by Dani Atkins
Somewhere between the blood tests, the scans, and the X-rays I started to get really scared. I felt like a prisoner in Neverland; it might be nice place to come for a visit, but I really, really wanted to go ‘home’ now, however bad things might be there. One of the worst moments came when I caught sight of my reflection for the first time in the small square mirror positioned above the basin in my room. A nurse had come running at my cry, and I could tell she was at a loss to know what to do, when she saw me running my fingers frantically over the smooth unblemished skin of my cheek. And who could blame her; what was the poor woman supposed to say when I rounded on her, crying, 'My scar. Where's it gone? What have you people done with my scar?'
I just about held myself together until the afternoon, when I was due to meet again with the consultant. The nurse who came to collect me with a wheelchair looked disappointed to see my untouched lunch. Fear and confusion had robbed me of my appetite, well, that and the appalling culinary offerings of the hospital kitchens.
When they wheeled me into the doctor’s consultation room, I was pleased to see my (newly-restored-to-good-health) father waiting for me.
‘Good afternoon, Rachel. Are you feeling a little better today?’ The doctor’s voice was kind and solicitous. Clearly he was expecting an answer in the affirmative.
I shook my head slowly, unable to speak as hot tears began to course down my cheeks. My father reached across from his chair and took my hand. Tactfully choosing to ignore my distress the doctor continued.
‘Well, I have good news, young lady. We have done just about every test imaginable, and I’m happy to report there is no serious or permanent damage resulting from your little escapade.’ He turned in his chair to indicate an illuminated X-ray of a skull, presumably mine, on a lit panel behind him. ‘Everything looks completely normal. No injuries to the brain or cranium whatsoever.’
‘Thank God,’ breathed my father in fervent relief.
‘But it’s all wrong!’ I cried out, ashamed at how pathetic my voice sounded.
‘Oh no, Rachel, I can assure you the tests are all conclusive. We repeated several of them, just to be sure. They most definitely are not wrong.’
‘Not the tests,’ I contradicted, striving not to lose control again and be sedated before I could make them understand. ‘If you say the tests are right, then I suppose I have to believe you. Why would you lie to me about that? But everything else is wrong!’
‘Hush, hush, Rachel.’ I could tell from his tone that I was scaring my dad again. Hell, I was scaring me again, but I had to get through to them this time.
I drew a deep shuddering breath and tried to continue in a less hysterical tone.
‘I know this sounds crazy to you but please just hear me out. I don’t know what is happening here, but none of this is real – at least not to me. In my life – in my real life, my father is sick, very very sick and I think I am too.’
The tone the doctor used was mild and placating.
‘So you believe you have cancer as well, is that it?’
He was making me really angry now. I truly did not like this man.
‘No, not cancer. I have something wrong with my brain.’ Strangely enough no one butted in to refute that one. ‘It’s all due to the accident…’
‘When you were mugged?’ asked Dad.
‘No, the car accident at the restaurant; the one where Jimmy died and I got badly hurt.’
The doctor looked across in confusion at my father, who was shaking his head as though trying to see a solution through a fog.
‘Are you aware of the accident Rachel is talking about?’
‘Well yes,’ replied my father hesitantly, and I almost cried out in relief that he wasn’t going to tell me that I’d imagined that too. ‘A car did crash through the window of a restaurant where Rachel and her friends were sitting. It must have been, oh I don’t know, about five years ago or thereabouts, just before they all went off to university.’
‘And people were seriously hurt? Was Rachel injured?’
‘I think the driver of the car was badly hurt, but Rachel and her friends managed to get away from the window just in time. Rachel was one of the people to come off worse; she fell whilst running from the window and was knocked unconscious for a minute or two, and of course there was also Jimmy, he had quite a nasty cut on his head.’
‘But no one died?’ prompted the doctor.
‘No one died,’ confirmed my dad.
‘But Rachel did hit her head?’
‘She did. She had mild concussion.’
‘And five years later she is mugged and sustains a second injury to her head…’
The doctor made a church steeple with his fingertips as he paused to assimilate all he had been told. ‘I do believe it is all beginning to make sense now.’
It was? Not to me, it wasn’t.
Dr Tulloch leaned across the table, a benign smile upon his face. Unconsciously my father and I leaned towards him to hear his conclusion.
‘Rachel, I believe I now understand what is causing your problems. It seems clear to me that you are suffering from a rather severe case of amnesia.’
If he was expecting his diagnosis to be met with whoops of joy, he was sadly mistaken.
Amnesia? I don’t think so. In fact I knew it wasn’t that. For a start isn’t amnesia when you forget things? Well if so, that clearly wasn’t what I was suffering from. My trouble was remembering things that apparently weren’t real – not forgetting them! Yet when I challenged him on that one, he had a medical explanation.
‘There are many many different types of amnesia. It is far more complex than just the “bang-on-the-head-who-am-I?” stuff you see in the movies.’
‘I see,’ said my dad, and I swivelled sharply in my chair to look at him. Was he really buying into this? Did this answer really make sense to him?
‘And how long will this amnesia last, doctor?’
‘I don’t have amnesia.’
‘Well that depends, it can really vary quite considerably: a day or two, a few weeks. In some cases a full recovery from amnesia can take many months.’
‘I don’t have amnesia.’
‘And with Rachel’s type of amnesia, where she believes she is remembering something which hasn’t actually happened… well, that is rather… unusual, shall we say, so it is hard to say how long it will last. I would like to make arrangements for her to see a specialist in this field.’
My father then asked the question I had been most afraid to hear voiced aloud.
‘Could her amnesia be permanent?’
There was a long silence. I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath to hear Dr Tulloch’s response until I began to feel dizzy from lack of oxygen.
‘There is that possibility, although it is far too early to say for sure,’ he replied in gentle tones. ‘The specialist will be better able to give you a clearer idea on that.’
He got to his feet then and shook my father’s hand, our consultation clearly at a close. As my father pushed the wheelchair from the room, I took one last look back at the white-haired doctor, who was already shuffling my pile of papers and case notes into a neat pile. His eyes met mine.
‘I don’t have amnesia.’
On the doctor’s advice I was to be discharged from hospital the following morning. The specialist appointment would take some time to set up and it was felt I would recover more speedily in my own home. I felt that was highly unlikely, as the last time I saw my own home in Great Bishopsford there were clearly other people living in it. However, I was anxious to get out of hospital, if only to prove to everyone that I wasn’t suffering from some weirdly interesting medical condition and that I was, in fact, telling the truth. And obviously I wasn’t going to be able to prove anything from a hospital bed.
‘Who knows,’ said Dad hopefully, ‘once you’re back home you might find everything just clicks back into place.’
He looked so optimistic, I didn’t have the heart to point out ye
t again the facts I knew to be true.
‘Maybe,’ I offered. ‘Although even in your world I don’t live with you any more, do I? So don’t go expecting it all to come rushing back, eh?’
He looked anguished, as though I’d deliberately tried to hurt him with my words.
‘There is no “your world” and “my world”, Rachel. That’s just your injuries talking. You’ll see that once we get you back home.’
I tried to smile, and was pleased to see I must be a better actress than I had thought.
‘I’m sure you’re right, Dad.’
Matt had clearly been primed about the meeting with Dr Tulloch and its outcome, for when he came in to see me during visiting hours, half obliterated by the most enormous bouquet of flowers I had ever seen, he immediately bent to kiss me and spoke in a strangely irritating conciliatory tone.
‘Rachel, my love, poor you. Amnesia. No wonder you’ve been acting so strangely since you came round. Do you remember anything at all? Do you know who I am?’
For one devilish moment I thought of playing along with it but I backed down in the last instant. That was just too cruel.
‘Yes, Matt, of course I know who you are, we’ve known each other since we were teenagers. It’s just… well, I’ve kind of “forgotten” things that happened recently.’
He passed the flowers to a nurse who had come in to take my blood pressure.
‘Can you put these in water, nurse?’
She didn’t look too happy to be distracted from her duties by a visitor, but she took the mammoth bunch of flowers and I mouthed a small apology to her over Matt’s shoulder. That was one thing I hadn’t forgotten: Matt was used to getting his own way and could come across as somewhat arrogant, if you didn’t know him better.
‘So when you say you can’t remember things that happened recently, just how recently do you mean? The last few days?’
I shook my head.
‘The last week?’
I shook my head again.
‘Longer than that?’
Shaking my head wasn’t going to do it this time.
‘I’ve kind of “lost” the last five years.’
He sat down heavily in the chair. ‘Shit!’
I stayed quiet, letting him absorb the impact of my words.
‘So you don’t remember anything about us? Nothing beyond when we left school? You don’t even remember us getting engaged?’
I bit my lip, knowing he was in shock, but unable to share his emotion. I had, after all, broken up with Matt five years ago. And the Matt I had left behind had been an eighteen-year-old boy, not the bewildered man who sat staring at me now in helpless confusion.
He was quiet for some moments, and even though I hadn’t known this new Matt for very long at all, I could tell his mind was already working at finding a solution. Presumably that was why he was such a success in business: if there was a problem, you fixed it. It was as simple as that.
‘Well I think it’s a good idea that you’re going back to your dad’s for a while. You obviously are going to need someone to look after you for the time being.’
‘I’m not ill, Matt.’
‘No, no, I realise that, Rachel. It’s just that I wouldn’t like to think of you back in London on your own, and you remember I have that important meeting in Hamburg I have to leave for tomorrow.’
‘Actually I didn’t know that. Amnesia, remember?’ Oh, that was almost too cruel of me, but I couldn’t resist.
He looked confused. When had Matt lost his sense of humour?
‘Oh, oh, of course you didn’t know. Well, it’s been planned for months… If there was any way of rescheduling it, then you know I would, but at this late stage…’
I reached out and patted his arm. ‘Relax, Matt, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’
He left not long after that but not before taking me in his arms and kissing me in a way that had felt oddly familiar and completely new all at the same time. I had tried to hold back, but he silenced my protests with his warm mouth and I had ended up returning the kiss with barely concealed eagerness. I might not actually be his fiancée but that didn’t mean I couldn’t at least enjoy something pleasant out of all this madness before I finally made sense of it.
Both of us were a little breathless when we finally broke apart.
‘Well, at least we haven’t forgotten how to do that now, have we?’ There was a confidence now in his eyes and his voice. ‘And if you have forgotten everything else, well I’m just going to have to make you fall in love with me all over again.’
He left, promising to call me at my father’s from Germany and assuring me he would only be away for a little over a week. That was perfect. That should easily give me enough time to try to sort out this whole stupid mess. I didn’t care that everyone else was perfectly happy to accept the amnesia theory. I knew that it wasn’t true. Somewhere out there was my real old life and the sooner I was able to get out of this hospital ward and prove that to everyone, the better.
7
The following morning a nurse brought me the clothes they said I had been wearing when I had been brought in. I didn’t recognise them, but when I slipped them on they appeared to fit me perfectly. And while I didn’t like the feel of wearing someone else’s clothing, it was either that or walk out of there clad only in a hospital gown.
What really surprised me was when the nurse placed a large expensive-looking leather bag on the bed.
‘Whose is that?’
There was sympathy in her voice as she replied.
‘That’s yours.’
I don’t know why she was sounding sorry for me. I appeared to be the owner of a Gucci handbag! As I fumbled to open the unfamiliar clasp, I wondered if it had been a present from Matt; it looked like his style of gift. I held the open bag upside down and tipped the contents out onto the faded hospital blanket. There wasn’t much to give me a clue: keys, a purse, a comb, a make-up bag. I flicked open the purse: the back pocket held more money than I ever carried around and the card slots were filled with an array of credit and store cards, all in my name. My own purse held a solitary debit card.
But it was the mobile phone that interested me most of all. Small and sleek, its shiny mirrored surface glinted brightly under the overhead light, sparkling like treasure. Which it very well could be. I snatched it up and found my fingers were trembling as I struggled to flick it open. It took several infuriating moments while I paused to try and figure out how to display the menu. When I did manage to access the right screen, I was initially disappointed to see that the phone book display held no immediate answers.
I had been so sure that there would be some clue to be found in this tiny device. I scrolled through the list of names: a few were familiar but most were not. I was about to snap shut the phone when the final entry on the list caught my eye. Dr Whittaker. Those two words, illuminated by the pale green backlight of the screen, shone out at me like a lighthouse through a fog. Dr Whittaker was the consultant I had been under after the accident. He was the one who had prescribed the medication I was currently taking for my headaches and it was him I’d been intending to see back in London to investigate why they had suddenly become so much worse.
With trembling fingers I pressed the call button and the wait seemed interminable before the familiar ringing purr came back in response. The connection had just been picked up when the door to my room swung open and in breezed a staff nurse carrying the flowers Matt had given me the night before.
‘I’m sorry, dear, you can’t use your mobile in here.’
Rudely I ignored her, swivelling my body away from her and putting a finger in my free ear, the better to hear what was being said at the other end of the line.
‘Really, I’m going to have to ask you to hang up. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you get outside.’
I gave her a look and something in my eyes must have told her to drop it.
‘You have reached the offices of Dr James Whittaker,’ a ti
nny voice announced in my ear. ‘I’m afraid there is no one here to take your call. Our hours are…’ I flung the phone down on the mattress in frustration.
The nurse eyed me warily as I frantically sought for pen and paper among the stranger’s handbag debris on the bed.
‘Look, I really need you to do me a favour,’ I urged, ripping a back page from a diary and scribbling hurriedly upon it. ‘This is the name and number of a doctor in London who has been treating me for… well, it doesn’t matter. It’s just he’ll know who I am. Can you get Dr Tulloch to call him and he’ll be able to confirm everything about my headaches and… and, well, all the other symptoms.’ I thrust the paper towards her and she hesitated for a second before taking it and placing it in the pocket of her uniform.
‘You will remember, won’t you? It’s very very important.’
Her look of annoyance at catching me using a mobile had been replaced by one of saddened compassion. I think I preferred her angry face.
‘Ask him to ring me at my father’s when he’s got through to Dr Whittaker. Any time – day or night. It doesn’t matter. Everything will all make sense then.’
She was still looking incredibly sorry for me as she placed Matt’s flowers slowly down on the bed, as though on a graveside, and left the room.
When my father came to collect me a little while later, I decided not to tell him about finding the doctor’s number on the mobile phone. It would all make sense soon enough, once the hospital were able to confirm that everything I had told them was true. There was no need to endure another unsolicited explanation of how ‘this was all part of the amnesia’.
Of course, I hadn’t yet figured out how confirming my medical history could answer any of the other glaring anomalies that surrounded me. Little things: like people being back from the dead, cured of illnesses, and let’s not forget the unexpected addition of a fiancé. Mentally I threw these problems to one side as though they were wafts of confetti. I wouldn’t allow my racing thoughts to get sidetracked. Dr Whittaker first: the rest would all fall into place after that.