“Maybe that’s not a good idea until Dr. Adler has cleared you. You shouldn’t be overexerting yourself. I’ll drop you off, grab some food, and when I come back you can help with my driftwood pieces in the garage. I have a couple of candleholders to varnish. You used to help me with my projects all the time.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah. We’d go to the beach and collect stuff together. Maybe we could go tomorrow if the doc says it’s okay. You know, start small, local to the house.”
I looked at her, a row of virtual pennies dropping one after the other, a metallic crescendo resounding in my head. “Hold on a sec. This is about Keenan, isn’t it? You don’t want me going to town in case I run into him.”
“Yes, that, too.” She turned away, put the pan in the sink and filled it with water as she continued talking over her shoulder. “But I’m more worried you’ll get overwhelmed and it’ll make things worse.”
“What if I—”
She whirled around. “No, Ash, please. This is hard for me, too, you know. I hate not knowing what happened to you. I thought...I thought you were dead. I’d almost accepted it. I mourned you.”
I saw her big gray eyes fill with tears as she bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling. All this time I’d been focused on myself, how frustrated and angry I was at my memory being wiped clean. I hadn’t considered Maya for more than a few seconds. I tried to justify my selfishness somehow but couldn’t. I’d been treating her, the person who could provide me with many of the answers I was searching for, like utter shit. Seeing the dark shadows under her eyes now and hearing the edge in her voice...she probably hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years, and that was all on me. I’d left. Abandoned her. Whoever I was in the past, I’d been an egotistical prick. I got up, and after hesitating a little, kissed the top of her head, noticing how her hair smelled of pine cones. “I wish I could explain everything that’s happened, but I can’t. Not yet.”
“I know,” she whispered, squeezing me hard.
Maya went upstairs to get ready for our trip to the doctor’s while I cleaned up the kitchen of a house in which I should’ve known every nook, cranny and squeaky floorboard, but where all felt unfamiliar and strange.
When I saw her laptop on the kitchen table, I decided to run a quick search of my own and lifted the lid, squinting at the bright light. When the password prompt appeared, I closed it again. I wouldn’t have been able to guess my own security settings, let alone take a stab at my sister’s. As I leaned back in my chair, I thought about her theory of me being on holiday alone, decided it was plausible, even if it meant nobody would be searching for me yet.
“Are you ready?” Maya said as she came downstairs, and when she pulled the car keys from her pocket, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. As she moved ahead of me I picked it up, turned it over and saw it was a receipt from a pharmacy for a bottle of Benadryl.
“Do you have hay fever?” I said, unsure how I knew that’s what the medicine was for, but grateful for the random fact leaping from the depths of my brain nonetheless.
“It’s been awful this year,” she said as she opened the door, before spinning around and almost bumping into me, her face filled with excitement. “Oh, my God, you remember?”
“Uh, yeah.” I nodded and made all the right noises as she beamed, saying she couldn’t believe it. She’d had terrible hay fever ever since she was a teen, and practically guzzled Benadryl by the gallon to get some relief. I didn’t want to let on I’d had no idea, or see her expression change to disappointment, and so I crushed the pharmacy receipt up into a ball, and a while later threw it in the trash.
* * *
Sweat pooled under my arms as we drove to Dr. Adler’s, my head twisting left and right as I tried to get a good look around. Maya pointed out Keenan’s house, which had a rusty swing-set in the front garden, the broken yellow plastic seats gently moving in the wind. After that we continued in silence for a while. I soon noticed our house was at the end of a long road flanked only by a few other dwellings, and all of them were spaced at least a quarter of a mile apart.
“Do you know why Dad chose the house?” I said. “It’s so remote.”
“It was your grandfather’s,” Maya said. “He left it to Brad when he died. Your pops was American, got your English grandmother pregnant when he was working over there, married her but couldn’t stick it, apparently. He came back here a year after Brad was born, basically abandoned his wife and your dad in the UK. They never had much of a relationship after that, and I think you only met your grandfather once, when you were small. Brad always said he got the house out of guilt.”
It was probably a story my father had shared with me, one we’d maybe talked about over a drink. The impact of another lost memory hit me squarely in the chest, and it renewed my determination to do whatever I could to unlock my mind, no matter the truth. I couldn’t pick and choose. I either wanted all of my past, or none of it.
“...and I never thought it was that remote,” Maya was saying. “Not with the path behind the house along the cliffs. If you turn left, it splits and there’s another one leading down to the beach. Turn right and walk for about two and a half miles and you get to the other side of town.”
“That’s where Kate fell, though? Along the path?”
Maya nodded, and I didn’t say anything else but stared out of the window as she brought us closer to Newdale. It seemed a handsome town, and the large wrought iron sign in the shape of a wave with the words Welcome to Newdale, as well as the immaculate multicolored flowerbeds on either side, all indicated a certain level of prosperity and charm. Main Street appeared to contain the heart of the place, both sides peppered with bijou clothes boutiques, a bookshop, antiques dealers, a jeweler, an arts and crafts store, as well as multiple cafés and restaurants.
As we waited at a red light, I knew Maya’s eyes were on me and I turned my head, caught her observing. “Nothing’s coming back,” I said. “I don’t remember any of this.”
She reached out and put a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry. We’re almost there.”
Sure enough, she turned left and took a few side streets with tall, leafy oak trees on either side. Dr. Adler’s office was in an annex next to his Victorian house similar in style to Maya’s, but twice the size, and it seemed freshly painted. After we parked the car, we headed to the right side of the building, the sun warming my skin, the scent of something flowery—sweet and heavy—in the air. Before I had a chance to knock, heavy footsteps approached from the other side of the door, and an older gentleman dressed in a tartan shirt and brown corduroy trousers opened up.
“Mr. Bennett?” He peered at me over the top of his round spectacles and, when he saw Maya behind me, smiled. “I’m delighted to see you found your stepbrother.”
“Not as much as me,” she replied happily as we walked inside.
Dr. Adler ushered us past a little reception area with half a dozen orange plastic chairs, and into the first consultation room on the left. Its walls were slate gray, and he’d adorned them with pictures and self-portraits of what I assumed were his younger patients. They had toothy grins, bandaged arms, stitches in their knees and speech bubbles with words of thanks written inside. He gestured for us to take a seat, before following suit, and placing his hands in his lap.
“You mentioned memory trouble on the phone,” he said. “Shall we start from the beginning, so to speak? Tell me what you remember.”
With Maya’s help, I explained most of what had happened, including the various flashbacks I’d experienced so far, but staying sufficiently vague about the location I’d woken up in, as Dr. Adler made notes.
“And the first time you realized you couldn’t remember anything about yourself was when you woke up somewhere on a beach yesterday morning?” he said.
“God, I can’t believe it was only yesterday, it feels like years,” I said. “And
I can’t explain it. I know there’s stuff inside my head, but I can’t access it. It’s as if there’s a roadblock, or a big gaping hole. Does...does that make any sense?”
“Perfect sense,” Dr. Adler said.
“If it’s amnesia I’d say it’s retrograde, not anterograde—” Maya shrugged when I raised my eyebrows in surprise “—because he’s perfectly capable of forming new memories.”
“Somebody’s been doing research,” Dr. Adler said with a smile. “But it’s a little early to jump to conclusions. Your memory loss could be related to many things, Ash, such as an injury, or disease.”
“Disease?” I said. “You think I’m ill?”
“Not necessarily. You mentioned a head wound. May I?” When I nodded, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and gently touched my scalp, tilting my head to one side. “This had to be quite the blow. You could’ve done with a few stitches.”
“To be honest, it didn’t feel like a priority.”
Dr. Adler smiled. “Understandable. Do you know how it happened?” When I shook my head, he added, “Head injuries can trigger memory loss. Maybe this has brought us a step closer to figuring out what’s going on.” He made sure the cut was clean and continued to examine me, listening to my heart and lungs, checking my reflexes, shining a light in my eyes, and evaluating my balance before taking my blood pressure. “It’s a little on the high side,” he said, making another note. “However, that’s also understandable.”
“Can you help him?” Maya said.
Dr. Adler leaned forward, put his fingers in a steeple under his chin. “I’d like to send you to the ER for more thorough testing. They’ll no doubt order an MRI or a CT scan, and blood tests. We need to be thorough. Rule out as many reasons for your memory loss as we can.”
“Dr. Adler,” Maya said quietly. “We’ve no clue if Ash has insurance. Neither of us ever have.”
“I understand,” he said, drumming his fingers. “Let me see what I can do.”
* * *
Hours later, after a visit Dr. Adler had arranged at a free clinic, and which involved me being poked, prodded and tested repeatedly, we now sat opposite the ER doctor, a tall, wide-shouldered woman called Gwen Soares. She read over the notes that had been compiled as I’d undergone a CT scan, too many blood tests to count, a psychiatric evaluation and an in-depth discussion about family history. I had to bite my tongue and swallow my frustrations as Maya helped me with almost all of the questions, clarifying there were no strokes, aneurysms or brain tumors on my side of the family. She gave my hand a squeeze as she told them about my mother’s suicide, which she concluded with, “But Ash has never been depressed. Never.”
Dr. Soares nodded once, looked up at us and smiled. “How are you feeling, Ash?”
“One hundred percent arsed off,” I wanted to say, but settled for, “Bushed.”
“I understand,” she said. “Here’s the good news. All your blood work was clear. No signs of drugs, alcohol or any kind of infection in your system. Not only that, but your semantic memory is in good working order.”
“What’s that?” Maya said.
“The part of your brain that understands things such as words, colors, places and so forth,” Dr. Soares said. “Things not necessarily drawn from personal experience but which are common, as well as general knowledge you’ve accumulated throughout your life.”
“And that’s a good thing?” I said.
“Exceedingly. You’re functioning normally: walking, talking. You know how to eat, for example, and what you’re eating. You know how to take care of your personal hygiene. I’d say, along with the other symptoms you’re presenting, it’s possible your memory condition is temporary.”
“It’ll come back?” Maya said, her voice going up. “All of it? When?”
“It could be days, weeks, perhaps more,” Dr. Soares said. “And I’m afraid it’s impossible to say if everything will return. There are signs of concussion, more than likely from the blow to your head, but there’s no bleeding in your brain.”
“But it won’t stay like this,” I said. “Thank Christ.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet, Ash,” Dr. Soares said. “The mind can be a tricky thing, and I need to caution you about false memories caused by confabulation.”
“Confabu...what?” I said.
“It’s a phenomenon where a person with a brain injury constructs false memories,” she said. “They can experience extremely vivid recollections of things that never happened at all or may recall events differently from true reality, yet be a hundred percent convinced they’re accurate. It’s a brain’s way of coping, you see, filling in the blanks.”
“Even if it’s not real?” Maya said.
Dr. Soares nodded. “On a smaller scale, false memories happen to people without amnesia or brain injuries, too. If you think about it, most of us believe our memories are accurate. In general, we see our minds as video recorders, with everything memorized exactly as it happened. However, if you ask the police about eyewitnesses—”
“They’ll say they’re notoriously unreliable,” Maya said.
“Exactly,” Dr. Soares replied. “Even if a person isn’t suffering from amnesia, their memory is prone to fallacy. For example, houses burn to the ground because the owner was certain they’d switched off the stove, and in extreme cases, people create entirely fictitious memories about things they’re certain happened, but never took place.”
I held up a hand. “Wait a sec. You’re saying stuff might come back but I could have made it all up because of...what did you call it again?”
“Confabulation,” Dr. Soares and Maya said at the same time.
“Like the chickens last night?” Maya turned back to the doctor. “Ash was convinced we had chickens in the garden at home, but they were actually on the fabric of the kitchen blinds. We never had real ones.”
“The condition may resolve itself over time as the brain heals,” Dr. Soares said. “But I need you to be patient with yourself, and each other, as you navigate your way through this. Maya, it’ll be a delicate balance of knowing Ash’s recollection is incorrect but not needing to convince him otherwise because that particular memory or detail doesn’t matter when it comes to the big picture of his life. Most of all, Ash, you need to rest as much as you can. Do you work?”
“Not at the moment,” I said, still trying to wrap my head around the false-memory concept, adding it to my ever-growing list of things about my life that were pissing me off. “I’m staying with my sister in the old family home.”
“That’s a good thing. Concussions take time to heal. You need to listen to your body, and don’t overdo it. No sports or vigorous movements, another blow to your head could have dire consequences, and stay off screens as much as possible. Other than that—” she gave a small shrug “—I’m afraid a strong dose of patience is required while you get better.”
“So, was I right?” Maya said. “It’s retrograde amnesia?”
Dr. Soares hesitated. “It’s a strong possibility, yes.”
“There must be something else you can do, surely?” I said. “Can’t you give me anything? Can you do something?”
“There’s no magic pill, unfortunately,” Dr. Soares said. “It’s excellent you’re staying with Maya in your old home. Familiar people and surroundings tend to help, as does trying to relax, which sounds ridiculous, I know. Sometimes smell or touch can be powerful triggers.”
“Basically, it’s a waiting game,” Maya said.
“I’ll send my notes to Dr. Adler,” Dr. Soares said. “I recommend you see him in a week. If anything changes before then, call him immediately, and if you have violent headaches, nausea or blurred vision, dial 911 without delay. It could be serious.”
Maya had more questions about what may or may not spark memories, but I zoned out when she wanted to go over how confabulation worke
d a third time. While I hadn’t expected anyone to produce a “magic pill,” as Dr. Soares had called it, I’d expected...more. A better approach than wait and see. I wanted them to fix this, now, or give me the tools to fix myself.
“I’m so glad they figured out you’re not sick,” Maya said as we walked back to the car. “Although it bugs me they won’t commit to a diagnosis, it’s pretty obvious from what I read what’s going on. I mean, I understand they’re not miracle workers, but still...” She put her hand on my shoulder and I shrugged her off. “Hey, Ash,” she said. “It’s going to be all right.”
“Is it?” I tried tamping my anger back down before it made its way up my throat, but only managed to swallow it about halfway. “It’s not good enough. What am I supposed to do? Just wait and see what comes back? Not know if it’s real?” I dug my nails into my palms, hard, as I fought to regain control before I put a fist through the car window.
“I’m sure they did their best,” Maya said quietly. “We’ll get there. I know we will. All in good time, okay? And I’ll help you. Tell you if whatever you’re remembering is real or confabulation. You’ll get through this. We’ll get through this.”
I almost let out a laugh. Jesus, she really didn’t understand a thing, did she? I wanted to yell at her, shout I shouldn’t have to ask her to verify my memories, that what I needed was to feel human again, whole, not a broken shell of a man. Letting out a breath, jaw still clenched and heart pounding, I muttered, “Yeah, yeah. All in good time.”
13
LILY
It was Thursday, and somehow five days had passed since Jack had disappeared. I’d stopped counting the minutes, but only because they’d morphed into hours, and the hours into days. Although I wanted time to stand still, or better yet, be reversed, it kept going, relentless and cruel. I hadn’t yet found the courage to return to Jack’s apartment but I contacted Heron and Stevens every day, twice a day, and we’d reached the point where they no longer knew what to say other than, “We’re collaborating with all the different counties on missing persons but we’re afraid there’s still no news.”
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