Dying to Remember

by Glen Apseloff

  “I know. It feels . . . unreal. I’m sure that going back to work will feel the same.” He picked up his chopsticks and forced himself to eat. It had been quite a while since he’d used chopsticks, but exercises of manual dexterity came easily to him.

  She took another sip of wine. “When do you plan to go back?”

  “Tomorrow. First thing in the morning.”

  “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “No. The longer I wait, the worse it’ll be.”

  “Like falling off a horse?”

  “Exactly. I need to get back on. I just hope no one creates any obstacles.” He couldn’t help but wonder whether the administration—risk management—would try to place restrictions on his OR activities.

  Shirley seemed unsure of how to respond. A faraway look came over her.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “Just that it seems like forever since you, Elizabeth, and I were together.”

  The light of the fire reflected in her eyes like a sunset in the ocean. Funny that Shirley should remind him of something so calming. During their last get-together, she’d been more like an impending storm. But then she hadn’t had the death of Elizabeth looming over her. Now things like cigarette smoke weren’t so important.

  Cigarette smoke. Oddly, Barnes didn’t have a nicotine craving, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d lit up.

  “Where were we then?” she asked.

  He’d already lost the thread of the conversation. “I’m sorry. When?”

  “When we went out to dinner last time. Was that Mama Maria’s?” She took a bite of food.

  She was referring to an Italian restaurant in the North End, but that wasn’t where they’d gone. “No. Mama Maria’s was the time before,” he said. “The last time we got together was mid-October at the Union Oyster House.”

  She smiled, remembering. “You’re right. I guess I was blocking that out. It wasn’t one of my better nights.”

  “Not one of mine either,” he admitted.

  “The four of us would have been better off staying at home—at separate homes. I am sorry about that.”

  “I was being a bit of a jerk, too,” said Barnes.

  “Let’s blame it all on Peter. He’d been getting on my nerves for a while; we broke up about two weeks after that dinner . . . I wish I’d never met him.”

  “Well, we all make mistakes.” An image of Cheryl flashed before his eyes, tapping her wineglass to his in a toast to “friendship.” “Are you seeing anyone now?”

  “Not really,” she admitted. “I’m playing the field, or, as you men would say, ‘being a slut.’ Except I’m not doing it very well—I got stood up this evening.”

  “Oh, well. I have to admit I’m glad that happened; otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

  “True. And I’ll take helping a friend over a blind date anytime.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  For a while they ate in silence. Then, perhaps compelled by the silence, Shirley said, “I miss Elizabeth so much . . .”

  Barnes had been thinking the same thing. “I know. It’s hard to fathom.” He’d lost his appetite thinking about it, but he forced himself to keep eating. “You two just completed a project, didn’t you? A use patent for something?”

  She finished a bite of Kung Pao chicken. “That’s right. GBF-complex-coated screws. We filed the patent fifty-fifty, so you’ll get half.”

  He recalled a conversation about that with Elizabeth. “What do you think the royalties will amount to?” The extra income would be welcome, considering his uncertain future.

  “A lot. This stuff is going to become standard procedure. Orthopedic surgeons across the country are going to be using this every time they put in a screw.”

  Of course the pharmaceutical sponsor would reap most of the profits. “Jarrell Pharmaceuticals funded the research, didn’t they?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “You work with them, too, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” There was so much research going on in the hospital that he didn’t give much thought to the sponsors. Jarrell Pharmaceuticals had just expanded and bought out Kenzelton Laboratories, which had sponsored the coronary-artery research he and Houston were collaborating on.

  “The screws are almost certainly going to get approved within the next month,” Shirley said.

  “Elizabeth would have been pleased.”

  Shirley looked up at him. “It must be incredibly difficult for you without her.”

  He drank some wine and wished it would wash away at least a little of his melancholy. “It is, especially with the aftereffects of the food poisoning. But I guess it could be worse. When I was in medical school, we had a lecture in neurology about memory, and the instructor, Dr. Farrow, told us about a patient named H. M.”

  “H. M.?”

  “Yeah. Those were his initials. In 1953 doctors treated him surgically for epilepsy, and they removed part of the medial temporal lobe on both sides of his brain, including some of the structures located in that area, such as the amygdala and part of the hippocampus.”

  “They used to operate on patients with epilepsy? I thought they just gave you medications for that.”

  “Not always. Some patients have intractable seizures that are unresponsive to every combination of medications. They may have more than a hundred seizures a day even with medical treatment.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah. In those cases surgery may be an option. Sometimes there’s a small area in the brain where all the abnormal electrical impulses originate. If you can cut out that area, you can cure the patient. That’s what they did with H. M. They got rid of his seizures, but unfortunately they also destroyed his ability to form new memories.”

  “How awful.”

  “At the time, we didn’t appreciate the importance of the medial temporal lobes. H. M. was eleven then, and now he still thinks he’s eleven. If you show him a picture of himself today, he won’t recognize it. He’s housed in a facility without mirrors so he won’t be terrified every time he sees his image.”

  “So as far as he’s concerned, he only just had the surgery and he thinks he’ll go home in a few days?”

  “Yeah, except if he did, he wouldn’t recognize anybody. All his friends and relatives have aged, of course. The only exceptions are people on TV. Everyone he meets in person is a stranger, and he never remembers them after they leave. If he turns his back on anyone for more than a few seconds, when he faces them again, he thinks he’s meeting them for the first time.”

  “That’s pretty scary.”

  “Yeah. Hard to imagine, even for me.” He ate a piece of broccoli and had to force it down. “From what I recall, he’s kept in a private room under constant supervision. His mother died many years ago, but he doesn’t know about it for more than a minute at a time. He forgets everything they tell him. Everything. I’m not quite that bad. I think some things I can remember for an entire day, maybe even longer than that; I’m not sure. But it’s frustrating, unbelievably frustrating. It’s like I’ve suddenly become mentally deficient, yet I can still speak fluent Spanish and French, and I still know more about medicine—and certainly more about thoracic surgery—than practically anyone. But an hour from now I won’t be able to tell you what we had for dinner, unless maybe I can still taste it.”

  “When you eventually recover from this, do you think you’ll remember anything from tonight?”

  “When? More like if. A full recovery is unlikely. And no, I won’t remember tonight. If it takes me two months to recover, then I’ll have a two-month gap in my memory. If events aren’t stored in the first place, they can’t be retrieved.”

  He thought he saw tears in her eyes. “I’m really sorry you’re going through this,” she said.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “It must be awful . . . And this was from raw seafood?”

  “No, I never eat raw anything.” He took out whatever notes w
ere in his pocket and skimmed through them. “It was from a heat-stable toxin in some mussels I ate. Domoic acid, from algae. No amount of cooking protects you from it. The toxin can accumulate in anything that does filter feeding, like crabs and even some small fish. You could get poisoned just by ordering anchovies on your pizza.”

  “I always thought those little fish tasted like poison.” She shuddered. “Seriously, what are people supposed to do?”

  “If you want to be safe, don’t eat anchovies or shellfish. It reminds me of a newspaper article I read years ago about someone who created a bizarre art exhibit that consisted of a loaded rifle pointed at a chair. For a small fee, people can sit in the chair for thirty seconds, after they sign a release form. The rifle is connected to a computer that’s programmed to fire it at random, at any time during the next several thousand years or more. The chance that it could go off when you’re sitting right there is incredibly small, but it’s possible. And then you’re dead. So if you’re smart, you don’t sit in the chair. It’s the same with anchovies and shellfish. The chances that they’ll do to you what they did to me are very small, but if you’re smart, you’ll eat something else.”

  “Food for thought.” She smiled sadly. “No pun intended.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I wish I’d just ordered a salad . . . Anyway, things don’t look good for me, but I’m going to try to go back to work, and if I do nothing else, I’m going to solve Elizabeth’s murder.”

  “Do you think you can?”

  “I know I can.” Then he added, “I just don’t know how, yet.”

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, call me.”

  He took another sip of wine, then set his glass on the coffee table. “I might take you up on that.”

  “You should.” She kicked off her high heels and pulled her feet up under her legs. For a flash, Barnes saw clear up her dress, to the white flesh above the tops of her black stockings. Despite not wanting to, he felt himself stir. It was not purely a sexual response but also a need for nurturing, and the guilt that came with it was tempered by the conviction that he would never again betray Elizabeth. He might not be able to control his desires, but he would control his actions.

  For a moment they ate in silence. Then Barnes changed the subject. “You know we used to have a dog, too.”

  “A golden retriever. Of course.”

  “The most human dog I’ve ever met. You could look at him and believe he was capable of conscious thought. There’s a reason why they’re called man’s best friend. You really get attached to them.” He gazed into the fire and imagined Rex lying at his feet.

  “How did you take care of him with your schedule? Weren’t you and Elizabeth both working all day?”

  “Carmen, the maid, came by every afternoon to let him out.”

  “Carmen.” She looked into the fire.

  “What are you thinking?” Barnes asked.

  “I was just wondering how well you know her. Elizabeth never mentioned her.”

  He shrugged. “Carmen’s okay.” But now he wasn’t sure. He’d never given her much thought, had never taken the time or made the effort to learn some of the most basic things about her. He jotted a note to look into her background.

  Having finished her meal, Shirley put her plate on the coffee table. “Chris, Elizabeth was like a sister to me. If there’s anything I can do to help you, anything at all, just let me know.”

  The way she said “anything” brought to mind images of a young OR nurse who’d flirted with him several months ago. A buxom brunette who frequently went braless, the nurse had said, “Is there anything I can get you, Dr. Barnes?” with emphasis on the “anything,” and the look in her eyes had said, “‘Anything’ means ‘anything.’” He couldn’t help but wonder what “anything” meant to Shirley.

  He looked at her sitting demurely in the big leather chair. He wanted to ask whether she found him at all desirable, whether any woman would, given his handicap. Who would tolerate a long-term relationship with someone incapable of remembering even a wedding proposal or a honeymoon? And what about children? If he ever had any and his condition didn’t improve, he would watch them grow up without remembering their first steps or first words. He might not even remember their names or know who they were. Would they have to wear name tags? How could a father cope with that? How could his children?

  “I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly realizing their conversation had turned to silence. “What was I saying?”

  She regarded him reassuringly. “Actually I was doing most of the talking. I just said that if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thanks. I guess I got distracted.”

  “What were you thinking?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure I should say.”

  “Oh? Now I’m really curious.”

  At the moment he couldn’t think of anything else to talk about, so he told her, “I can’t help but wonder whether I’ll ever be intimate with anyone again.” When she didn’t blush at that, he continued. “I don’t want to be now, and not anytime soon, but eventually. When that time comes, I wonder whether it’ll be possible.”

  She leaned forward, her face close to his, the scent of her perfume filling the air like fresh-cut flowers. “I’m sure you will be.” Then she kissed him. Quickly, tenderly on the cheek. A warmth spread from the touch of her lips, but it vanished when he saw the look in her eyes. She’d kissed him out of pity.

  “You should go now,” he said.

  She unfolded her legs and slipped on her shoes. “I’ll help you clean up. Then I’ll be off. Maybe you can call me or stop by my office tomorrow and let me know how you’re holding up.”

  “Sure.”

  “You might want to add it to your list of things to do.”

  “Right. My list.” He stood up. “I’ll add it to my list.”

  He’d already forgotten he had one.

  She picked up the plates, and he took the wineglasses and followed her into the kitchen. As soon as he set foot in there, he noticed handwritten notes on the refrigerator. His surrogate memory, no doubt. Strange how he’d spread that information all over the refrigerator. The mind is something meant to be internalized, not displayed like a kid’s drawings. Fortunately Shirley hardly glanced at the notes, but she may have read them earlier in the evening. He would have to come up with a better place to keep them.

  After rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher, she turned to him. “I know it must be awful—what you’re going through—but you just have to have faith in the future. You’re going to be all right, with a little help from your friends.” She touched his hand. “Just don’t be afraid to ask. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  They headed to the front door, and he took her coat out of the closet.

  “Will you remember that?” she asked.

  “I’ll try.”

  After they hugged each other good-bye, he headed back to the family room. The purpose of Shirley’s visit and specific topics of conversation had already escaped him. But he still remembered one of the last things she’d said. Don’t be afraid to ask. The words seemed to resonate in his mind. Don’t be afraid to ask.

  Ask what? he wondered.

  He had already forgotten.

  Chapter 25

  Driving home from Barnes’s house, Shirley thought about their evening together. Chris had many good qualities, and she understood what Elizabeth had seen in him. Shirley had known about their separation, although not the details, only that there were some big problems and that Elizabeth was not optimistic about her future with him. Probably Chris had strayed. Men have a way of doing that.

  She’d always been cautious about men. Relationships with them usually began better than they ended. Beginnings were inherently exciting—a process of discovery. She liked the passion, of course, but also learning about people, sharing experiences and thoughts, and creating a new bond. But ultimately that bond always weakened, and aft
er weakening, it eventually broke. Too many men were like her brother. She had only one sibling, and that was one too many. Chuck, four years her senior, was a self-centered jerk, and yet their mother loved him. Loved him more than she loved her daughter. And Shirley knew why—because Chuck had been married and had fathered a child. No matter that the marriage had fallen apart after less than two years and Chuck had abandoned his daughter. At least he’d had one.

  Shirley could cure the world, and her mother would still consider her a failure. That would probably never change. And she was the one who always took care of their mother. Chuck merely exploited her. He owned a carpet store, and he sold her new carpet she didn’t need. Not only had she not needed it, but the fumes had made her so sick she’d been forced to move out for a month. Of course that meant coming to live with Shirley, even though both Chuck and their mother lived in Lawrenceville, New Jersey, hundreds of miles away. Chuck had no room at his place, he’d insisted. What he had was no scruples. He would have carpeted their mother’s attic if he thought he could get away with it. And the walls. And the ceiling. The jerk had even sold her throw rugs to put on top of the carpet and what little linoleum and tile he hadn’t covered. The last thing she needed was throw rugs. And Chuck probably wouldn’t lose any sleep if one of those rugs slipped out from under her or she tripped on it and broke her hip.

  At least he didn’t sell aluminum siding, Shirley thought, imagining her mother’s brick house covered with it. Too bad their father wasn’t around to straighten things out. He’d died when Shirley was only seventeen, the victim of a drunk driver.

  Shirley stopped for a red light at a deserted intersection. She was tempted to run the light, but her windows were still partially fogged, obscuring much of her view, and she couldn’t be sure a policeman wasn’t waiting in the darkness for someone like her to give him an excuse to write a ticket. So she waited, and instead worried more about her mother. The woman was only sixty-five years old, but two decades of rheumatoid arthritis had taken their toll, limiting her mobility. Of course Chuck didn’t check up on her, except to try to sell carpet and rugs, or to ask a favor. Sometimes she would work behind the counter in his store, and as far as Shirley knew, he never paid her.