Music in the Night (27 page)

"Let me go," I said, pulling free and stepping away from him. I pulled up my panties quickly.
"LAURA!"
"Get out of my way," I told Billy. He thought a moment, looked toward the building, and then let me pass.
"You tell anyone about me and I'll tell about you," Billy cried as I ran toward the kitchen doorway. Lawrence was standing there with the door open. I ran toward him.
"What's wrong?" He looked at me aghast, jumping back as I pushed him out of the way and slammed the door.
"Let's get back to the rec room," I said. I didn't want him knowing about Billy and doing anything rash. It would only get him in trouble, I thought. It struck me that even in her madness, Megan might not have been so wrong about some of the men in this place.
Lawrence caught up with me outside the cafeteria and seized my hand, turning me back to him.
"What happened out there?" he demanded. "You look like you've seen a ghost. You're so pale and--"
"I almost . . . remembered someone," I said. "Someone special."
"Special?"
"Someone very special," I added.
He understood. His eyes flinched with pain and he released my hand.
"Oh. Well that's good," he said. Then he smiled. "That's good, only . . . I wish that someone were me."
I woke the next morning feeling as if my bed had been a boat adrift on the sea as I tried to sleep. That was how much I had tossed and turned. I was exhausted, drained. It was as if all the memories that had drifted away had come back during the night and added weight to my head. They lay in waiting now, bunched in a knot, anticipating my unraveling them and returning them to their rightful places.
I strained to sit up, my head spinning for a moment. I grew so dizzy, I lost my breath. When something like this had happened earlier, Doctor Southerby described it as an anxiety attack. He advised me to try to relax, take deep breaths, and concentrate on something pleasant.
Even after I had done what he had advised, my head still felt like it might just snap off my neck. I wobbled when I walked and a number of times, stopped to press my hand to the wall to steady myself. My stomach was hollow, empty, but I had no appetite. When I gazed at myself in the mirror, I saw how drained I looked, how pale my face was and how my eyes were empty, without thoughts behind them, orbs of glass that merely reflected whatever was in front of me.
My hands shook when I went to wash my face. Had I caught Lawrence's panic attacks? I had a ten o'clock appointment with Dr. Scanlon today. I realized I was afraid, afraid of having to meet and confide in a new doctor, especially after it took me so long to trust Doctor Southerby.
Somehow, I managed to get myself to breakfast, although I couldn't remember walking there. I must have looked like someone floating in a dream, sleepwalking her way through the clinic. Everyone was there already and starting to wonder about me.
"You don't look so good," Lawrence said.
I blinked and realized I was standing in the middle of the cafeteria. He was just heading back to the table with his tray.
"I don't feet
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so good this morning."
"Why don't you sit at the table and go get you what you want," he offered.
"Thanks, but I'm not that hungry. I'll be all right," I said and went to the line.
I barely picked at my breakfast. Lawrence grew more and more concerned about me.
"Maybe you should go see the nurse," he said.
"No, I'll be all right. It will pass," I assured him, even though I wasn't so sure myself.
He wanted to stay with me and be sure I was okay, but he had his therapy session right after breakfast and had to leave. He did escort me to the rec room lounge before he went off to talk to his therapist.
As the hour of my first meeting with my new doctor drew closer, my heart began to thump and my dizziness became so intense, I had to sit with my eyes closed and wait for the spells to pass. Finally, I felt someone nudge my arm and looked up at Mrs. Kleckner. She was squinting, her forehead creased in thick folds. Her complexion was as gray as her hair, the tiny veins at the crests of her bony cheeks more vivid and more like crimson spiderwebs than ever.
"It's nearly ten o'clock. You're going to miss your appointment," she said.
"I don't feel so good," I groaned.
She stared down at me.
"Do you have any pain?" she asked.
"Not pain exactly. I have these dizzy spells and feel nauseated every once in a while." I put my hand on my stomach.
She lifted my wrist and took my pulse. Then she felt my forehead. The palm of her hand was clammy, cold, and rough.
"You're fine," she said.
"But I'm sick. I feel very sick," I insisted.
"It's all part of your condition. That's why you have to see the doctor," she concluded abruptly. "Get up. I'll escort you to his office. Come on. He's a busy man. You should count yourself one of the luckier ones to have Doctor Scanlon look into your case. Frankly, I think there are a number of far more serious patients for him to consider, but I'm not the one who gets to make that decision. Unfortunately."
She held out her hand. Reluctantly, I took it. I was afraid I might topple over if I didn't. After I stood, she put her hand behind my back and gave me a firm push, keeping the pressure against my back until I started walking out of the room. I felt a little stronger as we continued down the hall. My eyes went longingly to Doctor Southerby's closed office door as we passed it.
"Keep going," she said. "Come along. The clock is ticking. Even the wealthy can't bribe Father Time," she muttered.
We stopped at room 101 and she opened the door for me. "Laura Logan," she announced as I entered.
A small woman in her late fifties looked up from her desk.
Her light brown hair was streaked with gray and she had gelatinous dull brown eyes hidden behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses with rather large lenses. Her thin nose had a bump at the bridge that seemed to have been made specifically for her glasses. She stretched her uneven lips a bit in a weak effort to smile and turned to find a folder on the desk.
"One moment, please," she said, rose, and walked to the inner office door. She wasn't much more than five feet tall, wide in the hips with thick calves barely visible beneath the hem of her lavender knit dress. She knocked, entered, and closed the door behind her. A moment later she reappeared.
"The doctor will see you now," she told me.
"Behave yourself," Mrs. Kleckner advised and released her grip on my elbow.
I glanced at her disgruntled face and then walked into the office, past the receptionist, who stood like a statue, her back straight, her shoulders against the door. It was as though she were afraid I might touch and contaminate her. She stepped out and closed the door as soon as I had entered. I looked back and then turned to Doctor Scanlon.
Now that I was in his office confronting him, I recalled seeing him in the building a number of times, but I had never thought of him as a doctor, much less the head doctor. I thought he was always in a great hurry and imagined him to be some sort of salesman. He never looked at anyone in particular or smiled, nor had I ever seen him in a conversation with a patient, as I had other therapists, especially Doctor Southerby.
Doctor Scanlon wasn't much taller than his receptionist. He had hair the color of weak tea. The strands were so thin his scalp was visible and I could see that his head was covered with spots that looked like enlarged freckles.
At the moment, Dr. Scanlon had his back to me and was gazing out his window. His office faced the rear of the building and the pathway that led down toward the ocean. It was where I had sat on the bench the night before, when Billy had accosted me.
He turned and looked at me, his hazel eyes wide with interest, but an interest that gave me the feeling I was under a microscope.
"Take a seat please," he ordered, nodding to the chair in front of his desk. "I like my patients to face me during their initial consultation. Later, you can lie on the couch if you like. Patients," he continued, pronouncing the word as if it designated an alien species, "can sometimes free associate easier when they're lying down. Did you sit or lie on the couch with Doctor Southerby?" he asked quickly after I sat.
"I sat," I replied.
He nodded and then gazed down at the folder his receptionist had brought in before I had entered. Still standing, he turned the pages, reading as if I weren't even there. Then he nodded and closed the folder. He dropped himself into his oversized chair, folded his hands on his desk, and leaned toward me.
"I'm Doctor Scanlon and I'm going to try to help you," he began.
"Why can't I stay with Doctor Southerby?" I demanded in response.
He didn't answer immediately. First, he closed his eyes, and held them that way for a moment, as if my question had given him great pain, and then opened them.
"Doctor Southerby works at another clinic as well as here. Actually, he has more responsibility at the other clinic. His patients at the other clinic now need more of his time and he had to cut back on his responsibilities at this clinic," Doctor Scanlon explained with obvious reluctance.
"We are a bit short of professional help these days," he continued. "Normally, I don't take as direct a role in the treatment of our patients. I'm here to consult and assist and confirm a diagnosis and treatment, but he left a gap and a gap must be filled," he added, giving me what I thought must have been his best efforts at a smile. I didn't think I liked being referred to as a gap.
"So," he went on, leaning back in his chair now, "after you were brought here, you were diagnosed with psychogenic amnesia and Doctor Southerby was helping you return to your past, helping you find your identity. I see from his notes that he was happy with your progress."
"I remembered more yesterday," I said quickly. I wanted to get this session over with as soon as I could. I felt very uncomfortable. It was clear to me that Doctor Scanlon didn't have Doctor Southerby's sincerity. He saw me less as a person and more as a patient, another statistic. In my way of thinking, the patients were lucky he usually didn't take a direct role in their treatment.
"Oh? And you had some sort of a reaction to that, I see. I have a report here," he continued, opening the folder again, "that you exhibited some acting out yesterday."
"Pardon me? Acting out?"
"You were running wild in the corridors, nearly knocked over a custodian, screamed hysterically, made demands, and nearly had to be restrained."
"I was excited. I wanted to see Doctor Southerby," I said. "I didn't mean to be loud, and I don't think I needed to be restrained."
"Umm-hmm," he groaned, without looking at me. He continued to
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stare at the papers before him. How quickly Mrs. Kleckner had written me up, I thought.
"I wasn't hysterical. I was excited about my memories," I added firmly.
He did smile, but it wasn't warm.
"You're here because you're having trouble evaluating and controlling your own behavior, Laura. It's best we give consideration to the way the professional staff evaluates your behavior, don't you think? Now, what was it that got you so excited?" he asked, but looked down at the folder again.
"I remembered my little sister's name and I remembered I had a twin brother," I blurted, impatient with the pace of things. If he kept reading something after everything I said, I would be here all day, I thought. And besides, why hadn't he prepared for me better?
"Really?" He fixed his eyes on me. "What else did you recall?"
"Visions of faces, memories of voices I know belong to my parents. I think we have something to do with lobster fishing and we have a boat and we live near the ocean and my little sister is deaf," I said, trying to contain my exuberance so it wouldn't be misinterpreted. However, as I told him these things, they began to reappear in my mind. My heart began to pound again and I closed my eyes.
"Why do you think you had forgotten them and yourself?" he asked.
"I don't know."
He sat back, again lifting the corners of his lips into that arrogant smirk.
"Well, I can see from Doctor Southerby's notes that you have at least come to the understanding it might have something to do with an event that disturbed you greatly. What we call psychological trauma. Is that still true?"
"Yes," I admitted, my lips trembling again.
He leaned forward, once again fixing me under his microscopic gaze.
"You look very tired. You didn't sleep well last night?"
"No," I said. "I kept waking, hearing voices, hearing someone call, someone who sounded like me. And then I felt very cold. It was as if I . ."
"What?"
"I was soaking wet," I said, realizing just at the moment exactly what it was I had felt. "Yes, that's what it was: something to do with water . . . the ocean."
His eyes widened.
"I see. I don't like this," he suddenly added. "Take a deep breath and try to stop yourself from thinking about these things for the moment."
"What? What do you mean? Stop? Why should I stop?" I fired my questions like bullets that seemed to just bounce off his coldly analytical face.
"I don't like what's happening to you physically. It's classic. You're rushing back too quickly, I'm afraid. You're in danger of crashing into your trauma and that could cause irrevocable damage,
psychological damage. There are a number of similar cases in my ward for severely disabled patients. Some have become comatose and live off intravenous feeding, and some have to be led around like lobotomized people, mere shadows of themselves, never smiling, never laughing, blind and deaf, the walking dead. You don't want that to happen to you, do you?"
"No," I said, terrified. "Could something like that really happen to me?"
"Of course it could. I wouldn't tell you otherwise. I read here that you've already lost your ability to speak once. I'm telling you not to frighten you as much as get you to be more cooperative. I like a patient who wants to cooperate with his or her own treatment. It makes it easier for all of us, especially the patient."
He widened that short, tight smile.
"The brain is the most complex part of our bodies. There are layers and layers of conscious and unconscious thoughts. Your memories are like buried treasure right now," he continued, "and the pathways to them have been shut down. If we reach too quickly or too clumsily for them, they could fall deeper and deeper into the abyss. We must be very, very careful how we go forward."
He paused and flipped through the folder again, shaking his head with disapproval.
"I see that Doctor Southerby failed to prescribe any medication for you. From the way you've described your nights, I think it would be wiser at this stage if we did. I want to be very careful with you, Laura. You're very tender, very sensitive, raw at this moment, and we have medication that can cushion you, protect you."