I vaguely thought about hospital bills. “I have no money...” I protested weakly. My face fell against the pillow as I succumbed to the sedative.
“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”
I sighed. So full of authority, his voice made me feel safe. I blacked out again.
* * *
My memories of weeks or months prior to my admission to Caledonia General Hospital seemed lost in a deep, dark pit. According to the nurses, I was in a town called Hadrian’s Wall, somewhere in Maine.
How did I get here?
All I remember of my dull existence happened in New Hampshire, more precisely a small town called Dailey’s Crossing, located on the route between Berlin and Groveton. I felt like I had fallen asleep in one place and awakened a day later in another place. Although it seemed like it had been only 24 hours, it could have been much more.
This mysterious lapse in time began to command the moods that struck me in those early days. I knew, of course, that there was no point kicking myself for my failure to remember or allow myself to panic. There was no one I could blame. My mind would provide answers that I desperately needed, so I stayed adrift.
Adrian did not come back and nobody knew to tell me about him. Rather, I was almost sure that they did not want to let me know about him. There was a difference between “to know” and “to want” and while I felt reluctance from some of the people, I decided not to push it. But he’d said that he was taking care of me, so to someone lost and confused like me, his disappearance seemed like a broken promise—another disappointment. Whether big or small, it was nonetheless one more for my “collection.”
The residents took turns during the week; however, the doctor in charge of my case was the head of the Neurology Department—Dr. Talbot. He introduced himself in the morning of the day after Adrian’s visit, which made me suspicious. He didn’t seem worried about my amnesia. When I asked questions, he always managed to find a way to evade them. He said my memory would return naturally and that trying to stimulate it would not bring back the information because it might create false memories from information provided by other people. He told me that it wasn’t good for me to try to satisfy my curiosity so fast.
Despite his cold and impersonal manner, he seemed to be a caring doctor, so I decided to heed his advice and let it ride for now, but my anxiety was increasing. I slept poorly as old nightmares, my sad childhood companions, began to afflict me again.
One night a nurse heard me screaming and shook me awake. The flapping wings from the dark creature I’d seen in my dream still echoed in my ears the next morning. Thereafter, a succession of bad dreams made me wake up several times during the night, leaving me with a feeling of imminent danger. I didn’t want to talk about my nightmares with anyone. I preferred to keep them a secret because they’d caused trouble for me during my childhood and adolescence.
Since that time, I learned not to trust doctors. They always seemed so calm, so controlled, but behind that façade of serenity, they define us like laser-cut stones and with their verdicts they commit “social homicide” on those of us they judge. I had allowed myself to trust one. I opened my mind to him, yet he betrayed me. If he had not taken advantage of my childlike innocence and branded me with a stereotype, I would not have suffered as much as I did at the hands of those around me.
Of course, because the frequency of my nightmares was increasing, the nurse reported the situation to Dr. Talbot. He decided that I should undergo a battery of tests, which found no organic reason for what I was experiencing. That came as no surprise to me because I’d been through it all when I was a young child. I thought about explaining that to the neurologist, but then abandoned the idea.
Since my father’s death, I had been having nightmares that for short periods of time would disappear without explanation, but generally returned when I experienced intense stress as vivid as if I were watching a 3D movie. In Hadrian’s Wall, all the dreams I had were much more elaborate and replete with enigmatic figures, making it much more difficult to separate delirium from reality, even when I was awake. However, the recent dreams didn’t vary much from those of my childhood. It was weird because in most of them I saw myself in the same place—on a stone staircase surrounded with flowers and lush plants.
The dream always started at the point where I was descending the stone staircase that led to a spacious terrace overlooking the woods. Off in the distance I spied a grayish-brown band bordering the horizon. It appeared to be some kind of wall, with watchtowers symmetrically placed at regular intervals. Interposed between me and the terrace was a full-size statue of a woman. In her hand, she holds a small object on which a strange symbol is subscribed. Is it some kind of warning?
Next to a stone altar there stands a very tall man, lean and strong, waiting for me, extending his hand to me. He wears a white tunic and a red cloak casually thrown over his shoulder in the traditional Roman style. How I knew it was Roman style, I have no idea. I could see his tanned skin, like that of someone who passed his days outdoors or at the seashore. I could not see his face because it was obscured by the shadows of trees canopied above the altar. Why did he seem so familiar to me? Inexplicably, I missed him.
I had this dream repeatedly. Upon waking, sadness would sweep over me. I began to count the hours until night came so that I might find the unknown man of my dreams. When the dreams stopped, I became depressed. With some trepidation, I decided tell to Dr. Talbot about my feelings. He said that my state of mind reflected an emotional reaction to the danger having passed. According to him, my mind had deleted the consciousness of the original traumatic event; however, he contends that it remains filed away in my memory, waiting to be brought to the forefront through symbolic distortions. This is all Greek to me. I nodded, pretending to understand.
Meanwhile, my nights were getting worse. Maybe Dr. Talbot would understand that it was a sign that my memory had a lot to reveal according to his physician’s logic. The strange figures that populate my dreams aroused horror in me, except for him—the stranger whose face I could not see. At least he gave me a good feeling, a sensation of security, even affection; but the other creatures I dreamed about...
God forgive me!
* * *
A strange girl once came into the scene that my mind had created. She was beautiful, small and delicate; however, her beauty seemed not to be of this world. Her blazing eyes were black as tar. Her long auburn hair fluttered around a child’s face, forming a frame that emphasized her translucent skin. She was so like the statue of another dream, only she was alive!
There was something dangerous about her—like the way her lips opened to show her very white teeth. I sensed that the fantastic creature would make me very ill before she bent over and gracefully jumped over me. I always ran, stumbling...though deep down I knew there was no chance to escape. As usual, I awoke bathed in sweat and breathing hard, but I barely had time to recover. A movement in the shadows scared me so much that I lost what little breath I still had in my lungs.
The girl came from nowhere! She stood as still at my bedside as the statue of my dream, but there was no physical resemblance between them. Although she was as beautiful as the other, she could not be considered delicate, much less small. Her hair was black and she had oriental-looking eyes.
She was wearing a white jacket, making me think she was another resident; but the look of her made me feel quite apprehensive. She gave me a weird stare that reminded me of the television documentaries about the animal kingdom when a snake appeared from nowhere, waving its tail and hypnotizing a helpless mouse. It was exactly the same look—that of a predator.
I noticed that she was holding a folder containing my medical records with enough force to tear it in half.
“So...it’s you!”
Huh?
She evaluated my confusion and then continued, twisting her thin lips as she spoke. “The girl found unconscious on the Mountain of Polish Man.”
“Mountain of Po
lish Man?”
“You do not know anything about us, right?” Her accent was British, her question sounded scornful.
“No,” I whispered. “Should I? Who are you?” She laughed at my confusion.
“No, you should not...if you really came to Hadrian’s Wall by accident...and to answer your question, my name is Asia.”
Mmm...a strange name! Definitely not English. Does she also consider herself to be as great as a continent or is the name a tribute to her almond-shaped eyes? I thought that English people were more friendly and formal in their first meetings, but this girl obviously didn’t fit that description.
“I still have no idea how I got here.” I glanced at her coat, looking for a badge to confirm her full name and specialty, but there was none. It made me even more apprehensive, wondering why she would not want her status to be acknowledged.
Asia seated herself on the edge of my bed. Her eyes were strange—a brown color that I had never seen before—somewhere between burgundy and chocolate. They were eyes that evoked fear in me.
Suddenly her eyes were yellow. Yellow? When I blinked, she quickly picked up her glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and put them on her face. Like Adrian’s, the lenses were slightly shaded.
“In fact, it is very strange, especially when you have such a powerful weapon...” She looked meaningfully at my left hand and casually pointed at it. “Interesting tattoo.”
I followed her eyes to my tear-shaped birthmark between the forefinger and thumb on the back of my hand.
“It’s not tattoo. I was born with it.”
“How convenient,” she murmured. “Why now?”
“I don’t understand.”
Suddenly, another resident appeared in my room—a tall, frail-looking young man with flyaway hair the color of rust.
“Asia, you should not be here. This ward is mine today.”
She smiled. “I just wanted to meet the new, mysterious patient from Caledonia.”
His scowl did not match his baby face. “Go back to your patients. Must I remind you what our orders are?”
I looked at Asia and could have sworn I saw a flash of anger cross her face, though it wasn’t easy to decipher her emotions because of the darkened lenses.
“That’s not fair, Jay!” Her indignant reaction seemed to have more than one meaning.
Worried, he glanced at me and then back at Asia again. “Stephen is in the building now. You might wonder what will happen if he finds out you are here.”
A hint of dread crossed Asia’s face. Within one second her eyes widened and her mouth opened. “Stephen, Stephen...the eternal guard dog!” she muttered.
She looked at me one last time. “Saved by the bell!” Smiling, she passed by Jay and left us.
Jay looked down for a moment and then at me. “I’m sorry, I should have been doing my rounds earlier.” Embarrassed, he scratched his head. “I believe that Asia saved me this effort.”
Of course, I was not buying this charade, but I let it pass. I got the impression that he didn’t expect me to believe it. He approached my bed and picked up my records.
“Another resident,” I sighed. “Where is Adrian?” I glanced at his nametag, which read, “Jay O’Neal / Neurology.”
Mmm...Irish, Welsh, or Scottish boy? That would explain his red hair and freckles, but does not explain the contrast between old worn shoes and the wristwatch that very few people could afford—Rolex or Omega? So many contradictions...it seems that I am surrounded by them lately.
O’Neal stopped in the middle of room and opened my folder, but said nothing. He must have read that the only big news of day was the discontinuation of intravenous medication—at least, I celebrated it. Despite the sleepless nights that left me tired all day, the persistent fever had finally relented. Already, I was eating better and required only periodic doses of medication dispensed from a nebulizer.
Dr. Way, the orthopedist, and Dr. Endfield, the pulmonary doctor, both emphasized that I should not overtax my ribs. They monitored me all the time. My visit to the Radiology Department for x-rays was one of the few events that allowed me to be released from the special brace that I was forced to wear at all times.
Jay O’Neal took the pen from his pocket and made a little note in my records. “You need rest,” he recommended before leaving.
As if that were possible!
* * *
I could not forget the strange episode. It was seared into my mind like a red-hot brand. My biggest fear was that Asia would come back. The last thing that I wanted or needed was to be forced to remain under the medical supervision of a psychopath who seemed to harbor an unjustified grudge against me. Every night, I listened intently, anticipating the worst, but thankfully, she never came back. I guess Stephen—her boss or supervisor—must have given her a well-deserved scolding.
How foolish I am! Even though she scared me, I still wanted to learn something about her! Asia “No-Last-Name” had said something about a “Mountain of Polish Man” and I was intrigued. What does that have to do with me?
* * *
Despite my growing curiosity, two days later Dr. Talbot interrupted my routine by referring me to a psychiatrist for evaluation. At first I thought it was because of my memory problem—or rather my lack of memory, but he argued that since the tests did not reveal any organic “disorder” his main concern was now the nightmares impeding my recovery. He said I needed to sleep well in order to regain my strength, but I could not.
“As for the amnesia, that problem should be temporary,” he said. “Amnesia usually settles because of a psychological trauma, which may or may not be accompanied by a blow to the head.”
My concussion apparently explained the physical aspect, but I lacked information about what had caused the original trauma. It could take time, so I needed a little professional help. He is still speaking Greek, so why do I keep nodding?
* * *
That afternoon, after my daily sunbath on a secluded terrace, which was strangely not open to other patients, the nurse pushed me in my wheelchair into the clinic ward. On one of the doors was a sign. “Dr. Adam Barringer—Psychiatrist.”
The nurse knocked and without waiting for a reply, quickly pushed my wheelchair inside. I wanted to tell her that I could walk, but I already knew what the answer would be: “No, you must ride...hospital rules,” so I resigned myself to the usual constraint that the wheelchair ride caused me.
To my astonishment, we entered a small, cozy lounge—far from the sterile environment that I expected. Behind the U-shaped counter attached to the wall, a girl was typing furiously on her computer. tec-tec-tec... After a quick exchange of greetings, the nurse introduced me.
“Dana, this is Melissa, the good doctor’s new patient.” Turning to me, she said, “When you are finished, ask to Dana call me and I’ll come get you.”
Be brave, young lady was all she needed to say...
I nodded, all the while pressing my lips together so I would not laugh like a hysterical girl. The nurse gave me an encouraging smile and then departed.
When the door closed behind her, I let out a sigh.
Okay, I admit that she was a sweet person—very caring and friendly. What was her name? I’ve always been bad about remembering names. On the other hand, I never forget a face. Yes! I remember! Bernice...that’s her name. I must buy her a small gift when I leave the hospital—a gesture of thanks for the wonderful way she has treated me. I was never treated this well before—except by the nurse from my childhood. Bernice was like her.
Oops! How will I buy a gift—or anything else, for that matter? I have no money! I felt my stomach muscles clench. Oh my God! No money, no job, no friends...and no memory!
Suddenly, with her eyes still glued to the monitor, Dana clicked the computer’s mouse twice. Without realizing my despair, she turned her back and began rummaging through file drawers as if looking for something.
I breathed deep and gave quiet thanks when I found some magazines to d
istract me. There were many scattered on the table—fashion, current events, movies. I looked at the pictures, comparing my limp, shapeless, brown hair to the beautiful tresses of supermodels and movie stars. When I was halfway through the magazine, a silent signal apparently had been sent because Dana got up from her chair and went into the doctor’s office carrying my medical records.
“It’s your time. Dr. Barringer will meet you in a moment,” she said when she emerged from his office. She walked across the room and exited through another door.
A few minutes later she reappeared, followed by a tall, elegant man, who I assumed was the doctor. My first impression of him was good. Mmm...better than my initial impression of Dr. Talbot. The psychiatrist looked me straight in the eye. There was no superior or probing look like doctors often employ when they meet a new patient.
That’s cool!
I appraised his appearance quickly, something he seemed to expect—at least, it seemed like it didn’t bother him. That was cool, too. He was wearing the same kind of white jacket that I was accustomed to seeing everywhere. He also wore surgical gloves like those I’d seen on Adrian’s hands. He was undeniably handsome. He looked a little like Dr. Kildare. Oh, yes...even though I don’t like doctors, I never missed an episode on Saturday night television. Like Dr. Kildare, the “good doctor” is hot!
No doubt, his kind would attract any woman—sandy hair, smooth and short, strong jaw, two dimples on the cheeks appearing when he smiled, a hint of sensitivity and compassion when he drew his eyebrows together. The only problem was that Dr. Barringer seemed too young for his occupation. I could have mistaken him for one of the medical students; however, there was an authoritative aura around him which inspired my confidence.
“Miss Baker, welcome to my office.” His smile widened when he pressed my hand.
“You can call me Melissa, please,” I stammered, my suspicion having returned.
He helped me up from the wheelchair. I walked in front of him, tottering while he spoke a few words with his secretary. I knew why I was so nervous. After all, I’d been through this once before and knew what to expect from a psychiatrist. He would diagnose me as crazy, just like the government doctor who had evaluated me when I was a child. I was afraid to provide ammunition to the enemy, remembering the advice given me by another young orphan girl many years ago: “When in doubt, pay attention to everything. Listen, but don’t talk.” Thus, I held my tongue and waited, not allowing myself to look around his office for fear of being misunderstood.
Hadrian's Wall Page 2
