Amnesia

by Andrew Neiderman

  She nodded and walked beside him like a little lady.

  “I made up a story in class today during storytime and Mrs. Walker said it was very good. It was about you.”

  “Me? What about me? I mean what was the story?”

  She paused at the door and looked up at him.

  “It was the story of how you came out of a plant.”

  “What?” He grimaced. “A plant?”

  “Uh-huh. You were gone into the ground and Mommy kept watering where you were with her magic water until one day a flower sprouted, and soon after that you popped out and came back to us.”

  She opened the door and shot out in front of him.

  “What? Come back to us? Sophie, wait a minute.”

  She stopped and looked out at the Corvette parked at the curve just across the driveway.

  “Is that our new car?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “It’s very pretty, Daddy.” She turned and reached for his hand. “Never cross any street or driveway without holding hands,” she told him.

  “Right,” he said. “Where did you get the idea for that story you told in class?” he asked her as he opened the car door.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “My ’magination. That’s what I told Mrs. Walker, too.”

  “Great imagination,” he muttered.

  He got her into the car and fastened her seat belt.

  “Should I put the top up now?” he asked her. “It’s cool.”

  “No, don’t!” she cried. “I want to look up at the sky as we ride and see the clouds and the birds.”

  “Okay,” he said, laughing. He studied her face for a moment. It was hard not to think of himself as having been away. Now that he was back, he realized he hadn’t spent all that much time with Sophie. She had the sort of petite facial features that would keep her looking young forever and ever, he thought. He liked the way she looked at him, too, her eyes full of expectation and trust, waiting for some wonderful surprise as if daddies, and he especially, had magical powers at their fingertips. Who wouldn’t want to come back to this? he thought.

  “Ready to take the magic carpet?”

  Sophie laughed. “Yes, Daddy.”

  He heard the bell ring and started the car, pulling away from the school just as the promised wave of shouting children came surging out of the building toward the waiting schoolbuses. As they pulled onto the street, Sophie leaned back on her seat and looked up. He could see the wonder in her face and thought of it as the wonderful innocent sense of discovery we spend the rest of our lives trying to recapture.

  “Like the car, Sudsy?”

  “Uh-huh.” She sat straight again and opened one of her books. “You want to hear me read, Daddy?” she asked. “I learned new words today.”

  “Sure, sweetheart. Go ahead.”

  “This is a story about Chips, the computer dog,”she declared. “It all began one day in Mr. Modo’s base . . . base.”

  “Basement?”

  “Yes, basement. When he was a little boy, Mr. Modo had a dog named Dinky. He wanted a dog now, but Mrs. Modo said a pet is a big res . . . respon . . .”

  “Responsibility?”

  “Uh-huh. So Mr. Modo said what if we had a dog that took care of itself?”

  Aaron leaned back and slowed down to a pleasant cruising speed. He knew this story. Had he read it to her before? His smile widened as he listened, but as Sophie continued, her voice began to change and the pace of her reading slowed down until it sounded a bit distorted. At first he thought she was doing that to be dramatic, and then he turned and looked at her and his heart seemed to unfold and spill boiling hot blood down the inside of his chest.

  Sophie’s face was shattered, blood streaking down her cheeks and her neck. When her lips moved, small red bubbles formed and then popped.

  He gasped.

  A driver coming toward him sounded her horn. He looked up in time to jerk the car to the right just before a head-on collision, and then he hit the brakes and pulled the car to the curb.

  Sophie was frightened but had nothing else wrong with her when he looked at her again, no blood, no trauma. She sat there, stunned.

  “What happened, Daddy?”

  He was still shaking badly.

  “I don’t know,” he managed to say. His arms seemed frozen at his side. He willed his hand to go to the steering wheel, but it didn’t.

  “Daddy?”

  “I’m okay,” he said. “We’re okay. Don’t be frightened.” He looked at the phone and said, “Home.” He could hear it dial and then Megan come on.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s me. I’m having a little problem, and I don’t want to frighten you know who,” he said.

  “Where are you, Aaron?”

  He described his location.

  “Just sit there. Someone will be there in moments,” she promised.

  “Okay.” He heard her hang up and then he turned to Sophie. “We’ve got to stay here and wait for someone, but keep reading your story,” he said. “It’s a very good one.”

  She nodded and turned back to the book. He closed his eyes. It didn’t seem long, not even ten minutes before a police car pulled up behind him and a tall, stout policeman stepped out. His name tag read Brock.

  “How we doing here, Mr. Clifford?” he asked.

  Aaron took a breath.

  “I’m better, but I think I’d feel more comfortable if someone else drove,” he replied.

  “Fine.” Brock signaled to the other officer in the car and a much shorter, younger, round-faced man with his hat back so far it looked like it would fall off, got out to join them.

  “Simpson, Mr. Clifford would like someone else to drive his car home.”

  “Sure,” Simpson said, looking at the car with glee and envy. “No problem.”

  “Didn’t think so. Let me help you into the patrol car, Mr. Clifford. I’ll pull it right up alongside first,” Brock said and did so quickly.

  “The nice policeman is going to drive the car for a while, honey,” Aaron told Sophie. She looked at Officer Simpson, who smiled. “Just stay where you are.”

  Aaron felt wobbly. Brock got him seated and then signaled for Simpson to start away. They watched him go.

  “You made Simpson’s day, lettin’ him drive your car,” Brock said.

  Aaron closed his eyes as they drove off, but when he opened them, he saw they weren’t heading for his home.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  Before Brock responded, Aaron knew.

  Dr. Longstreet’s clinic was coming up ahead of them.

  Brock looked at him.

  “Your wife told me where to take you. You’ll be fine, Mr. Clifford. You’re in good hands here,” he said.

  Aaron nodded and closed his eyes. When they pulled into the clinic driveway, Brock drove around to the rear. An attendant came out quickly, pushing a wheelchair.

  “I don’t think I need that,” Aaron said.

  “No sense not making things easier for you untilyou’re on your feet, Mr. Clifford,” Brock said. He helped the attendant get Aaron into the chair, and then the attendant wheeled him into the clinic.

  Aaron looked back to thank Brock, but he was already gone.

  The attendant wheeled him into an examination room and helped him up on the table.

  “Just lay your head back on this pillow and relax, Mr. Clifford. The doctor will be in to see you shortly,” he said.

  Aaron did so and closed his eyes. He felt tired, so very tired. Moments later, he realized his arm was being lifted and a nurse was putting a blood pressure cuff around it. She smiled at him. He didn’t remember her from his previous visits.

  “Where’s Dr. Longstreet?” he asked.

  “Please try to relax,” she said.

  “But—”

  “It’s very important that you relax. Please,” she said in a soft voice. It was a mother’s voice, the kind of voice that was full of warmth and concern, the s
ort of voice he could trust and would welcome.

  He closed his eyes. She stroked his hair.

  “That’s good. That’s very good,” she said.

  A whirlpool of images played on the inside of his lids. He was looking up into a stream of whiteness interrupted by blazing lights every few seconds. He had the sense of movement, too, as if the table was rolling along, and there were voices around him. He could hear them, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  Maybe he fell asleep; maybe he dreamed for awhile, but the murmuring voices did get clearer until he was sure he was listening to Terri Richards.

  “Maybe it was too soon,” she said, “maybe we’re rushing him.”

  “You should have seen him, how well he was doing. We’re not rushing him.”

  That was Megan’s voice.

  He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed to be glued shut. He tried to call to her, but his mouth wouldn’t open, either.

  “Well, what do we do?” another voice asked. It sounded like Debbie Asher.

  “It’s not unusual,” he heard Dr. Longstreet say. “We’ll increase the dosage.”

  “She’s not going to like this. She’s going to want to send him back,” Laurie Conklin said. He was sure it was she.

  “No!” Megan cried.

  “She has to know, of course,” Terri Richards said.

  “I’m sure she already knows,” Doctor Longstreet said.

  “He was doing so well. He was. I deserve him,” Megan insisted. “I deserve him. I deserve him,” she chanted until her voice began to fade, falling away down a tunnel.

  All he could do was listen, but was it a dream?

  “Mr. Clifford,” he heard loud and clear. “Mr. Clifford.”

  He was able to open his eyes. He looked around quickly, but the only one there was Dr. Longstreet. She stood beside him, the stethoscope around her neck.

  “How are you feeling now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. What happened?”

  “A little setback. Nothing terribly serious. We’re going to change your prescription, give you a stronger dosage.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said.

  “Pardon me?” She smiled.

  “I heard you say it, but where’s Megan? Where are Debbie, Laurie, and Terri?”

  She stared at him, her smile tightening.

  “Your wife is on her way. She wanted to be sure your daughter was doing all right first,” Dr. Longstreet said. “I don’t know anything about Debbie, Laurie, and Terri. Had someone called them for some reason?”

  “I heard them here,” he said.

  She smiled at him and shook her head.

  “Just your confusion, Mr. Clifford, but that’s over now. I assure you. I’ve given you something to help you rest, to keep you calm. Just relax. You’ll be fine.”

  “There’s so much blood. There’s always so much blood,” he muttered and did close his eyes.

  He had no idea how long he slept, but when he woke, he was home in bed. Megan had done a wonderful job decorating the room during the first week. There was a sitting area a step down on the right where she had placed an oversize chair and ottoman, a glass-top table, and a standing lamp. The ceiling mirror had been installed just today. He gazed up at himself floating in the king-size bed with silk sheets and pillowcases and a down comforter that felt as if it were woven out of clouds.“How are you doing, Aaron?” she asked from the doorway.

  “All right, I guess. How did I get here?”

  He propped himself up on his elbows and then she moved quickly to fix the pillow behind him so he could sit comfortably.

  “We got you into the back of the Mercedes. You seemed awake at the time, but I guess you were just too groggy and you fell asleep. Dr. Longstreet had given you something to help you relax and sleep.”

  “But how did you get me upstairs and in bed?”

  She stood back.

  “Word traveled fast and the girls came over from work.”

  “The girls? You mean Laurie, Terri, and Debbie?”

  “Exactly. Debbie said she had just seen you riding in the car and you had looked great.”

  “Yes,” he said, remembering.

  “Dr. Longstreet is not overly concerned. She’s modified your prescription and feels it will all work out okay.”

  “I know. I was sure I heard them all at the clinic, Debbie, Laurie, Terri, too.”

  “They were there, but not until we were getting you ready to go home,” Megan said. “Hungry?”

  “Actually, yes,” he said. “I’ll get up.”

  He started to get out of the bed, when she stopped him.

  “Just relax,” she said. “You’re about to be spoiled.”

  “What?”

  “Sophie wants to bring your dinner up. She’s playing nursemaid.”

  “Did she get badly frightened?”

  “Amazingly, no. She said the policeman who drove her home was funny.”

  “Wasn’t she frightened by what happened to me? I mean she didn’t cry or anything, but that had to be very traumatic for a child her age.”

  “She was worried when she came home, but she has this great confidence in me.” Megan laughed. “She thinks I can fix anything just because I cure her colds with one of my grandmother’s herbal recipes.”

  “I know. She told me this fantastic story about how you grew me out of a plant or something to bring me back.”

  “That’s not a fantastic story, Aaron.”

  “What?”

  She smiled. “I am bringing you back.”

  She leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips.

  “Just relax and enjoy it,” she added, then winked and started away. “Dinner is on its way, your majesty.”

  He stared after her.

  Had he heard her girlfriends at the clinic? Had he imagined all that?

  It was getting so he couldn’t tell the difference between a dream and reality now. He felt as if he were orbiting. Soon, he thought, soon I’ll either fall to earth or drift away into space and completely disappear.

  At the moment he wished one or the other would happen.

  . . . ten

  aaron was delighted with the wonderful sense of renewal he felt the following morning, considering what he had gone through. Sophie had served him his dinner in bed the night before, taking great pains to be a little perfectionist, unfolding the napkin properly, setting out the silverware in its proper place, pouring him a cup of coffee without spilling a drop.“See, she takes after you,” Megan pointed out. “Miss Prim and Proper.”

  They both sat and watched him eat. Sophie, who he was afraid had been traumatized by his little crisis in the car, talked continuously, telling him about her activities at school, things she wanted to do with him and with Megan, and making him laugh with her imitation of Officer Simpson, who had driven her home. The child’s ability to handle emotional trauma amazed him.

  “At times she does seem so adult,” he said. “I guess you’re right about her feeling secure, and you’re right about her faith in you, Megan. Before you cameupstairs, she was telling me not to worry. You would make me better.”

  “She just inherited your emotional strength, Aaron. In many ways she takes after you more than she does me.”

  “Am I handling my own crisis all that well?” he wondered aloud.

  “Of course you are, Aaron. Even Mrs. Masters made a point of telling me so. She thought you were a real gladiator the other night when you had the problem at dinner.”

  “Gladiator?”

  “You know . . .” She looked troubled for a moment as if she was the one who struggled for thoughts these days. “Trooper, good egg, whatever.”

  He laughed.

  “I’ll take gladiator. Sounds more romantic.”

  “It is,” she said.

  When he had finished his dinner, he took a shower and his medicine and went to sleep. It was one of the best night’s rests he had since the events at Grand Central. There were no nightmares he cou
ld recall, no hallucinations, either. Maybe it was a result of the adjusted medicine, he thought. I’m finally getting the correct dosage.

  As soon as he awoke, he saw Megan had already risen and taken Sophie to school. He dressed, made himself some breakfast, and then decided he would return to his new office and continue setting it up. He left her a note explaining that he felt terrific and saw no reason to waste time.

  It was when he delved into his work that he wasmost happy and least anxious about his condition anyway. It both pleased and amazed him how little, if anything, he had forgotten when it came to his work. Somehow, the amnesia hadn’t touched it. He wondered how that could be. Were his work, his career, his skills stored in some other place in his brain? When the blood had been cut off by the cerebral strokes, had it been cut off only to certain memory bins? He made a mental note to bring the question to Dr. Longstreet at his next appointment. For now, it was back to work getting himself all set up.

  Two days earlier when he had arrived at his offices, Aaron had found all of his things from New York on the floor in the right corner of what would be his studio area. Megan told him that Mrs. Masters simply had arranged for it all to be retrieved from the Clovis agency in Manhattan and delivered. She said there was no reason to thank her. She was happy to rescue him from that unpleasant environment and underlined that by telling Megan that the only remark old man Clovis made about Aaron’s things being fetched was “Good, it was all taking up valuable space.”

  Aaron wished he could remember more about his former boss, if only so he could appreciate Megan’s distaste for him.

  He was just finishing setting up his computer so he could activate some graphics, when he heard a knock at the door and looked up to see Harlan Noel, the developer he had met at Mrs. Masters’s dinner party.

  “Hope I’m not disturbing you,” the tall man said,standing there with a briefcase in hand. His height was made even more emphatic by the western boots he wore.

  “No, it’s fine. Please, come in,” Aaron said and moved quickly to set up a chair. “Just forgive the mess. I’m not quite there yet,” he added.

  “It looks ten times neater and more organized than my office already,” Harlan said, sitting. “I thought I’d have a quick preliminary talk with you about the project, the one I mentioned at Mrs. Masters’s dinner party.”