What Was Lost

by Jean Levy

  I made my way past the university buildings and then it happened. It might have been the few drops of rain falling on my face or perhaps the noise of the traffic, but all at once the map I was looking at ceased to make sense. Perhaps I had accidentally turned a page too many. But the ones either side were also meaningless and now I was no longer sure which page I’d been following before the raindrops. I spun round to look back the way I had come but recognised nothing. I tried to calm myself: things always look different on the way back. I remember looking down at the thick white coil that was binding the pages together. Pages and pages of meaningless colours and lines, slightly blurred. And when I looked up I had no idea where I had come from or where I’d been going. My head started to spin, lurching first one way and then the other like a toy top that was losing momentum, about to spin out of control. I knew that if I allowed this spinning to continue I would never find my way home, so I threw the useless spiral-bound pages to the ground and tried to hold my head still, placed my hands over my ears then knelt down to feel the earth beneath me. To anchor myself. That was the biggest mistake of all because Miss Grainger had said that all objects in space are in motion and now I could feel that motion, see that motion. I could feel my eyes racing from side to side to keep up with it. I was the only stationary thing in the entire universe and the universe was spinning all around me: the stars, the Earth, the pavement. I had to make it STOP!

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Is she breathing? Shall I call an ambulance?’

  ‘Did she fall over?’

  ‘I didn’t see. I just saw her lying there.’

  ‘I think she fell over.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘She fell over.’

  ‘OK, you lot, stand back, give her some space. You all right, love?’

  ‘What’s up, Joe?’

  ‘Looks like she’s taken a tumble. Seems to be OK.’

  ‘Where you going, love? Do you know where you’re going?’

  *

  The police car deposited me outside my front door. The policeman called Joe asked me if I needed to contact anyone. I told him I was OK. I hadn’t been going anywhere in particular. I had felt faint. I had forgotten to eat breakfast. I hoped I hadn’t frightened those young people. Thank you. No, there was no one to contact.

  That evening I worked out how to use the flash option on my camera and took several photographs of the Braeburn. Then I peeled it and ate it. It tasted of moss and cream and autumn rain. And a promise of being normal. I cleared the peelings into the organic waste then packed all the camera equipment, including the Fuji, loaded now with its own apple story, back into the storage box, and stowed it away in anticipation of tomorrow’s Mrs Parkin.

  Episode Seven

  Mrs Parkin’s Monday morning visit was invariably more difficult than her Thursday afternoon visit, probably because Saturdays and Sundays were two silent days, and I was never really sure, after a weekend devoid of conversation, whether my voice would actually work on Monday morning. It helped if the black and white cat was there first thing: I could practise. But this week was different. Yesterday there had been the conversation with the two policemen. And Saturday I had spoken to the person called Matthew Parry. So today I was reasonably confident.

  Mrs Parkin arrived just after eleven. Things were proceeding quite well when, just into the tea-drinking ceremony, I heard myself say: ‘I was wondering about my photographs.’

  Mrs Parkin withdrew the bourbon that she was about to insert between her teeth: ‘Photographs, Sarah?’

  I sensed evasion. ‘Of my family? And I must have had friends.’

  ‘You had a very small social network, my dear.’ She bit into the bourbon and communicated around the crunching. ‘Your photographs are in safe keeping. Dr Williams believes a sudden influx of such information might precipitate further crises. He’s convinced that a natural recovery of past experiences is the correct way forward.’

  I remember swallowing my frustration as Mrs Parkin took another bite. But then I happened to notice a minute bourbon crumb fly out of her mouth and land on her jacket, just below her left lapel. Grateful for this self-imposed blemish, for the disempowering effect it had on Mrs Parkin, I summoned the will to insist.

  ‘But how does he know, Mrs Parkin?’

  This time Mrs Parkin allowed her mouth to clear: ‘In actual fact, Sarah, nobody knows. But Dr Williams is, as youmust be aware, an eminent neuropsychologist. And a recognised authority in the areas of schizophrenia and hallucinatory psychoses.’ She took a deep breath to fuel her appreciation. ‘He has published extensively in these areas, and he is very interested in your case. He believes that if you are ever to recall those years of your past that are currently denied you, then it is through your own gradual efforts that you will do so. Not through some dramatic exposure to secondary experiences.’

  I stared into my tea and said nothing. Mrs Parkin continued.

  ‘I suggest that, if you are no longer satisfied with our recommendations, re your agreement, then you must discuss this with Dr Gray. I am only here to help you rehabilitate, help you blend back into society. And I congratulate you on your efforts so far, Sarah. Now, is there anything to report?’

  I suddenly felt exhausted. This was a game of language and the rules were beyond me. ‘I went for a walk yesterday,’ I said.

  ‘Excellent!’ She drained her mug. ‘Anywhere exciting?’

  ‘No, not far. Would you like a top-up?’

  As I handed over Mrs Parkin’s refilled mug, I allowed my gaze to fall upon the bourbon crumb still hanging precariously, drawing attention to Mrs Parkin’s mean bosom. I focussed on the crumb.

  ‘I remember my Granny Clark from when I was small. Wouldn’t it be appropriate for me to see a photograph of her?’

  Mrs Parkin began to flip through her folder. ‘I’m not sure there is a picture of your paternal grandmother. I’ll mention it to the doctors.’ She helped herself to another biscuit. ‘Do sit down, Sarah.’ I remained standing. Mrs Parkin wrote a brief note, licking her lips as she did so. ‘I see you have a scan scheduled for tomorrow. Now, you know what to expect with that, don’t you?’

  ‘There’s a button to press if I want it to stop. Dr Williams shows me photos. And tells me things, to see what my brain does when I hear them.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Now, are you going to sit down?’

  I leaned against the refrigerator and sipped my tea, allowing myself a moment’s belligerence. ‘And will the things he tells me be about what happened to make me forget the last twenty-five years of my life?’

  Mrs Parkin rolled her eyes. ‘There will probably be some autobiographical detail. I have not been informed as to what will be included on this occasion.’

  I watched her reading her notes. The notes about me that I was not allowed to see. Why wasn’t I allowed to see them? Why did Dr Williams never include a photo of Granny Clark? They only ever showed me photos of people I didn’t know. And there must have been a photo of my grandma somewhere. People don’t just die and leave nothing. They leave photographs to help you remember. And I did remember Granny Clark: her curly grey hair and kind blue eyes and … paternal? Had she referred to her as my paternal grandmother? I stared at Mrs Parkin.

  ‘Why was she called Granny Clark?’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘You said my paternal grandmother, that’s my father’s mother, isn’t it? She should have had the same name as me. That’s right, isn’t it? But my name’s Blake. It says so on my driving licence. And the books on the shelf.’ I could hear the panic in my voice. I banged my mug down on the worktop and felt hot tea slop over my hand. ‘I am Sarah Blake, aren’t I? That was my name in the clinic. On the tubes of blood. She was my granny, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Sarah, yes. Try and calm down. I believe there were multiple marriages. Something of the kind. Your grandmother Clark was very active in your life until she died …’ She balanced open the front of her folder, making s
ure that the pages she was referring to were kept out of sight by the pages that followed. ‘… just before your ninth birthday. You lived with her after your parents separated.’ She looked up at me, her face almost sympathetic. ‘I’m sure there will be a photograph. And Sarah, my dear, you must try not to work yourself up into a panic like this. I’ll mention this little episode to the doctors. It might be advisable to review your drug regime.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘How old was I when my parents separated? Am I allowed to know that?’

  Again Mrs Parkin referred to her folder. ‘You were two years old. Your father has proven to be untraceable. There appears to be no record of him for the last three decades.’

  I felt as if the very will to live was being drained from my body. I glanced at the wall clock: 10:35. Another twenty-five minutes of this awful woman, helping me to blend back into society. And all I wanted to do was go to my bed and sleep until all this was over. I watched Mrs Parkin brush her skirt. The activity dislodged the lapel crumb so that it fell away, along with the greater part of my fragile confidence. But there were still questions to be asked and, if I didn’t ask them right then, they would be festering in my mind until Mrs Parkin’s next visit.

  ‘Mrs Parkin, when did my mother die?’

  She seemed uncertain. ‘Sarah, I do think you need to discuss these matters with Dr Gray. Suffice it to say that you had a full and productive life before your current condition, and it is that life which the doctors want to give back to you. You must trust them, my dear. Now, tell me about your writing.’

  *

  Later that afternoon, my tiredness abandoned, I investigated my laptop. It was a disappointing experience. It turned on. Offered opportunities. But it held no vestige of any previous involvement in my life. So I spent a while playing Spider Solitaire. I realised that I must have played it before. But the trouble with such distractions is that they are not distracting enough and, as I dragged each card towards inevitable victory, I mulled over those two words. Schizophrenia? Psychoses? Did those things take away memories? I turned to my bookcase, fetched the ancient dictionary and turned its unreasonably thin pages. Psychoses? That sounded a bit like ‘psychiatrist’ so it undoubtedly began with the same deceitful letters. I flicked through the pages until I arrived at psychiatry, bold at the top of the page. Scanned down: psychic – psychokinesis – psychology – psychopath – psychosis.

  Psychosis. That was probably it: ‘loss of contact with reality. Delusions or hallucinations’. Hallucinations? I flicked back and the pages fell open at a card. A postcard. A black and white picture of a narrow beach and beyond it cliffs rising out of the sea. There were stranded boats, a few grey people along the shoreline, walking, watching the breaking waves. I turned the card over. Nothing. Just faint legends at the top and bottom:

  Sidmouth * Lyme Regis * Seaton * Beer Cove

  Beer Cove, Devon.

  Places I had never heard of. I inserted the black and white beach back between the flimsy pages and investigated hallucination and, after further effort, schizophrenia. At the end of my research I was little wiser than before.

  Beer Cove

  ‘Why are you doing that, Daddy?’

  ‘Because the fossils are hiding inside and if we bang the shale … this rock is called shale. If we bang it in a special way, it pops open and you can see where they’re hiding.’

  ‘Daddy, can I hold the hammer and bang the rocks?’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a bit heavy for you. And, besides, you need to keep hold of Dolly in case she falls in the water.’

  ‘Daddy, she’s not Dolly. She’s Raggedy!’

  ‘Well, you don’t want Raggedy to fall into one of those big waves, do you?’

  ‘No! Oh, the rock’s broke!’

  ‘Yes, and here, look, there’s our fossil. It’s called an ammonite.’

  ‘But it’s made of gold nearly!’

  ‘Yes. Would you like to take it back home with you?’

  ‘Will Grandma let me?’

  ‘We’ll ask her, shall we? Here she comes now. With our ice creams. And after we’ve eaten them, we can go back to the house for tea. And then we can go upstairs and look at the stars.’

  ‘Through the telenscope?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will Grandma look too?’

  ‘Yes, she will … Hi, Mum. We’ve found a perfect ammonite.’

  ‘It’s made of nearly gold, Grandma.’

  ‘Sarah would like to take it home, if that’s OK.’

  Lily Clark frowned at her son. ‘Jack, her shoes are soaked!’

  Episode Eight

  My appointment was for 11.30 but I always arrived early and used the time to visit the shop in the hospital concourse. That day I bought a glossy magazine, because its cover promised an article about what to wear on a first date. Was I already imagining, hoping there’d be a first date? At 11.45 a nurse escorted me from the bright, unnatural silence of the waiting area to Geraint Williams’ consulting room, a much less lavish setting than the private rooms he shared with Dr Gray, close by Regent’s Park. Dr Williams was not alone. Two men and a woman, all white-coated, were squashed into chairs alongside one another, to the left of Dr Williams’ modest desk. His seat swivelled as he stood.

  ‘Hello, Sarah.’ He stepped round and shook my hand.

  He always did this so I was used to it. But then he placed a hand on my elbow, which I was not used to, and pressured me slightly in the direction of the three other people. ‘Sarah, let me introduce my three associates. If you’re agreeable they’ll be observing this morning’s session. Then in the following weeks they’ll each interview you independently.’

  I nodded. It didn’t occur to me to ask why.

  ‘Excellent!’ said Dr Williams. He introduced: Drs Shoumi Mustafa, perhaps forty, who was squarish and black; Sam Clegg, younger, tall and slim, with smiling eyes; and Della Brown, thirty-five-ish, a slight, unrelaxed woman, whose fingers bore the stains from frequent nicotine and whose white coat looked several sizes too big for her. They each stood in turn, shook my hand, mumbled a greeting and sat down. It was a well-synchronised performance. I would have liked to see them do it again.

  Dr Williams indicated my usual chair, opposite his, then walked back round to his own seat. He exchanged a few niceties with me then briefed the Associates on my apparent inability to remember any personal experiences beyond my first nine years. I had not heard him refer to my ‘apparent inability’ before that day and I wasn’t sure what he meant by it. He engaged specifically with Della Brown:

  ‘Memories concerning one’s personal experiences are processed and stored apart from those which relate to normal everyday function. This is why Sarah is able to continue to live a normal adult life without being able to recall anything that has happened in it. The imaging technique can go some way to confirming this memory loss.’

  I wanted to interrupt and tell him that this was not my normal adult life. But I knew that would be inappropriate. Della Brown gave a brief nod, glanced at me, then looked away.

  Geraint Williams followed this up with a run-through of the day’s imminent procedures, speaking mostly to the Associates and only occasionally to me. I noticed his expression change as he turned from them to me, listened to his tone transform from one of authority to practiced friendliness, watched his smile come and go. It was a handsome smile. In fact, he was a handsome man, probably in his early fifties, clean shaven, almost polished, but I disliked him. There was just something about his confidence that was unappealing. Perhaps it was the mastery this accomplished stranger had over my life. Perhaps his suit was a little too expensive. Sitting opposite him, I always felt as if I had been fitted out in a charity shop. Even that day, when I was wearing my new boots and leather jacket.

  The first scan was scheduled for twelve-thirty. I settled myself on to the flat plinth and felt the pads move to hold me still. I used to hate my head being held motionless in that way, but at least, by now, I had proved that I could lie
sufficiently rigid for them no longer to consider the bite bar necessary. I lay staring at the roof of the tunnel, its ceiling some six inches above my nose, and waited for the noise to begin. The instructions then the banging. I always worried that something would distract them and I’d be left in there, unable to wriggle my way out. As usual, they asked me to identify sets of objects: musical instruments, flowers. I liked the flowers, I was good at recognising them, but I was hopeless with the numerous things that looked like violins. And I failed utterly when it came to images of places. The endless sequence of buildings and streets meant nothing to me. Then came the faces. Of course, I recognised the Queen every time, and a couple of individuals from the newspapers in the local shop, although I had no idea why they were newsworthy. There was a pause, and then Dr Williams’ voice reverberated inside my ears.

  ‘Sarah, I’m going to show you three photographs of people, each one for ten seconds. I want you to study them carefully and try to hold the images in your mind. Then, after a pause, I’ll show you a second sequence of photographs and we’ll see if you are able to recognise any of the people from the first batch. Try to relax as you look at the first three photographs. Do you understand these instructions?’