The garden of dead thoughts

by Natasha A. Salnikova

  My mother decided it was time for me to hear everything about my situation, because some detective wanted to talk to me. He had tried to do it right after I regained consciousness but he couldn’t get much from me. Or rather, he got nothing. I didn’t know how I could help him now. My memory hadn’t improved since that day he visited me in the hospital, but if this person wanted to talk and it was his job, I would do what I could as a good citizen.

  “When is my wife coming?” I asked when the three of us sat on the couch in the living room to have a frank conversation.

  “Tommy got sick,” my mother said. “His temperature spiked and Elaine took him to the hospital last night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked with anger, like I actually cared. I didn’t care at all. I didn’t care so much; it was scary. Tommy was just a name to me. An empty sound without form, without a soul to fill it. I had seen a picture of a boy with white blond hair and blue eyes, but it didn’t stir up my feelings. Of course, I didn’t talk about it.

  “We didn’t want you to worry,” she said.

  “You don’t remember him anyway! Why bother?” my father said as he waved his hand.

  “Vincent, stop it,” my mother almost begged.

  I didn’t like this Vincent guy and I was supposed to call him Father. He didn’t understand my amnesia and acted like I chose to lose my memory. Like some people choose to smoke or not, to drink or not. Also, I didn’t like him because he upset my mother, and I’d started getting used to her. I even started to think that I felt close to her. Maybe I had regained my memory for feelings.

  Could it be that I didn’t like my stepfather before? Who knew? Everything was based on intuition, on a subtle matter, on light movements of air. I started my new life with a blank page. Like an infant, I discovered new smells, sounds, touches. Unlike an infant, I tried to recollect my senses, not memorize them. That was the difference and that was the horror.

  “The detective is coming today,” my mother said. “He wanted you to go there, but I said no. You’re too weak for that. He agreed to come here. He’s a good man, I think.”

  “Who are you calling weak?” My stepfather exploded, throwing angry looks in my direction.

  “Vincent.”

  The man waved his hand and turned to the soundless TV.

  “What happened, Mom?”

  “Your psychiatrist recommended talking only about positive things to speed up your recovery.”

  “I feel better. I can handle it.”

  “I wish I was so sure. I told you it was an accident, but really it was an attack. Somebody attacked you in the park. Some really bad person. We don’t know what you were doing there so late. You told Elaine you were meeting someone from work, but you didn’t tell her where. They robbed you and beat you up. They almost killed you, baby.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Elaine called the police right away when you didn’t show up at home. Some man found you the next morning. He was jogging and noticed you on the ground. He thought you were dead. We’re so grateful to him. The doctors said if you hadn’t gotten help when you did …” My mother inhaled deeply again. “Thank God you’re alive. I wanted to give something to the man who saved you, some gift, but he refused. There are bad people in the world and good ones.”

  “That’s it?” I asked. “I was attacked and that’s all?”

  “That’s all. What else do you want, Roman?”

  I put my head down and examined my nails. They were short because I had just cut them off. I was disappointed by the story. It was boring, to tell the truth. Attacked, robbed, and beaten up. Nothing unusual or romantic. Well, no one would say getting into an accident or being beaten to death was romantic in the first place, but I sort of expected more. I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted to hear, but this story left an itching feeling of dissatisfaction in me.

  “Normal people don’t go God knows where in the middle of the night,” my father said.

  “Okay, Vincent, go to the kitchen,” my mother said.

  “I’m not going to talk anymore,” the man said.

  “Go and make some tea, please.”

  My father stood up without another word and left the living room. There was clanking of dishes and the water running into the sink.

  “You just ignore him, Roman. He’s not always like this. That’s his way of worrying. He worries about you a lot, I swear. He can’t even sleep. If you could have seen him the first time we came to the hospital … He even cried. He loves you like his own son.”

  I had a difficult time imagining this man with tears in his eyes, but if my mother said he had them, why should I doubt it? I was not touched by it though. Could I lose my feelings along with my memory? Or maybe I had never had them? No, that was not the truth. Everyone said that I cared about everyone and everything like Mother Teresa, whoever she was.

  “Nobody knows if you’ll get your memory back,” my mother said as she took my hand, turned the palm up, and drew lines with her finger. It tickled. Her finger was dry and thin. On her ring finger, there was a ring with one red stone and two smaller clear ones.

  “Does my father think I’m handicapped?”

  “No! He doesn’t think that!” she said too sharply for it to be true and squeezed my hand into a fist. Then she repeated quieter. “He doesn’t think that. You are not handicapped. Your arms and legs are fine. You walk. You speak. You don’t remember anything. So what? You’ll eventually work again and you’ll go back to your wife and son. You’ll get new memories. We won’t even worry about all that old stuff. If it comes back, fine. If not—that’s okay too. We love you; that’s what is important.”

  Really?

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Stop it. There’s nothing to thank me for.”

  I looked at her and she stroked my head. I really felt something for her. I felt good with her, warm, confident. Maybe that was what a son should feel for his mother. I hoped to start loving my son again. My mother claimed that I loved him like crazy and that I was a good father. Of course. What was I bad at?

  “The tea is ready,” my father said, appearing at the threshold.

  “Let’s go. I’ll give you some cookies,” my mother said. “The detective should be here any minute.”

  The doorbell rang when I was two steps away from the kitchen. My mother hurried to open the door and announced that Detective Zack Molloy had arrived. I returned to the living room, hoping that my mother wasn’t going to forget about the cookies.

  A strange-looking young man sat in the chair in front of me, and I sat back on the couch. He looked funny, like a boy with the eyes of an old man. He had short hair, lightly protruding ears, and narrow hands. He studied me intently, leaning on his knees and bending forward. I felt uncomfortable for some reason; my palms became sweaty. I felt guilty. I had no idea what I was guilty of or why I had that feeling, but he sure could work magic.

  “How are you doing?” Molloy asked.

  “Better. I didn’t become a drug addict even though my mother worried about it.”

  The detective knitted his brows in a silent question.

  “I was taking pain killers,” I explained my unsuccessful joke. Why was I even joking? “Four pills in the beginning and only two now.” Why was I still talking?

  “Yes,” The detective nodded. He was quiet and just looked at me. I also was quiet, holding his gaze. He had a strange gaze. Accusing, penetrating. I wanted to turn away, to leave. I felt an unexpected wave of irritation. He didn’t believe that I had amnesia? Did he think I was hiding some important information from him? I hoped he didn’t think I hurt myself. Maybe my mother was right about putting off the interrogation.

  I heard movements in the kitchen. My mother was probably setting the table to feed this lop-eared guy with the hands of a musician and intelligent eyes. I noticed that she liked to feed people. Most of her retired life she had spent in the kitchen. That was what she said and her food was great. Well, I thought it was great.

  “You don
’t have any recollection of your life, including that tragic night when you were attacked?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did you doctor say?”

  “He’s positive my memory will come back. Not all at once, but gradually. He said to just live each day. I do. I only remember the last weeks, but before them—a black hole.”

  “When you look at pictures and see yourself, you don’t remember when they were taken or who the people are around you?”

  “Blank.”

  “Unbelievable. It’s like in a movie.”

  “Yeah.”

  The detective’s last words amused me, but for some reason I didn’t believe him. He sounded like he was having fun talking to me, but he didn’t look like he was having fun. Something was off about him. Like he was saying one thing but his thoughts were different. Like he wanted to trick me. He smiled, but his eyes were serious. Why would he want to trick me? Or maybe it was nothing and I was just overthinking the situation. What did I know about detectives and interrogations? What did I know at all? I knew only things my mother and my wife had told me, the things I had seen on TV or read in books. I had assumed that I understood the person sitting in front of me, but it was my mind craving a normal life. It was provoking me, demanding of me to think, search, analyze. Was I like this before? Was I distrustful? Did I try to find hidden meaning in something that was offered to me openly? Why didn’t I trust?

  “How do you live without your memory?”

  “I don’t know. I have nothing to compare it to.”

  “I see. I wouldn’t mind getting rid of some of my memories. I wouldn’t think about years that I spent uselessly.”

  “Hmmm,” was all I said.

  Molloy’s eyes drilled mine and an unpleasant chill rose in my stomach.

  “I’ve never talked to a person who legitimately didn’t remember anything, but we can try. We don’t have a choice, right?” Molloy grinned, but his eyes remained the same.

  I didn’t know why I felt cold running down my spine. Something was wrong with this guy. Or with me. Why did he stare at me like this?

  He opened a black folder he was holding on his lap, looked inside it, and then back at me.

  “Near the park where you were found, another crime was committed. A woman was killed in her house around the same time you were attacked. It could be the same person. I hoped you would remember something.”

  The detective fell silent, studying me. His hands lay lifelessly on his knees. I was quiet too, bearing his look. I was thinking. Something flickered in my memory, in my recent memory. My mother and my wife had probably talked about it. If I remembered correctly, they said that near the place where somebody robbed me, a serial killer had killed a woman. Something like that. Or maybe it was a false memory that my brain tried to claim as real. My doctor warned me about that. Also, it was possible that I heard it on TV. Shit, I was so tired of assuming. And I wanted my freaking pill. My bones ached and my head became heavy. How long until the next one? Two hours?

  “Did you remember something?”

  “Just …” I rubbed my temples. “I think I heard about it somewhere.”

  The detective nodded. “It was all over the media. Nothing about you at the same time and it could be the same person. You could be a witness to that crime.”

  “It didn’t occur to me.”

  “You could, but not necessarily. It could be two different criminals at the same time, the same place.”

  “But what if those crimes are connected? Could that person recognize me and try to kill me?” I asked. The possibility of such outcome didn’t scare me.

  “I can’t answer that question, unfortunately. If the person who attacked you also committed the first crime, there’s a chance.”

  Then the conversation moved to a different area. Molloy started to ask me about my daily planners, computer passwords, some ideas of what I may have been doing in that park. My wife told me they had asked her about it too. Or did she tell my mother?

  I don’t remember. I’m losing my memory again.

  “Could you have had a meeting with someone there?” Molloy pushed me.

  “That would be a strange place for a meeting. What do you think?”

  “For a business meeting—probably yes.”

  “Does that mean I was doing something … illegal?”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe the person you were meeting did something illegal and you found out about it.” Molloy smiled for reasons unknown to me and leaned back in the chair. “It’s only theories. Speculation. It could be anything. You could’ve had a date there.”

  “I’m married.”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “You’re right,” I said. Now the story of my memory loss wasn’t so boring anymore. I could know a secret. I could have witnessed a horrible crime.

  I had butterflies in my stomach and started to feel interest in life for the first time since the accident. What if I was a spy? Some super-agent, collecting secret information for my country. Agent … 008.

  “You like this possibility more than just a robbery?” Molloy said with a smile, like he had read my mind.

  “You bet. Maybe I’m a spy. Or a scientist who discovered the secret to everlasting life? Or an alien who seized and occupied this body.”

  “Why not? There are plenty of opportunities to discover yourself.”

  “Plenty of opportunities, but I don’t know what I want. I don’t even know if I like showers or baths, or what kind of eggs I like for breakfast. I don’t do anything myself, can’t make any decisions. I’m told everything! I try to believe it’s only temporary. I have to. Otherwise, I’ll fly into a rage.”

  I stopped, realizing that my face was burning. What was happening to me? Did I understand oppressive points of my position? My indifference smashed into pieces like a vase thrown from a table to a hard floor.

  “I understand how you feel,” the detective said, nodding his head. His eyes were calm, penetrating.

  “Thank you,” I said, lowering my head. I was embarrassed. Molloy came here to find out what happened to me, not to hold a therapy session.

  “First and foremost, we need to figure out what you were doing in that park,” he said. “We asked your family and your coworkers, but it didn’t give us any leads. Hopefully, you’ll remember something, and maybe your friends will help you. I’m sure you want to find out what happened to you more than me.”

  The same look again. Like he understood more than he was saying. Like he knew everything already. What if it was true? What if I did witness a crime and a serial killer, or whoever he was, wanted to get rid of me?

  Something flicked on my right and I was startled. It was my mother. Who else could it be? The maniac who had been killing women? I didn’t see her enter or stop by the couch. The detective looked at her.

  “I made some tea, coffee, and warmed up some pastries. I baked them myself from scratch, by the way. Would you like to try some?” she asked Molloy. She was kind, my mother, a very kind woman, indeed. Was it appropriate to feed investigators? I hadn’t read about it in any books yet and hadn’t watched it on TV, so I didn’t know.

  “I’ve got to go,” Molloy said, but he didn’t make an attempt to leave.

  “You have to snack sometimes. You’re probably tired with all this … investigation.”

  “If you insist.” Molloy stood up.

  I chuckled soundlessly when he turned away from me. He might have thought he could get more information in a less formal situation. I liked this guy even though he was one sneaky son of a gun. Son of a gun? Where did I get this one? Son of a gun, huh.

  While I walked to the kitchen, I thought about Molloy and wondered if all detectives acted like him. I didn’t know. Maybe they learned in detective school how to intimidate people and make them feel guilty (even if those people were victims). They did it just in case. You never knew, right?

  We had tea and coffee with my mom’s pastries. They were good. My mother sai
d I liked them right from the fridge, cut in half and smeared with cold butter. I ate them with coffee for breakfast. I tried that and it was good.

  As we ate, Molloy spoke. He talked about amnesia and what a strange phenomenon it was. He mentioned how some people’s minds exclude the most tragic moments of life, protecting a person’s consciousness from suffering. I was interested and uninterested in listening to him. I was uninterested, because in the hospital they had explained it already and I had read about it. I was interested because he was talking with youthful enthusiasm. He acted younger than he looked.

  “This sort of amnesia, like you have,” he said, “is very, very rare. I did some research before coming here. I looked it up on the Internet and talked with our psychologist. He, by the way, had never run across a case like this. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, obviously. You have it. You’re a unique case of retrograde, global amnesia. This type of amnesia can last a few minutes to a few hours. If an internal brain injury is serious, this period can be longer and, sometimes, irreversible. That’s what probably happened to you. I hope though that you will regain your memory. Listen to this interesting fact that I found on the Internet …”

  I was only half-listening to him, because I was trying to analyze newly discovered information. How did I keep notes before? Were they in the computer or on paper? What if I memorized everything? My mother mentioned that I possessed a phenomenal memory before all of this happened. If I did memorize them—good-bye, hope.

  Hope for what? Was it going to help me remember? Or maybe it was going to protect me from unexpected things in life? From a red-faced man with an axe, for example, who was out for blood? My blood, to be exact. What if I was a cheater and I was with my lover and her husband caught us? Her husband was the man with the red face. He had driven me to the park and knocked me down with the blunt end of an axe. Why not with the sharp end? He would have gotten better results. The image of a strange man was bright in front of my eyes. Had I seen him somewhere? Maybe it really happened that way.