael’s skull? “Excuse me,” she said, kneeling down and joining the boy at his father’s (grandfather’s?) feet. “Could I see that jet plane for a minute?”
The boy regarded her suspiciously, clutching the toy close to his small chest.
“I’ll give it right back. I promise.”
“Let the lady see the plane, Stuart.” The voice of male authority. Stuart immediately handed over the plane.
Jane felt the weight of it in the palm of her hand. Or rather, its lack of weight. How could anything this light have resulted in a wound that required almost forty stitches to close? She shut her eyes, tried to picture the toy plane flying through the air at a speed fast enough to tear the skin off a grown man’s forehead. How strong would a small child have to be to throw something this light that fast, and do that much damage?
“Jane?” Michael was suddenly beside her, helping her to her feet. The little boy, Stuart, immediately grabbed the toy airplane out of Jane’s hands.
“I’m so sorry, Dr. Whittaker. She insisted that we come.”
“That’s all right, Paula. You did the right thing. Jane, are you all right?”
“I need to talk to you, Michael,” Jane heard herself say.
“Then we’ll talk,” he said easily. “Come on in my office.” He guided her gently toward the proper door just as a young woman and her small son were making their exit.
“Thank you so much, Dr. Whittaker. For everything you’ve done,” the woman whispered, shaking his hand repeatedly.
“My pleasure. Just take good care of the little guy, and drop me a line now and then to let me know how he’s coming along.”
“You don’t have to see him again?” The woman sounded almost disappointed.
“Not unless something unexpected happens. Of course you can always call me if you’re at all worried about anything.”
The woman smiled her appreciation, and shook Michael’s hand again before she left.
“Paula, why don’t you get yourself a coffee and relax for a few minutes?” Michael suggested, and Jane wanted to hug him on the spot.
She followed him into his office, which looked very much like his study at home, a variation of the same green leather furniture, a large oak desk, walls lined with books. She was quick to note the presence of her photograph prominently displayed on his desk, as well as a large smiling picture of their daughter, minus one of her front teeth.
“I want to see Emily,” she announced as he was closing the door.
“You will see her.”
“Soon. Now.”
“Soon,” he confirmed. “Not now. Jane,” he continued, before she could protest, “we agreed that she’d be better off with my parents until your memory came back.”
“It’s coming back.” She quickly apprised him of her latest recollection.
“Jane,” he said softly, carefully weighing his words, “don’t get me wrong. I think it’s great that you’re starting to remember things, but it’s just the beginning. You still have a very long way to go. You’ve had a few dreams, recalled a couple of highly dramatic incidents, but not the stuff of everyday life, and I think it would be counterproductive, maybe even harmful, both to Emily and yourself, to bring her back into your life at this particular point in time.”
“But I think that if I could just see her …”
“What? That everything would come back to you?”
Jane nodded lamely. Is that what she really thought?
“It’s unlikely to happen that way,” Michael informed her. “If your memory were going to come back all in one swoop, the odds are it would have happened by now. You seem to be recalling things in fits and starts, a little bit at a time. Now, I’m not saying you aren’t going to eventually get your memory back, I’m just saying that it might take a little longer until all the pieces fit together.”
“And if that takes months? …” She wouldn’t admit to the possibility that it might take even longer.
“Then that’s how long we’ll have to wait.”
“But what about Emily?”
“Jane, do you really think it would be a good idea for her to see you in your present condition?”
Jane sank into the small leather sofa by the wall across from his desk, not having to check her appearance to know what he meant. “I’m feeling a little better this morning. I didn’t take my pills, and I think that—”
“You didn’t take your pills? Why? Did Paula forget to give them to you?”
“No. She gave them to me. I just didn’t take them. I hid them when she went out of the room.”
“You hid them? Jane, is that the act of a woman who wants to get better?”
“They were making me feel worse!”
Michael began pacing the room in frustration.
“Really, Michael. I’ve been feeling so crummy lately, and the only thing I could figure out was that I’d either had a stroke …”
“A stroke?” Now he was looking at her as if she had taken complete leave of her senses.
“Or that it was the medication that was making me feel so awful. Maybe I’m allergic to it, I don’t know. I only know that I didn’t take the pills this morning, and I feel a lot better. My head doesn’t feel as if it’s encased in cement. I don’t feel like I’m talking to you from the middle of a tunnel. Please don’t be angry with me.”
He collapsed into the seat beside her. “Jane, Jane,” he began, taking her hands in his, “how could I be angry with you? Of course I’m not angry at you. I’m as frustrated and confused as you are. All I want is for you to get better. I want my wife back. I want my family back. Don’t you think I miss my daughter? Don’t you think I’d give anything to have us all together again?”
“That’s what I want—us all together again.”
“Then you have to follow Dr. Meloff’s instructions. You have to take your medication.”
“Can’t I just try it for a while without it? If I’m no better in a few days, then I’ll start taking it again. I promise.”
“That’s a few more precious days wasted.”
She had no reply. What were a few more precious days, one way or the other?
“I’m sorry,” he was saying. “I don’t mean to give you a hard time. If you think the medication is making you feel sick, then I’ll speak to Dr. Meloff. Maybe he can prescribe something else. And I think that now might be the time to try hypnosis. I’ll see if I can set something up.”
There was a timid knocking at the door.
“Yes?” Michael answered.
Rosie F
itzgibbons angled her head inside the door. “Mr. Beattie asked me to tell you that he has to be back at work in twenty minutes, and that if you can’t see Stuart now, he’ll have to reschedule the appointment.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Michael stood up, straightening his white lab jacket. “I can see him now. You don’t mind, do you, Jane?”
Jane quickly rose to her feet. “You want me to leave?”
“Of course not. Look, why don’t I try to get home for lunch? We can talk some more then.” He ushered her back into the waiting area. Paula had yet to return from her coffee break. “Rosie, will you look after my wife until Ms. Marinelli returns?”
“Happy to, Dr. Whittaker.”
“See you soon,” Michael whispered, kissing Jane on the cheek, then retreating into his office with Mr. Beattie and his son (grandson?), Stuart.
“You want a cup of coffee or anything?”
“No, thank you.”
Jane watched as Rosie Fitzgibbons resumed her position behind her desk.
“Why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable?”
Jane sat. “You don’t have to entertain me. You look pretty busy….”
“Well, I’m always busy. You know what this place is like! We really miss you around here. When are you coming back?”
How much did this woman know? Jane wondered. “I’m not sure.”
“Michael said you had some kind of peculiar virus. …”
“They’re not sure what it is exactly.”
“That’s what he said.”
“I must look awful.”
“Well, I’ve seen you look better, I don’t mind telling you that.” The phone rang. Rosie picked it up. “Dr. Whittaker’s office. No, I’m sorry. He’s in with a patient right now. I can take your name and number and have him call you later. A little slower, please. Could you spell that? T-h-r-e-t-h-e-w-y.? Threthewy? Got it. And the number? Yes, I have it. He’ll get back to you as soon as he can. Thank you.” She hung up, turning back to Jane when the phone rang again. “It never stops.”