by Joy Fielding
“Over there.” The woman pointed toward several long tables and chairs. She fanned at the air with her fingers as she headed back to her desk, then stopped. “What did you say your name was?”
“Vicki Lewis.” Jane’s voice was barely a whisper. “Dr. Meloff’s secretary.”
“Of course. He’s on vacation, I understand.”
“White-water rafting,” Jane confirmed, fighting dizziness.
“How adventurous.”
“To each his own,” Jane heard herself say, shrugging her shoulders. Maybe she really was Vicki Lewis.
She dropped the heavy book on the table with a crash that attracted the attention of a nearby intern, who smiled up at her briefly before returning to his studies. The librarian glanced toward her, then opened the top drawer of her desk, removing what looked to be some sort of list. Is she checking to see whether Dr. Meloff has a secretary named Vicki Lewis? Jane wondered, burying her head in the psychiatry text when the woman looked back in her direction.
Get to work, Jane commanded herself, locating Amnesia under the A’s. At least it hasn’t forgotten where it’s supposed to be, she thought and had to stifle a laugh. She snuck a peek at the librarian, but the woman was on the phone and hadn’t heard her. Concentrate, she told herself, wishing the words on the pages would stay in a straight line.
Amnesia was described as the partial or total inability to recall past experiences and was the result of either organic brain disease or emotional problems. If the amnesia was based on a disturbance of purely emotional origin, it tended to fulfill specific emotional needs and generally subsided when these needs were no longer operative.
Just as Dr. Meloff had told her, hysterical amnesia was defined as a loss of memory for a particular period of past life or for certain situations associated with great fear or rage. It could cause severe depression. Did that mean that her depression might simply be the result of her condition, the way Michael kept insisting? That it had nothing to do with the pills she had been taking?
She flipped to Hysterical Fugue State and quickly confirmed that it was a dissociative reaction that set in following a severe emotional trauma. So tell me something I don’t know, she thought, her eyes skimming the rest of the paragraph, feeling let down and increasingly anxious. It didn’t look as if she’d find anything to help her here.
And then she saw it: A momentary loss of impulse control that nearly leads to the murder of a loved one may be followed by a complete loss of memory concerning all personal identifying data.
Was it possible she had actually tried to kill Michael?
She immediately recalled her initial confusion at the Lennox Hotel when she was frantically trying to piece together what might have happened to her. She remembered the horror that had swept through her when she realized that she might have been able to kill someone, that such an act felt possible. Everything she had learned about herself in the past month had confirmed she had a very nasty temper that exploded at the slightest provocation. So, she might very well have tried to kill her doting husband of eleven years. But why? Because he had found out about her affair with Daniel Bishop? Was his turning her into a vegetable his way of getting back at her for her betrayal?
The text went on to say that this type of loss of memory was readily recoverable with hypnosis or strong suggestion, particularly when offered in a setting that promised extended relief or actual physical separation from the traumatic life situation. Perhaps her being at home, the probable scene of a possible crime, had been largely responsible for her memory failing to return.
Sleep had conveniently kept her from her first appointment with a psychiatrist, and Michael hadn’t rescheduled another visit until six weeks later. His recent talk about taking her to a hypnotherapist had been just that. Jane shook her head, lowering it momentarily against the open pages of the book, feeling the coolness of the printed word against her cheek. It was very possible she’d never know the truth.
Maybe she’d ask the police to hypnotize her, she decided, lifting her head in time to see the familiar scowl of Dr. Klinger walking toward her.
“Mrs. Whittaker,” he acknowledged, pulling up the chair across from her and sitting down.
“Dr. Klinger.” She wondered if he could see her heart racing beneath her pink sweater.
“You remember me. I’m flattered.”
“Even hysterical amnesiacs have to remember somebody.” She found his failure to smile somehow reassuring. “And you don’t have to tell me that only hospital personnel are permitted to use the facilities. I know that. I just chose to ignore it.”
“Obviously you had something important you hoped to accomplish.”
“There were some things I wanted to know.”
“About your condition?” He turned over the front cover of the book and examined its title.
“No, about the Library of Congress cataloging system.”
For a minute it looked as if Dr. Klinger was seriously considering her response. “Oh, I see,” he remarked, “a little sarcasm.”
“Amnesiacs are very good at sarcasm. It says so on page one thirty-three.”
“What else have you learned?”
She shrugged, modeling the careless flip of her shoulders after Vicki Lewis. “Who told you I was down here?”
“Mrs. Pape,” he said, indicating the librarian, “called Dr. Meloff’s office to check on Vicki Lewis and found out that’s who she was speaking to, and Ms. Lewis had a pretty good idea who might be impersonating her, so she got hold of me.”
“And what exactly did she tell you?”
“That you came in wanting to see Dr. Meloff, that you seemed upset, distracted—”
“Overdressed?”
“She said it looked like you’d been sleeping in your clothes.”
“Ms. Lewis is obviously more observant than I gave her credit for. Tell me, Dr. Klinger, aren’t you curious?”
“About what?”
“About why I would be sleeping in my clothes.”
“Do you want to tell me?”
Jane took a deep breath. What the hell, she thought. “We had guests last night for dinner and my husband slipped something into my drink, knocked me right out, and then had to put me to bed. I guess he couldn’t be bothered getting me undressed any more than I could be bothered changing after I pushed the housekeeper into the bathroom this morning and tried to blockade the door. Why is it that doors always open inward, Dr. Klinger? It certainly makes life difficult when you’re trying to escape.” She studied Dr. Klinger’s face for a reaction, received none.
“Why were you trying to escape?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” She laughed loudly. “Flight does seem to be my typical reaction to stressful circumstances, doesn’t it?” She tapped the cover of the textbook on the table in front of her. “Escape, after all, is the hallmark of acute nonpsychotic syndrome.”
“You’re obviously a very bright woman, Mrs. Whittaker. You don’t seem like the type who would run away from her problems.”
This observation and the softness of its delivery caused Jane to look at Dr. Klinger from a somewhat different perspective. Was it possible he was more sensitive than he first appeared? That he could be trusted? Should she use him as a sounding-board, try to enlist his aid? “Would you believe me if I told you that my husband was trying to harm me, that he’s been overmedicating me, and keeping me a prisoner in my own home?”
The expression on his face said it all. “I believe that’s what you think is happening.”
Jane looked toward the ceiling, then back at Dr. Klinger. “In that case, could you possibly lend me a few hundred dollars?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just enough to tide me over until Dr. Meloff gets off his raft.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Does that mean you won’t lend me the money?” Jane pushed back her chair and attempted to stand up, succeeding on her second try.
“Wait a minute
.” Dr. Klinger also jumped to his feet.
“What for? I can see we’re not getting anywhere, and I really shouldn’t be in here, not being on staff and all.”
“Maybe I can help you,” Dr. Klinger stammered, reaching into his pockets.
“You’ll lend me some money?”
“I don’t have a lot.” He withdrew his wallet and slowly pulled out a handful of cash. “Let’s see what I’ve got here.”
“Why would you help me when you think I’m crazy.”
“I never said I thought you were crazy.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Let’s just say I don’t want you heading back to the streets. Dr. Meloff would never forgive me.” He began counting out the few dollars in his wallet. “Let’s see, twenty, thirty, thirty-five, forty-five, forty-seven … forty-seven dollars and twenty-two cents. Not much.”
“It’s great,” she told him. “I really appreciate it.” She reached for the money, only to watch it fall from his hands to the floor.
“Jesus, that was stupid of me.” He was immediately on his knees, gathering up the money.
Could he move any slower? Jane wondered, realizing in that instant that Michael had already been notified and that Dr. Klinger was only trying to stall her until Michael arrived. “Never mind the money,” she told him, trying to push past him, blocked by his stubborn bulk.
She felt his hands on her arms, watched his mouth form words of protest. And then his arms dropped to his sides and his mouth relaxed into a broad smile. In that instant, even before she saw Michael walking steadily toward her, she knew she was lost.
TWENTY-ONE
“DON’T come near me,” Jane warned, grabbing the heavy psychiatric textbook off the table and brandishing it before her like a weapon.
Michael’s voice was tremulous, barely audible. “I didn’t come here to hurt you, Jane.”
“No, you just came to give me my medication, right?”
“I came to bring you home.”
“You can forget that idea.” Jane laughed, her eyes traveling warily between her husband and Dr. Klinger. “Stay back!” she hollered, though no one had moved. She waved the book in her hands as if it were a gun, knowing how ridiculous she must look. CRAZED AMNESIAC HOLDS HOSPITAL LIBRARY STAFF HOSTAGE WITH WEIGHTY PSYCHIATRIC TOME! she saw scrawled across the imaginary headlines of tomorrow’s Boston Globe. “Just leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid. I’m concerned.”
“About what?”
“About you.”
“Bullshit!” Jane spotted movement out of the corner of her eye and spun sideways, watching the young intern creeping toward her. “Stay where you are!”
“Jane, this is ridiculous.”
Jane stared imploringly at the young intern, then shifted her gaze to the librarian. “You don’t know what this man’s been doing to me,” she began, then stopped as Dr. Klinger motioned both the intern and the librarian toward him.
“This is Jane Whittaker,” he said, and Jane fought the urge to answer, Pleased to meet you. “She’s suffering from a form of hysterical amnesia. Her husband, Dr. Michael Whittaker, is a pediatric surgeon at the Children’s Hospital,” he continued, nodding toward Michael, “and has been treating her with mild sedatives prescribed by Dr. Meloff.”
“No, he hasn’t!” Jane shouted. “Dr. Meloff prescribed Ativan. Michael has been giving me Haldol. He’s been keeping me drugged and imprisoned; he won’t let me see our friends; he won’t let me even talk to our daughter.”
“Jane, please—”
“No! I know you have them all fooled. I know they think you’re some kind of god because you’re this great surgeon and everyone thinks you’re so wonderful, and who am I, after all, but some crazy woman who can’t remember who she is, but it’s not that simple. I may not know who I am, but I know that I’m not crazy, at least I wasn’t before this whole horrible mess started. And I wasn’t sick, not the way I am now. So, the question is, how did I get this way? What is this wonderful man doing to me that is making me so sick? What has he been giving me?” Jane stopped, abruptly reaching into her pants pocket and pulling out the two little white pills she had shown the druggist, holding them toward Dr. Klinger and the young intern. “Tell me these are Ativan!”
“Where did you get those?” Michael was asking, surprise in every word. “Did you take them out of my bag?”
Jane was almost speechless. “Did I take them? … Are you trying to say that you haven’t been feeding me these pills?”
“Jane, can we just go home and try to talk this over calmly?”
“You didn’t answer my question. Are you trying to tell me that you haven’t been feeding me these pills?”
“Of course I haven’t.”
“You’re lying!” Again, she glanced toward the others. “Please believe me. He’s lying.”
“Why would he lie, Mrs. Whittaker?” Dr. Klinger asked logically.
“Because something happened that he doesn’t want me to remember. Because it’s in his best interests to keep me in a near-vegetative state. Because he wants everyone to believe I’m crazy so that he can have me locked away in some institution where I’ll never remember what happened, and even if I do, no one will believe me.”
“Jane, please,” Michael pleaded, “don’t you realize how insane this sounds?”
“What am I supposed to do?” she begged the intern. “How can I convince you that I’m telling the truth, that I’m not crazy?”
“You’re embarrassing him, Jane,” Michael told her softly, and Jane could tell by the pink flush that was washing across the young doctor’s face that this was true. “Can’t we keep this matter between the two of us, at least until Dr. Meloff comes back?”
“It’ll be too late by the time Dr. Meloff comes back!” Jane began rocking back and forth on her heels. “Look, why don’t you just go away and leave me alone?”
“I can’t do that, Jane. I love you.”
Despite all her suspicions, Jane somehow knew that this was true. “Then why are you doing this to me?” she pleaded.
“I’m trying to help you.”
“You’re trying to destroy me!”
“Jane….”
“What happened between us, Michael? What were we fighting about that day I disappeared?”
The look that passed through Michael’s eyes convinced Jane she was right: Something had happened; they had been fighting.
“Please, can we talk about this at home?”
Jane lowered the heavy psychiatric text to the table. “It says in this book that a hysterical fugue state can result from a momentary loss….” She struggled to remember the precise wording: “’… the momentary loss of impulse control that nearly leads to the murder of a loved one.’ See? There’s nothing wrong with my memory. Tell me the truth, Michael,” she urged, seeing that the others present were now equally curious. “What were we fighting about?”
“There was no fight,” he told her.
“Liar!”
“Jane….”
“If there was no fight, how did you get that gash on your forehead?”
“It was an accident. A kid threw a toy plane at my head….”
“Bullshit!”
“Dr. Whittaker,” the librarian broke in, “would you like me to call hospital security?”
“No!” Jane shouted.
“No,” Michael concurred. “Not yet. I think Jane can be persuaded to listen to reason.”
“I’m crazy,” Jane shot back. “Why would you think I’d listen to reason?”
“Because I know you. Because I love you.”
“Then why did I try to kill you?”
“You didn’t.”
“We didn’t argue? You didn’t grab me? Maybe shake me? I didn’t grab something sharp? Hit you over the head with it?”
Michael was too stunned to speak.
“Tell me
, then,” Jane began, hesitated, then decided to go all the way, “how did my dress get covered with blood?”
“Blood?” the librarian gasped. “My God.”
“It was your blood, wasn’t it, Michael?”
Michael said nothing.
“And what about the money, Michael? The almost ten thousand dollars that was stuffed inside my coat pockets. How did it get there? Where did it come from? Tell me, Michael. I can see from the look on your face that you know what I’m talking about.”
There was a long pause during which no one seemed to breathe. “Why didn’t you mention any of this before?” he asked quietly.
Jane shrugged, feeling an enormous weight fall from her shoulders. There, she’d done it. Her secret was no longer something she had to cart around inside her like a malformed fetus. It was out in the open and they’d all heard it. Now what was Michael going to do about it?
“Could you leave us alone for a few minutes, please?” Michael asked the others. “I really need to talk to my wife in private.”
“Why can’t you talk in front of them?” Jane asked, suddenly filled with the uncomfortable sensation that she wasn’t going to like what she was about to hear.
“I could,” Michael agreed. “But I think that what I have to say should be confined to the two of us. At least for now. If you don’t feel that way when I’m finished, you can tell them everything yourself. In fact, you can tell whomever you’d like, including the police, if that’s what you decide. I’ve probably made a mistake trying to protect you. I’ve obviously protected you too long as it is.”
“I’ll send someone from security to stand outside the door,” Dr. Klinger offered, and neither Jane nor Michael refused.
“I’m sorry to usurp your space this way,” Michael told the librarian.
“Time for my coffee break anyway.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d get in touch with me later,” Dr. Klinger said, shaking Michael’s hand.
Jane watched as the dour resident reluctantly took his departure, followed by the young intern and the middle-aged librarian. “Don’t come near me,” Jane cautioned as the door closed behind them and Michael took a step toward her.