Strangers

by Ursula Archer

  “If I’ve really forgotten the man I’m living with, the man I love, just like that … That would mean something’s not right in my head.”

  “Jo, sweetheart…” Ela comes up close to Joanna. The two look into each other’s eyes. Ela’s hands find those of her friend, clasp them, hold them tightly.

  “Maybe there really is something wrong. Something that can easily be fixed if we see to it soon. But in that case it’s important for you to get medical assistance right away. You do understand that I’m worried about you? Really worried?”

  Crazily enough, I feel jealous of Ela in this moment. Right now she’s close to Joanna, like I desperately want to be. I tell myself I’m a fool; how can I possibly have these thoughts in a situation like this? The most important thing right now is for Joanna to agree to let us help her. And Ela seems to be very much on the right track …

  “I…” Joanna’s struggling.

  I want to tell her I love her and that I’ll always stand by her, no matter what might come. But my instincts tell me not to interfere right now. It looks like Joanna’s actually thinking about agreeing to what Ela suggested.

  “Please, Jo.” Ela’s voice sounds gentle yet insistent. “Go get yourself checked out. After that you can do as you please, I won’t interfere anymore, I promise. But please, go see a doctor.”

  The two of them look at each other for the duration of a few seconds, then Joanna turns to face me and looks into my eyes. Her expression pains me. It’s how you look at a stranger who’s asking you to do something you don’t want to do.

  “And what about you? Will you leave me alone as well if it turns out there’s nothing wrong inside my head? That in itself would make it worth my while.”

  I hesitate, just for a second, then nod. “Yes. I will.”

  I hope she can’t tell I’m lying.

  9

  I had never realized there could be so many different nuances of fear. Frantic, acute mortal fear like I’d felt last night, when I thought the stranger was going to rape or kill me. That was bad enough, but somehow more bearable than what I’m experiencing right now—a creeping, all-consuming fear seeping into every inch of my body.

  Because regardless of what lies behind the inconceivable situation that I’ve found myself in—there’s no longer any possibility that it’s something harmless. Something that could be quickly resolved with the disappearance of this man. Not anymore.

  Ela’s reaction has changed everything. She’s reduced the number of possible explanations to two, and both seem awful to me. Either I can no longer trust my own mind, or my best friend is lying to me. Her laptop is still open in front of us, the photo filling the screen. Ela chose cleverly. In the picture, the stranger has his arm around a woman who looks like me and who, without a doubt, is sitting next to him on the sofa—but the image of my head could have been skillfully inserted. The woman’s bodily dimensions look about right, but she’s sitting down, so the specifics are harder to make out. Almost every woman has a little black dress, just like the one she’s wearing, hanging in her closet. I have two, and they’re almost identical.

  Yes. A very clever choice indeed.

  “So?” Ela’s voice is unusually soft. As if she’s taking great pains not to scare me. “Shall we go?”

  I turn around to face her. No, them. Ela and Erik are standing next to each other, so close that their shoulders are almost touching. United. A team.

  “To Dr. Dussmann, right?” My question is directed at Erik, who nods and opens his mouth to respond, but I don’t give him the chance.

  “No way. And we’re not going to see your nice neurologist either, Ela. I’ll go to see a doctor with you both, but I pick who it is.”

  They exchange a glance, something between confusion and surprise. So all that preparation was in vain. Well, tough luck!

  “Do you know someone you trust?” Ela asks hesitantly.

  I grab the laptop and sit down with it on the couch. It’s connected to the Internet; the browser page is already open. Perfect.

  My search for the combination psychiatrist/neurologist brings back six results for the local area. I settle on a Dr. Verena Schattauer, not just because the photo on her home page looks nice and her practice is open this morning, but above all because, according to her background information, she doesn’t work in the same hospital as Ela.

  “Which of you is going to lend me their phone?”

  Erik, who hasn’t said a word for the past few minutes, holds Ela’s arm back as she is about to hand her cell phone to me. “I’d prefer it if I could call,” he says.

  Surprise, surprise. “Are you worried I could call the police?” I ask with a smile.

  “No, Jo. I’m afraid you might do something stupid.” He sits down next to me, too close for my taste, but I’m tired of constantly backing away. Which turns out to be a mistake, because clearly he takes it as being encouragement. He reaches for my hand, but I pull it back with a jolt. The hurt look comes back into his eyes. “Sorry,” he whispers, before finally taking his phone out of his jacket pocket. He dials the number on the doctor’s home page and only passes me the phone once the call has been picked up.

  “Dr. Schattauer’s practice, good morning.”

  “Hello.” My voice is hoarse with nerves. “My name is Joanna Berrigan. I’ve never been to your practice before, but I need an appointment. As soon as possible. Please.” I don’t understand why the tears rush into my eyes now of all moments, but there’s nothing I can do to stop them.

  “We’re actually…” the receptionist says, but then stops midsentence. “Could you be here in an hour? Then I could fit you in our emergency slot.”

  My breathing is frantic and uneven. “Yes. In … an hour. OK.”

  “Could you describe your symptoms to me?” The woman’s voice is more pragmatic than concerned. She waits patiently as I try to get my sobbing under control. This goes on for about half a minute. “Is anyone with you?” She asks then. “Could you give the telephone to him or her?”

  Him or her. The decision is an easy one; I give it to Ela. Not that I still trust her, but at least I know her.

  “Yes,” I hear her say. “Hmm. My impression? Joanna is very upset, she’s suddenly having … gaps in her memory. Disoriented? No, not really. What? Yes. OK. Of course I’ll go with her.”

  Ela ends the call and hands Erik back his phone. “We’ll take both cars,” she says, “and Joanna can choose who she wants to go with. In case it … takes a while. I’ll need to get some sleep at some point, as much as I hate to say it.” She yawns, as if wanting to emphasize her words.

  She’s planning to leave me alone with him. Just because she’s tired!

  On the way downstairs, there’s not one single opportunity to flee. Not as we leave the elevator, not on the street. They flank me, always close enough to be able to quickly grab me in case I try to run away.

  “I’ll go in Ela’s car.”

  Her small blue Honda is parked around the corner. I notice that she still hadn’t fixed the dent on the right-hand fender. I remember the dent, just as I remember the story of how it happened. I remember everything, for God’s sake. I’m fine.

  The sentence makes me feel good. I repeat it silently to myself, again and again. I’m fine.

  As I get into the car, I see Erik gesture in Ela’s direction. A twisting motion with his wrist. A signal to lock the car door.

  Of course. He doesn’t trust me as far as he can throw me. Ela tries to press the button for the central locking as casually as possible, but of course she notices that I notice.

  We stay silent during the journey. The Audi is always in sight, either alongside us or in front, a glimmering silver shadow.

  Then, shortly before we reach our destination, a new thought shoots into my mind, even worse than its predecessor.

  What if this Erik guy isn’t the driving force between the events of the last day? What if it’s Ela instead? She’s known me for over six months; she knows about my fam
ily’s fortune. We’ve spoken about money from time to time. I know that she doesn’t have much of it, and I also know that Richard has desperately been trying to find start-up capital for his freelance venture for a while now, but without success.

  I actually offered to help a while ago, and neither of them had wanted to accept it. But perhaps only because they wanted much more?

  Erik could be an actor who Ela has hired and instructed. That would also explain why he keeps tearing up when I push him away from me. Technique. Unfortunately, this is precisely the kind of story that would make me sound completely crazy if I told it to a doctor.

  Ela parks the Honda. “Everything OK, Jo?”

  I nod and try to get out, but the door is still locked. I hit my hand against it with a force that surprises even me. I pound my knuckles against the metal, again and again; it hurts, but I can’t stop.

  “What are you doing?” Ela grabs my arms and holds onto them tightly. “Jo! Please!”

  The back of my right hand throbs and burns. I feel a strong, almost overwhelming urge to bang my head against the car door as well.

  I take a few deep breaths, and it gradually dissipates.

  The expression in Ela’s eyes is one of utter perplexity.

  “Get me to this doctor,” I say. “Quickly.”

  The waiting room is quiet. Just an elderly woman and a young man. And the three of us. Erik sorts out the paperwork with the receptionist; he has my passport and my insurance card. All the documents that I so urgently need.

  The elderly woman is called in a short while later. I prepare myself for a long wait. We’ve arrived early, but I’d rather sit here than in Ela’s apartment.

  There is a single dark spot on the otherwise immaculate marble-tiled floor. I fixate on it. Count my breaths, in and out. My wrist is hurting more by the minute; it’s probably swollen, and the most inconceivable part is that the pain feels good.

  Really good.

  I curl my right hand into a fist and feel new barbs of pain shoot through it. If I’m not careful, I’ll start laughing.

  I really hope this doctor knows her stuff.

  * * *

  By my reckoning, Dr. Verena Schattauer is in her late fifties, and right away she forbids Erik or Ela from accompanying me into the examination room. I take an instant liking to her.

  Because of this, it’s easy for me to give her a summary of what happened since last night. It’s not even been a day yet, for God’s sake, and my life has been turned completely upside down.

  I am as honest as I’m able to be. The only thing I keep quiet about is what happened just now in the car. About the fact that I clearly have an underlying need to injure myself.

  “He’s utterly convinced that he’s right, and now even my best friend is taking his side. And yet there’s not a single thing in my house that belongs to him. No books, no clothes, not even a toothbrush. But he’s disregarding that, they both are.”

  The doctor looks at me, her expression solemn. She has made a few notes, but mainly she just listens to me, with an attentiveness that’s almost tangible.

  “It’s … as though I’m standing in front of a red wall, and everyone’s telling me it’s blue. I can try as hard as I want—but for me it stays red. I don’t see any other color. I know it’s red, but I can’t prove it to anyone. How could I?”

  Dr. Schattauer nods compassionately. “Yes, I understand what you mean. Let’s summarize one more time: you can remember everything, you say, short-term memories as well as long-term—everything except this man called Erik.”

  “Exactly.” I suddenly become aware of how it must sound. “I know that if it turns out Erik is telling the truth then I must really be sick, there’s no other explanation…” My words are too hasty, each one running into the next, stumbling over one another.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The doctor presses the tips of her fingers together and smiles at me. “We’ll need to give you a thorough examination, of course, but believe me, there are other explanations for the symptoms you’ve described.”

  She pauses and looks at me thoughtfully. “Systematic amnesia, for example. In other words, memory loss that is restricted to specific areas. In some circumstances, specific people.” Seeing that I’m about to question her, she raises her hand to stop me. “That doesn’t mean that this diagnosis applies to you. It’s just another possibility. To start with, we need to rule out all physical causes.” She pulls her calendar toward her and flicks through it. “I can fit you in for an EEG appointment here in the practice on Thursday, and I’ll also refer you to the clinic for a CT scan.” Probably noticing that I flinched in response to her words, she quickly continues. “Even though I don’t really believe your problem has a physical cause.”

  Systematic amnesia. Memory loss, for no apparent reason? I inquire, and Schattauer shakes her head. “There’s always a cause. A very stressful event, some trauma that is connected to the thing or person in question.”

  My mouth is so dry that I need two attempts to form my question. “Meaning that I’ve suppressed my memory of Erik … because he traumatized me? Abused me?”

  Dr. Schattauer shakes her head emphatically. “No, it doesn’t mean that. It’s just one of many possibilities that we should consider. I’d really like to help you, if you’d allow me to.”

  This thought that my mind has blocked out Erik to protect itself from the memory of something terrible suddenly seems more plausible to me than any other explanation. Then Ela’s behavior would make sense. Erik’s, too, come to think of it. The way he looks at me, then averts his gaze, the way he’s trying to look after me … it could be down to a guilty conscience. And then there are those fleeting moments where it seems he’s struggling to control himself …

  “Is the EEG appointment on Thursday OK for you?” asks Dr. Schattauer, interrupting my train of thought.

  “Yes. Yes of course.” I shake her hand and leave the office. Only Erik is waiting there, he jumps up when he sees me.

  “Ela went home. She was absolutely exhausted, so I told her she could go. She’ll call this afternoon.”

  There it is again, that searching, testing gaze. Guilt? It was entirely possible.

  “Did your talk with the doctor go well?”

  I smile, or at least something close to it. I show my teeth, in any case. “Oh yes. It certainly was.”

  Dr. Schattauer has followed me out, and positions herself between Erik and me. She looks him up and down before turning to me. “If you like, I can arrange for you to stay in a private clinic for the next few days. You’d have some peace there, and you’d be looked after. Maybe that could help.”

  Half an hour ago I would have seriously considered the offer. But now I shake my head. “No, I want to go home. And you have all my details, my address and everything?”

  “Yes, of course.” The doctor’s questioning glance tells me that she hasn’t understood what I’m getting at yet.

  “His too?” I gesture toward Erik, whose surprise at my decision is written all over his face.

  “Yes. He even provided his ID.”

  Ah. Very thorough. So Dr. Schattauer and her receptionist know more about him than I do. His surname, for example. And his address?

  I’ve already taken a step toward the reception area, wanting to take a look at the notes, but Erik steps into my path. He has his wallet in his hand, and pulls out his driver’s license. He hands it to me silently.

  Erik Fabian Thieben. The photo shows a younger version of the man who is standing in front of me, but it’s unmistakably him. In it, his hair almost reaches down to his shoulders; his smile is easy and open and framed by stubble.

  There’s no address on the driver’s license, of course. Maybe I should ask him for his car registration.

  I hand him back the document. “Thank you.”

  “You’re really coming home with me?” he asks softly as he opens the clinic door for me. “Voluntarily?”

  “Yes.” Even I can hear
the hostile undertone in my voice.

  If there’s any truth to the theory of trauma-provoked amnesia, I’ll be able to get to the bottom of it quicker in Erik’s presence. I doubt that he’ll dare lay a finger on me at the moment with the way things are.

  If this trauma really exists, then I’ll have to remember it sooner or later. And if I should find out that Erik was the one who caused it, then God have mercy on him.

  10

  We leave the building, walking next to each other in silence. There’s a lot I want to tell Joanna, and even more that I want to ask her. Like what exactly she told Dr. Schattauer, for instance, and how the doctor reacted. But I don’t dare say anything just now. The fact that Joanna is prepared to come home with me seems like a new, frail bond between us, one so delicate that a single ill-judged word might tear it apart. I’m not going to risk that. We’ve almost reached the car. I click the car remote, open the passenger door and stand next to it. Joanna’s gaze wanders from the door to my face, then her eyes fixate on mine. “Still scared I’m going to run away?”

  I shrug and, for some strange reason, start to feel guilty for not denying it.

  Joanna folds her arms in front of her chest. “I came along to see this doctor because I want to know if there’s something wrong with me. I’m coming back home voluntarily. But let’s make one thing perfectly clear—you’re not locking me up again. Promise me, otherwise I’m not getting in that car.”

  “I promise,” I say, not missing a beat. Not because I’m convinced Joanna won’t try to run away again, but because I know I can’t watch over her all the time. Neither do I want to. If she still wants to run to the police after seeing the doctor, I won’t be able to stop her. All I can do is hope that she won’t.

  “Are you getting in?” I ask carefully.

  “Only once you’re on the other side.”

  I understand. She wants to test if I’ll really leave her be. If I trust her.

  Is she waiting until I’m in the car to run off? No. She actually gets in the car. Relieved, I sit down behind the steering wheel. She buckles her seat belt and nods her chin forward. “Let’s go.”