Amnesia (15 page)
Authors: G. H. Ephron
A FEW days later, I returned to the hospital to finish testing Sylvia Jackson. When I arrived, Angelo was shouting encouragement from one end of the hall while Syl struggled on crutches, painstakingly inching her way along the corridor. When she saw me, she flashed an enormous smile, obviously well pleased with herself.
I went to stand alongside Angelo.
“She's determined to walk to the witness stand,” he told me.
It was smart. The jury couldn't help but be moved, as I was watching her.
“Come on, baby, I know you can do it,” Angelo called out.
Just then, Sergeant MacRae appeared at the far end of the corridor. He'd been barreling ahead, in a hurry to get somewhere, but when he saw us he screeched to a halt.
Syl struggled forward, her right leg dragging, gradually closing the gap between us. Twenty feet. Ten feet. Five feet. Two feet. As Syl lurched to one side and fell toward me, I found myself reaching out to catch her. She dropped the crutches to the floor and struggled to a standing position, rubbing up against me. I
adjusted my grip and held her at arm's length. How had I gotten myself into this position?
adjusted my grip and held her at arm's length. How had I gotten myself into this position?
MacRae bumped my shoulder going past in high gear, scowling, but Syl didn't see him. She had reached for Angelo and shifted to where she could nestle up against him, oblivious to his stiff coldness. In sixty seconds, she'd managed to piss off two boyfriends. As Annie said, Sylvia Jackson did have that thing about her.
The wheelchair sat empty at the other end of the long corridor. I fetched it and pushed it back. Syl struggled to move closer, to position herself near the chair. Angelo gave her a rough push and she landed on the arm of the wheelchair, arched her back, and slid into the seat. “Angelo, what the â” Syl started to protest. But the words died when she saw his dark, angry face. There was an awkward silence. Then Angelo turned on his heel, stomped down the hall, and disappeared into Syl's room.
I pushed Syl quickly toward the conference room. She reached down and held the wheel of the chair as we were passing the open door of her room. The chair skidded to a stop. Inside, Angelo was shrugging on a windbreaker. “I'll meet you in a minute,” she told me and rolled silently inside. I continued to the conference room.
I was still arranging the test materials on the table when Syl joined me. She pulled herself into position at the head of the table. “Men,” she sighed. “Can't live with 'em. And I sure as hell can't live without them.” She cupped her hand over her mouth and leaned toward me. “Tell you a secret. Today's my birthday.”
“Well, Happy Birthday! Are you going to celebrate?”
“Carolyn is taking me out for drinks. Right after we're done, in fact. You know, I even had to get permission from the docs. Just like being a teenager again. Oh, God, I haven't been out for actual drinks for â not since ⦔ She steadied herself. Then she gave a forced smile, lowered her eyelids, and asked, “So
what do
you
think about a woman my age seeing a younger man?”
what do
you
think about a woman my age seeing a younger man?”
I didn't know what to say. I reminded myself â frontal lobe damage. She couldn't keep herself from breaching those unseen boundaries that keep inappropriate thoughts from popping out. She'd probably always been a sensual person, hyperattuned to body language and sexual nuance. But now, that aspect of her overpowered the rest.
Smiling brightly and tossing her head, she asked, “Can you tell? He's five years younger than I am. Of course, I haven't told him exactly how old I am.” I didn't point out that any newspaper account of the crime would have tipped him off.
I looked at my watch and said, “We need to get started, Ms. Jackson. Taking tests isn't a very nice way to spend your birthday â”
She continued as if I hadn't said anything. “And know what else? I'm going home! At the end of the week. I'm counting the days. Angel's been getting the house ready for me. Mowed my lawn. Built a ramp. When I try to thank him, he says it's the least he can do for Tony.”
“He and his uncle must have been very close,” I said.
“They were. Just like this.” She held up two fingers, side by side.
“They were in business together, too?” I asked.
“Mmm,” she said vaguely. “Tony and Angelo Ruggiero. People used to say they were like brothers. They really are a lot alike.” Her lower lip trembled. Syl closed her eyes and bent her head. She unlocked the wheelchair's brakes and put her hands on the wheels, pushing and pulling the chair back and forth, rocking herself gently in place. Then she reset the brakes.
“Sorry,” she said, fiercely wiping away the tears that were making their way down her face. “This happens all the time. Whenever I think ⦔
I'm right there with you, I thought. I handed her a tissue from the stash I always keep in my pocket. “Loss leaves your life
pockmarked with holes that you're constantly falling into. You can't really forget because there's so much that reminds you.”
pockmarked with holes that you're constantly falling into. You can't really forget because there's so much that reminds you.”
“But then, would you really want to?” she said. “At least let them be remembered. Because after that, what is there?”
I didn't trust myself to look at her. Remembering was too painful. Keeping busy, that had been my salvation.
“You would have liked Tony,” she said.
“I'm sure I would have.”
“He was a sweetheart. I knew the first time I met him, he was something special. He brought in a car to be appraised. I wrote it up. Damaged front fender, dented hood, cracked windshield, a ding in the roof. See, my memory's not
so
bad.”
so
bad.”
It was true. Her memory for some events predating her injuries did seem to be intact, preserved like a fly in amber. It was the present that was drifting away like smoke.
“Tony was real anxious about that car. He was bringing it in for Angelo. Came on like a tough guy. Lots of attitude. People always assumed I'd be out to get them when I was just doing my job. But we hit it off anyway.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I wish I could remember. Angel says the three of us spent lots of time together. And I can sort of remember, but it's like shadows dancing in the back of my brain. There's a lot I can't remember. Do you think it will ever come back to me?”
“Your doctors know how you're doing. You should ask them.” I was grateful that it wasn't my job to tell her that six months after a brain injury, what you see is pretty much what you get.
She paused, appearing to size me up before continuing. “Carolyn doesn't like you very much.”
“Nurse Lovely?”
“Of course she doesn't have any real reason not to like you. I mean, she hardly even knows you. She just thinks you're going to hurt me.” She leaned forward in her chair, beseeching me. “But you're not out to get me, are you?”
Was I out to get her? In a sense, I was. And Sylvia Jackson didn't need another betrayal from someone she trusted. On the
other hand, if Stuart Jackson was innocent, would I be “getting” Sylvia Jackson by testifying that the memories that condemned him might be less than genuine?
other hand, if Stuart Jackson was innocent, would I be “getting” Sylvia Jackson by testifying that the memories that condemned him might be less than genuine?
“No, Ms. Jackson, I'm not out to get you. And I have more good news for you â today's tests are the last. After this, we're finished.”
“Yes, I guess that is good news.” She didn't look convinced. “So, maybe I'll see you at the trial?” It felt like the end of a date when one person says, “So, you'll call?” and then waits for the answer to find out whether or not they're getting dumped. Wrong context, but still, that's how it felt. Sylvia Jackson lived in a world where everything had become personal.
“Actually, probably not. We're both witnesses. Neither of us can watch the trial. That's the key to being a good witness, expert or otherwise. You've got to remain unbiased.”
She didn't look too disappointed. “I feel real bad about Stuart.” She took a deep, shuddering breath.
“You were married for a long time.”
“Ten years. And we've been friends â seems like forever and ever. He knew what I was thinking before I did. And I used to be able to finish his sentences. That pisses him off. See, he can't figure out how come I can finish his thoughts when he's so much smarter than me. And he is. But still, half the time, I know just what he's going to say.”
I thought about how Syl was coming out of her ordeal incomplete in so many ways. And it would be my job to point out to the jury just how broken she was. I felt like a heel. I consoled myself by remembering the lack of physical evidence. Surely whoever shot Syl and Tony left behind or took with them some link to the crime.
I arranged my test materials and taped a TESTING, DO NOT DISTURB sign to the door. Then I gave Syl a piece of paper and a pencil and asked her to draw a person. She held the pencil, hesitated, then started to draw. She sketched out the figure of a
woman that filled most of the page. The marks were hard and clean. The face was oval, with well-defined eyes, ears, and mouth. Shoulder-length hair. Then she drew shoes that looked like Mary Janes. But when she handed me the paper, the body was nothing but the outline of a dress. There was not a single detail â no buttons, no collar, no curves. Nothing but flat emptiness.
woman that filled most of the page. The marks were hard and clean. The face was oval, with well-defined eyes, ears, and mouth. Shoulder-length hair. Then she drew shoes that looked like Mary Janes. But when she handed me the paper, the body was nothing but the outline of a dress. There was not a single detail â no buttons, no collar, no curves. Nothing but flat emptiness.
Then I gave her a second piece of paper and asked her to draw a man. She approached it in the same way â sketching the overall shape, starting with an oval face. She drew eyes, a nose, and a mouth, longish strands of hair on the head. She added shoelaces and heels to suggest oxfords on the feet. But after that, the difference between the two drawings was striking. The man had broad shoulders, narrow hips. He wore a suit. The jacket had carefully drawn buttons and lapels; the shirt had a collar, the corner of a breast pocket, and buttons; the pants had a belt, and even a line to suggest the fly on his pants.
“Thank you. Very nice work,” I said as I tucked the drawings away. She beamed.
I reached for the stack of inkblots. Syl looked at them warily and swallowed. “Right,” I said, “here's where all hell broke loose last time. You okay today? Need to take a break? After this, we're done.”
“No, I'm okay.” She took a breath. “Let's do it.”
I went through my opening spiel and handed Syl the first card. She took it from me slowly and, as I timed her, she rotated it in a complete circle, coming back to what is considered the right-side-up position. It was a full two minutes before she said anything.
She exhaled and then filled the breath with sound. “It looks like a butterfly. With wings. Or ⦠a bat. Here are its teeth,” she said, indicating sharp little points along one edge of the inkblot â the teeth of a vampire bat silhouetted against the upper half of the bat's mouth.
She pivoted the card a quarter-turn and smiled. “It's a flower.” She pouted, adding, “The flower doesn't have many leaves.” Then she brightened again. “There's a butterfly, over here, coming to the flower.”
She turned the card again and wrinkled her brow. “It's a face. With four eyes and a mouth. The mouth is down here.” She pointed to the lower edge of the inkblot, which was shaped like an open half-circle. “Well, it would be a mouth, if it were all there. And the eyes are staring straight at me.”
She put her hand over the inkblot before turning it again.
Staring thoughtfully, she smiled. “Now I see a bird. A bird flying.”
I turned to the next card. Syl glanced at me anxiously. “I'm doing all right, aren't I?”
“Absolutely. It's like I said, there are no right and wrong answers.” That's what psychologists always say, and strictly speaking, it's true. But responses can be very revealing, almost like looking at someone's emotional insides not quite head-on but through a periscope. Of course, there are plenty of folks who say Rorschach cards are a crock, and I guess some patients have seen them so many times their responses are tainted. But I find them illuminating in a way that other tests aren't.
This time, it took her less than a minute to come up with a response. “It's two people. Two women. They're dancing.”
“What makes it look like women dancing?” I asked.
“Because of the breasts,” she said. “They're touching ⦠here ⦠and dancing.”
Then she turned the card upside down. “It looks a little different this way. This is an arm,” she said, pointing to one section of the blot, “and here's a leg.” She pointed to another section. “This looks like something you chop with.”
Sure enough, in the upper corner she had isolated an image that resembled a meat cleaver.
The next words came in a rush. “This is the chopping block.
This is the leg on the right and the ax over here. They're going to hack the leg into pieces.”
This is the leg on the right and the ax over here. They're going to hack the leg into pieces.”
Syl was flushed and breathing faster. She looked at me and I nodded for her to continue. She gave the picture a quarter-turn to the right and sighed, suddenly relaxed. “Now it looks like a butterfly. A paper butterfly. But one of its wings is missing.” She took a deep breath as her face and neck grew paler, revealing hot pink streaks running down her neck and chest.
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