Authors: G. H. Ephron

Amnesia (8 page)

BOOK: Amnesia

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“You know those college guys who row on the Charles? That's what he does. Every morning. Crack of dawn.”

“Remember?” Nurse Lovely tapped her clipboard. “Pills. Then you can get back to your tests. That is what you're up to here, isn't it, Doctor? Tests?”

Slowly and deliberately, Syl took three little whites. She gagged when she tried to swallow the big red, took an extra sip of water, and finally got it down. She took a deep breath and stared at the two green capsules, a yellow tablet, and the pink, torpedo-shaped pill that remained.

“You just take your time,” Nurse Lovely said, waiting patiently.

The two greens went down. Then the yellow. When Syl had swallowed the last pill, Lovely delivered a final checkmark to the paper on the clipboard, turned, and exited with a clatter. But not before giving me a withering look.

I started with the standard questions of person, place, and time. Syl knew who she was, where she was, but she thought it was still August. Not surprising. Hospital routine doesn't change from one day to the next. People often lose track.

When I told her she was a month off, she shrugged. “I guess I don't pay much attention to the calendar. I stopped reading the paper and I can't stand to watch the news on television either.”

Again, I wasn't surprised. People who have been through severe physical trauma try to keep their environments as neutral
as possible. It's a healthy form of self-preservation, as long as it doesn't last too long. And for Syl, only six months after the nearly successful attempt on her life, it seemed entirely appropriate.

I expected the next question to be more stressful. “Can you tell me what you remember? What happened?”

There was a pause, then a little outrush of breath again preceded her words. “I can remember Stuart calling up that night â¦ on the eighth. He wanted to come by but I said no.”

She spoke slowly, one word smearing slightly up against the next. I wrote down her words and waited for her to continue.

“ â¦ Mainly because I had someone else there.” She paused and shifted slightly in her chair. “Then Stuart came â¦ No, Stuart was in bed with me â¦” I continued writing. “No. Tony was in bed with me. The next thing I knew, I heard Stuart's car. Stuart's car makes this sound.”

Syl paused. I looked up from my notes. She was gazing down at her hands lying loosely in her lap. Slowly, as if the words had multiple syllables, she said, “I was shot.” I felt my heartbeat jump and anxiety, like dots of sweat, prickled at my hairline. I concentrated on breathing evenly, in and out. Compartmentalize, I told myself. “ â¦ He was dressed like a guerrilla, in a camouflage suit. He told Tony to put a pillowcase over his head. He belted it and told him to put his hands in front and belted them, too. Tony went down the stairway because Stuart told him to.”

She paused. She was still looking into her lap. And though one fist was now clenched, her voice held little affect. She was telling a story she'd had to tell over and over and over again, and in the telling and retelling, it had lost its power.

She looked up slowly and held my eyes as she said quietly in her whispery voice, so I had to lean forward slightly to catch all the words, “Tony slipped at the bottom of the stairs. He â¦ fell. Stuart gave him time to get up and ordered the two of us into
the living room.” There was a long pause before she continued. “Then he beat Tony with fireplace tongs. I guess I was too scared to do anything.

“Stuart ordered me out to the garage and into the car. I drove. Or â¦ yes, he drove. We were going toward the cemetery. There was a tower in the cemetery. We went up into it. It was so cold there. Then he shot me.”

“He shot you in the tower?”

“No.” Syl looked confused. “On the grass. I was outside the car on the grass. That's where he shot me. I remember hearing the gun go off.” She stopped and sighed, rubbed her forehead and gave me a questioning look. “Is that bad?” she breathed. “Does that put Stuart in a bad light?”

She made him sound like a swell guy â beat the shit out of her boyfriend, shot and left her for dead in the cemetery. Does that put him in a bad light? It certainly didn't put him in the running for the Nobel Peace Prize.

“What was the first thing you remember on awakening?” I asked

This answer, like her others, came slowly, after a pause and on the heels of a breath. “I was wondering why Stuart never showed up. And then I remembered why. It was like a dual memory.”

I wondered about the differences between this story and the story Sergeant MacRae had recorded in his interview notes. What happened to the part where Stuart ordered Tony into the trunk? I made a mental note to check the police reports for other inconsistencies. And I reminded myself that if Sylvia Jackson's story had changed, it didn't necessarily mean she was lying. People with head injuries have malleable memories. Memories of the past get folded in with new information and fantasies. It becomes impossible to tell where truth ends and fabrication begins.

One thing was absolutely clear to me: Sylvia Jackson believed
what she was saying. And it sounded plausible. After all, as Stuart Jackson had pointed out, everyone knows husbands kill wives. That was what Ralston Bridges had counted on. Had Sylvia Jackson's attacker done the same thing? Created a careful trail of evidence that pointed to a jealous, obsessive husband?

It would be so much better for Sylvia Jackson, so much easier all around, if a jury found Stuart Jackson guilty. There would be someone to blame, someone to lock up. Then, Syl's world could once again become benign. If I got him off, who would pay for this nightmare? If only Stuart Jackson had dropped by that night for one of his frequent visits. If only he'd walked in and been in time, maybe he could have saved her. At least he could have saved himself. But then, of course, he'd have had to go on living just as before. Only, as I knew too well, it would never again be just as before.

Don't go there, I told myself. I pulled over a large black binder from the materials I'd stacked on the table. I made myself focus on the question at hand: Could Sylvia Jackson remember what happened just before she was shot? Unlikely. But short of turning back the clock and becoming a fly on the wall, there was no way to tell for sure. The best I could do was to determine whether now, six months later, she could recall something that she'd just seen.

“I'm going to show you some pictures,” I told her. “I want you to look at each one carefully for about five seconds. These pictures are very similar, one to the other. If you see a change from the one you've just been looking at, say âstop' and tell me what change you see. Let's do a couple for practice.”

I got my stopwatch out of my pocket. Syl pulled her wheelchair closer to the table. She was tense.

I opened the binder to a coloring book-style picture of a Christmas tree and pushed the start button. The second hand jerked forward. After five seconds, I turned the page. The angel at the top of the tree was gone. Syl said nothing.

I waited five more seconds and turned the page again. Now there was no change. I reminded her. “Say âstop' if you see a change.”

Five more seconds. Turn. The presents under the tree disappeared. I paused as the second hand continued to sweep the dial.

“You're going too fast,” Syl complained.

“I know it may seem like I'm going too fast, but just try to keep focused on this and do the best you can.”

Turn. This time there was no change.

“Stop,” Syl murmured. I brought out a piece of white paper and covered the picture.

She looked at me, startled. “I need toâ” she protested.

“Remember, we're just practicing to give you an idea how the test works,” I explained. “You said âstop.' Did you notice a change?”

She nodded slowly and in her breathy voice said, “There were gifts under the tree. Now they're gone.”

“Very good. You see, that's how it goes,” I said and put the practice cards aside.

Next, I showed her a series of line drawings of a house with a landscape around it. Over the course of fifty pictures, there are eighteen changes. The sun disappears. The front door. The chimney. The average person notices about fourteen changes. Syl caught three.

The second series of pictures was of a cowboy and an Indian fightingânot politically correct, but the test was developed back in the fifties. I repeated the directions and started my stopwatch. Syl glanced at me nervously and gripped the arms of her wheelchair with grim determination. Then she turned her attention to the first picture.

I turned the page. The cowboy's scarf disappeared. Syl just stared at the page.

Next page. No change. Syl remained still. Her frown deepened when I turned to the next page where, again, there was
no change. I waited. Syl shifted nervously in her seat.

I turned the page. The Indian's headdress disappeared. Still she said nothing.

I turned the page again.

“Stop!” she cried out. I covered the picture. She squinted at the blank page and took a long breath before saying, “The Indian's feathers are gone.” She looked at me anxiously and I nodded encouragement. She smiled brightly and ran her hand through her hair. Then she turned her attention back to the pictures on the table.

The next picture was identical to the previous one. Syl started to say something and ended up clearing her throat instead.

I turned the page. A knife on the ground disappeared. Syl stared at the picture.

I turned the page. No change. Pause.

I turned the page. The cowboy's upraised fists disappeared.

I continued, uncovering and covering each picture in turn. Syl flinched with each new page. She swore softly under her breath. She seemed to know that she should be seeing the details as they dropped out, but they were gone from her memory before she could grab hold.

I turned the page. The spurs on the cowboy's boots disappeared.

She whispered, “Stop!”

I waited as she sat there, her brow wrinkled, staring first at the white piece of paper I'd placed over the picture, then at my face as if looking for clues.

“The tree is gone,” she said finally, sighing and releasing the tendons in her neck.

I recorded her response. There had been a tree in the house series, but none in the cowboy series.

Trying to keep my face neutral, I said, “You're doing just fine.”

I turned the page. No change. Syl said nothing. She shifted in her seat.

I turned the page. A rifle leaning against a tree disappeared. She was holding the seat of her wheelchair as if it might take off at top speed at any moment. She said nothing.

Three pages later, after the fence posts disappeared, she said, “The barn.”

“The barn,” I repeated, to be sure I'd heard correctly.

She gave a staccato nod. “It's gone.”

I made a note of her answer and wondered where it had come from. There was no barn in any of the pictures she'd been shown.

As she stared at the final picture â the cowboy and the Indian, now bareheaded, without weapons or upraised fists â there was a soft tap at the door behind me. Syl looked up. Her eyes widened, and her whole body seemed to reel back with terror. I jumped up, knocking over my chair, and positioned myself between Syl and whatever danger she saw. Then, just as quickly, the fear vanished and pleasure transformed her.

I turned around in time to see the door draw open. The face that had terrified Syl through the vertical strip of glass in the doorway reappeared through the widening gap.

“Angel!” Syl said, delighted to see him.

Olive-skinned, his dark hair slicked back from his face, Angel looked like he belonged in an Armani ad. His eyes had a hooded, sleepy look. He was big, though not especially tall. Massive shoulder muscles rippled under a yellow polo shirt.

“You okay, babe? Anything wrong?”

Syl touched her palm to her breast. “I was just surprised to see a face in the glass. You startled me is all.” Syl stretched out a hand toward him. Angel came around behind and stood against her back, his big hands possessively on her shoulders, the fingers gently encircling her slim, pale neck.

She craned her head back to look up at him, pressing gently against the bulge in his pants. “Angel, this is Dr. Zip.”

I was in a cold sweat, the aftermath of the adrenaline rush that had sent massive amounts of epinephrine cruising through my bloodstream. Definitely an overreaction. But it was nothing new â trauma creates a groove. Similar feelings can send you hurtling there without a moment's notice. Thinking consciously about it in the second person helped me hold it at arm's length.

I wiped my palms on my pants. “Dr. Peter Zak,” I said.

He extended a beefy hand.

BOOK: Amnesia

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