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‘Here, why don't I help you take off your jacket?' said Isobel. ‘It's real warm in here, isn't it, but I do like to keep it toasty.'

She came up to him, untucked his blanket and lifted it off his knees. Then she started to unfasten the stud at his neck. He said, ‘Hold up, Isobel. I
can
stand up, just about. That will make it a darn sight easier.'

It took him two attempts, but he managed to heave himself out of his wheelchair into a standing position, and balance himself unsteadily in front of the fire, shuffling his feet every now and then as if he were drunk. Isobel smiled and tugged down the zipper of his padded jacket.

‘You'll be walking before you know it,' she told him. ‘And that
will
be useful, especially in the fall, when the leaves need sweeping.'

When she said that, Michael blinked his blurry eyes and made a first effort to focus on her more acutely. She was slim, about five-feet-four, with a shiny brunette bob that was cut up high and angular at the back of her neck, but with a heavy fringe. She was actually quite pretty, with high cheekbones and big, brown, wide-apart eyes. She had a small, straight nose and a well-shaped chin, and full pink lips that looked as if she were pouting, or just about to blow him a kiss.

She was wearing a clinging purple roll-neck sweater and tight black slacks. She had very large breasts for a woman so small and so slim, but very narrow hips.

‘I'm sorry, Isobel,' he said. ‘I can't introduce myself for the simple reason that I can't remember who I am.'

Isobel helped him to drag his arms out of his sleeves, and then she folded his jacket over and laid it down on the window seat. ‘Catherine told me that your name is Gregory. Or Greg, according to your sister.'

‘Well, she told
me
that, too. But I don't
feel
like Gregory. I don't remember anybody calling me Gregory, or Greg, not ever, or signing my name
Gregory
. If you gave me a pen right now and asked me to give you my autograph, I wouldn't know where to start. I really wouldn't.'

‘What's in a name?' said Isobel. ‘You know what W.B. Yeats once said?'

‘No, I'm sorry, I don't. Who's W.B. Yeats?'

‘He was a famous Irish poet. He said that the creations of any writer are nothing more than the moods and passions of his own heart, to which he gives Christian names and surnames, and then sends off to walk the earth.'

‘I'm not sure I understand what that means.'

‘But I believe that's what
we
are, Gregory – us human beings. All of us, we're nothing more than the moods and passions of God, to which He has given names, and then sent out to do what He wants us to do. What really counts is what kind of a mood we happen to be in, or what kind of a passion – not what we're called.'

‘Well, I guess that's one point of view,' Michael agreed. ‘But I'd still like to know what my name is. I'm ninety-nine per cent sure that I
am
Gregory. I must be. That's the name in my driver's license, and the name embossed on my credit cards. But I don't
know
that I'm Gregory, not in my head, and not in my heart, either.'

‘But it won't upset you if I call you Greg?'

‘Of course not. You can call me anything you darn well like, so far as I'm concerned. But you said something about your leaves needed sweeping, in the fall.'

‘Oh, I was only joking. That's unless you really like gardening, then you're more than welcome.'

‘I don't remember if I do like gardening or not. But I don't think I'll still be here in the fall. At least I very much hope not.'

There was a long, awkward silence. Isobel looked across at Catherine and then Catherine said, ‘I'm afraid it's more than likely, Gregory.'

‘What? You're not serious!'

‘I didn't want to depress you before I brought you to meet Isobel, but Doctor Hamid thinks he probably won't be able to discharge you until the late summer at the earliest.'

Michael sat down heavily in his wheelchair. ‘That long? I thought you said three or four months! Surely I'll start to get my memory back before then?'

‘We're hoping you do, of course. But that's why I brought you here today, Gregory. I wanted to prepare you.'

‘Prepare me for what, Catherine? I don't understand.'

‘I wanted you to meet Isobel. As soon as you're physically well enough not to need twenty-four-hour care, you'll come to live here, with her. That way, you'll be able to live as flush-centered a life as possible, but still be close enough to come to the clinic twice a day for post-traumatic amnesia therapy.'

She held up both hands. ‘If you don't like the idea, or if you think that you and Isobel won't get on together, please tell me now. We did everything we could to select somebody compatible for you.'

‘I'm sure we'll get on wonderfully,' smiled Isobel. ‘I hope you like lasagne, Greg! That's my specialty.'

Michael slowly shook his head. ‘I don't know if I do or not, Isobel. I don't remember. I don't think I can even remember what lasagne actually is.'

‘But you don't have any objections to coming to live here?' asked Catherine.

‘I suppose not, no.'

‘OK, then. If you could wait here just a couple of minutes, please, Gregory. I have to have a quick word with Isobel about some of the arrangements.'

‘Sure,' said Michael. ‘I'm not going anyplace.'

Catherine and Isobel went out of the living room and through to the kitchen. Michael heard them talking for a few seconds, something about ‘not expecting too much'. Then they closed the kitchen door and there was silence.

He sat in his wheelchair for a while, looking around. He thought that Isobel was good to look at, and very likeable, although he wasn't at all sure about her taste in home decoration. She couldn't have picked a bleaker and more depressing picture to hang over the fireplace, and as for all of her china figurines …

But maybe
he
had china figurines over his fireplace, back at his apartment on Pine Street, and pictures hanging on his walls that were even bleaker and more depressing than this one. He just couldn't remember.

In the opposite corner of the room stood a small side table, with a crochet mat on top of it, and on top of the crochet mat stood a framed color photograph of a sallow, solemn-looking man with rimless eyeglasses and swept-back gray hair. Maybe it was Isobel's father, although Michael couldn't see much of a family likeness. In fact the man in the photograph looked Hispanic.

After a few minutes' more waiting, Michael thought that he might as well put his jacket back on. Grunting with effort, he hoisted himself out of his wheelchair and limped across to the window seat. He bent over stiffly to pick up his jacket, but as he did so he heard an engine running, right outside. He reached over and lifted up the calico blind, so that he could see what it was.

A black Escalade was parked in the street right in front of Isobel's house. Its windows were all tinted black, but the passenger-side window had been lowered halfway down, so that he could see a white-haired, white-faced man in sunglasses sitting in it. When he lifted the blind a little higher, however, so that he could have a better look, the passenger-side window was immediately closed, and the Escalade drove off, leaving nothing but a ghostly cloud of exhaust fumes.

D
octor Connor knocked on his open door and said, ‘Surprise! Guess what?'

Michael was sitting in the armchair beside his bed trying to solve a general knowledge crossword. ‘Sorry,' he said. ‘I have no idea. I can't even guess ninety-nine per cent of this goddamned crossword.'

So far he had managed only to fill in the word
mesa
, in answer to the question ‘
Large flat-topped mountain on which standing water may be found, and cattle grazed
?'

He knew that it was a
mesa
with even more certainty than he knew his own name. He also knew that a larger flat-topped mountain was a
plateau
and a smaller flat-topped mountain was a
butte
– but he had no idea
how
he knew it, or why.

‘Your sister Sue is coming to visit you this afternoon. She should be here around three. Isn't that great?'

Michael looked up. ‘I guess so, yes. I just wish I could remember what she looked like.'

‘Well, that's the main reason she wanted to come. She thought that if you saw her it might spark some memories.'

‘You showed me that picture of her. That didn't help.'

‘Maybe when you see her in person, and hear her talking.'

Michael folded up his newspaper and tucked it into the rack at the side of his nightstand. ‘I hope it helps, for her sake. It must be taking her at least five hours to drive here from Oakland.'

‘See? You know that much. She's staying overnight in our hospitality suite, so you'll be able to see her again tomorrow before she drives home.'

When she had gone, Michael eased himself out of his chair and went to look out of the window. His room was in a wing at the south-east side of the clinic, and so he could see the front entrance with its covered portico and its two snow-topped bay trees standing guard by the doors. He could also see part of the parking lot, with a fluorescent orange snow-sweeper being driven slowly up and down between the rows of parked cars.

So, his sister Sue was coming to see him. He supposed that he ought to be pleased, and excited. After all, she was the first member of his family to come see him since he had regained consciousness. The problem was, he didn't feel anything at all. He simply felt adrift, like the sole survivor of a yacht sinking in mid-ocean, without a single landmark in sight. Doctor Connor had shown him a picture of Sue printed from her Facebook page, a tall blonde in a blue-and-white dress, squinting at the sun, but he hadn't recognized her, and neither could he remember growing up with her, or anything that they had done together when they were children. The name ‘Sue' meant nothing.

Still – it was possible that Doctor Connor was right, and that when he saw her in the flesh, and heard her talk, he would remember her.

He was still standing there, looking out of the window, when he heard somebody coming into the room behind him, without knocking.

He turned around and saw that it was a tall, gray-haired man in a silvery-gray suit. He had a long, narrow face, with that slightly yellowish look of a faded suntan. His eyes were hooded and he had a thin, curved nose, which gave him the appearance of an elderly bird of prey.

He gave Michael a lipless smile and held out his hand.

‘Mr Merrick! Gregory! It's very good to see you up and about! My name is Kingsley Vane. I'm the medical director of Trinity-Shasta Clinic.'

Michael hesitated for a moment and then shook Kingsley Vane's hand. It was a strange handshake, dry and elusive, as if a snake were slithering out of his grasp.

‘I've been watching your progress closely, ever since you were brought in here,' said Kingsley Vane. ‘Do sit down; I know that you've been suffering some pain in your knees.'

Michael returned to his armchair. Kingsley Vane leaned back against the side of his bed, with his arms folded.

‘How are you feeling in yourself, Mr Merrick? You don't mind if I call you Gregory, do you?'

‘Confused, mainly,' Michael admitted. ‘Confused and kind of depressed. I want to get out of here and get on with my life but since I can't remember anything about my life, not a single goddamned thing, I don't see how I can get on with it.'

‘I do understand,' said Kingsley Vane, nodding. ‘I remember that one of our amnesia patients described his condition as being like losing his place in a book he was reading, only he had lost the book, too.'

‘Yes. That sums it up pretty well. Except that I can't even remember the
title
of the book, so that I can order another copy.'

Kingsley Vane said, ‘Believe me, Gregory, we're doing everything we can to restore your memory, and our expertise in post-traumatic care is second to none. As you'll discover when you leave the clinic and take up residence with Mrs Weston, several Trinity residents are former or ongoing patients of ours. That's part of the reason they live here, to have continuing access to our aftercare facilities.'

He gave Michael another thin smile. ‘From our point of view, Gregory, we
care
about our patients, not just while they're here in the clinic proper, but long after they've been discharged. Post-traumatic care never really ends, ever.'

‘I guess it ends when you die.'

Kingsley Vane said nothing to that, but continued to smile at him. After a while, he unfolded his arms, stood up straight and said, ‘Anyhow, I very much hope that you'll be comfortable with Mrs Weston. If you're not, for any reason at all, please let Doctor Connor know immediately, won't you? We need you to be stable, and positive. Your amnesia therapy will be much more effective if you are.'

‘OK, thank you,' said Michael.

Kingsley Vane turned to go, but then he stopped, and turned back, with a very concentrated expression on his face, and said, ‘By the way … the other residents of Trinity that I was talking about … those who have undergone treatment here at the clinic … How shall I put this? Some of them still bear the scars, so to speak … if not physically, then mentally. So if their behavior on occasions is a little
off-key
, I trust that you'll understand, and respond with sensitivity.'

‘
Off-key
?' asked Michael.

‘Well … some of them have been through a lot, and it's taken them months if not
years
of therapy to come to terms with it. We're always very anxious not to set them back.'

‘OK,' said Michael. ‘I get it. I'll be sensitivity incarnate. And don't worry about me and Isobel Weston. She seems like a real nice person.'