So I needed to put as much distance between myself and that twisted apartment as I could. That was priority one. Yet where could I bunker down? Not the Turtle Creek address. No hotels either. Because if I was indeed wanted for some crime or another, hanging out in my home or using my credit card to check into a Holiday Inn would likely land me on an episode of America’s Dumbest Criminals.
There was the debit card, of course, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to risk making a bank withdrawal in person, and I didn’t know the pin number—
7-4-9-9.
Jesus Christ! I thought, sitting straight. 7-4-9-9. That was it. That was the pin number. I was positive of it.
I sprang off the park bench and went searching for an ATM.
***
I wasn’t in Dallas as I’d initially believed. I was in Brooklyn, New York. I discovered this when, through a break in the buildings, I glimpsed the Manhattan skyline to the north. On the heels of this realization came another one: I was familiar with Manhattan. I couldn’t muster any specific memories of myself there, but I could see the streets and neighborhoods in my mind’s eye, knew their layouts, knew what buildings and landmarks were where.
I cut through a sprawling cemetery and found a street-facing ATM on the other side of a busy overpass. I stuck the debit card in the slot and punched in 7-4-9-9. I held my breath, waiting to be informed that the pin was incorrect, or that the card was being retained by my financial institution. A second later, however, a prompt asked me how much money I would like to withdrawal. I entered fifty dollars. The guts of the machine churned. The mouth spat out two twenties and a ten. I requested a printed receipt to check the balance.
$749,950.
I had to read the figure one digit at a time until I was certain I was not mistaken. Then, with a trembling hand, I requested another withdrawal. This time I punched in five hundred dollars, hesitated, then added another zero, hoping I didn’t bankrupt the machine.
It spat out the money just as dutifully as before.
I continued toward downtown Brooklyn, a pinball of emotions banging around inside me. I mean, on the one hand, waking up to discover you had lost your memory and might be wanted by the police was a pretty lousy way to begin your morning. On the other hand, discovering you had three quarters of a million bucks in the bank was a pretty damn good feeling—especially when only moments before you didn’t know whether you had a penny to your name.
I zigzagged through a number of streets, passing the Barclay’s Center, Long Island University, and the Brooklyn Academy of Music. I caught glimpses of my reflection in storefront windows, but I didn’t want to stop and gawk at myself in public. Instead I popped into a Burger King restroom. Standing in front of the grubby mirror—“Things I hate: vandalism, irony, lists” was scribbled on it in black marker—I was relieved to find the driver’s license photo had not been deceptively flattering. I was indeed a ruggedly handsome man.
I leaned closer to the mirror, to examine my eyes, my hairline, the pores on my nose, when the door opened and an old guy with a cane entered. I cleared my throat, rinsed my hands, and left.
Back outside I wandered about in a daze, glancing at the people I passed as if expecting one of them to offer me a nod or a wink, to let me know they were in on the gag. But as I’d already surmised, this was no gag, no candid camera show, none of that. This was real. Fucked up, but real.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, next to a blue postal box, realizing I was famished. I looked back over my shoulder at the Burger King I had recently departed. But I didn’t return. Because I didn’t like Burger King, did I? No, I didn’t. In fact, as hungry as I was, the thought of one of their greasy bacon-and-egg breakfast muffins turned my stomach.
“I don’t like Burger King,” I said in the voice that wasn’t my voice—and felt inspired. This newfound disdain for fast food might not be a memory; more like a feeling, something on the instinctual level that informs thought and memory. Still, it was something, wasn’t it? Some echo of my past identity?
Across the street I spotted a sushi restaurant—and that got my stomach growling. I entered the shop, which turned out to feature one of those rotating conveyor belts moving dishes around in a big loop. I took a seat on a padded stool and snatched one color-coded plate after the other—salmon, tuna, octopus, mackerel, miso soup, tempura—and washed it all down with countless cups of green tea. By the time the waitress came by to tally up my bill, I had more than twenty plates stacked high beside me.
She was cute, the waitress. Maybe twenty, almond eyes, pouty lips. I felt a need to speak to someone and made small talk. She told me she was Japanese, though I guessed Korean or Chinese. I’m not sure how I knew this; it was just a feeling, like how I knew I didn’t like Burger King. Maybe I’d dated a Japanese woman before. Hell, maybe I’d been married to one.
I left her a generous tip—told her arigatou gozaimasu, which turned out to be all the Japanese I knew, killing the Japanese-wife theory—and left the restaurant, feeling semi-human for the first time that morning.
The sky was clear and blue. The sun warmed my skin. And for a moment—and only for a moment—I considered going to the police and telling them everything, letting them figure out the quagmire I’d woken in. Nevertheless, as tempting as this seemed, it was not an option—at least not until I had learned enough on my own to know I wasn’t going to be cuffed and booked on sight.
I decided to make my way to Manhattan on foot. The walk would do me good, give me time to get my thoughts together, figure out my next move.
I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge via the pedestrian walkway suspended above the road. As traffic roared below me I repeatedly glanced at the World Trade Center soaring to the east. I knew the original two buildings had been destroyed in a terrorist attack on September 11, 2001. I knew there had been subsequent wars in Iraq and Afghanistan as pseudo retaliation. I knew these wars had been the equivalent of kicking a hornet’s nest, and now terrorist cells were popping up all over the globe.
So if I knew all this, why couldn’t I recall what my house looked like, or what I did for a living, or whether I was married with children?
Or why I’d been hooked up to that fucking machine with a dead guy decomposing in the next room?
I cut north through Chinatown, then followed Second Avenue through the East Village toward Midtown, soaking up the sights and smells and sounds of the dirty Big Apple—all of which remained frustratingly familiar yet unfamiliar.
While waiting at an intersection for a red light to change, I noticed a walk-in medical clinic on the ground floor of a mint-colored building. It hadn’t struck me to see a doctor—even now that seemed like an all too ordinary solution to an extraordinary predicament—but perhaps a doctor would know something about memory loss? I couldn’t tell him about the machine and the body, of course, but I could tell him I woke knowing fuck all.
What was the worst that could happen anyway? He prescribes me some anti-psychotic meds and tells me to check into Bellevue?
The clinic was air-conditioned to the point of being chilly. The receptionist gave me a patient questionnaire to fill out and told me to take a seat. I completed the form quickly, using the alias “Bart Mulroney” and checking the “no” box next to each question, given I had no clue as to whether I had allergies or existing medical conditions. Then I flicked through the same hotrod magazine three times before my name was called by a female GP in a white coat and a pink hijab.
I followed the doctor down a corridor to a sterile office that smelled of latex. I took a seat on the examination bed, while the doc sat in front of a tidy desk featuring a large-screen Mac.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said with a faint Indian accent. “My name is Avni Singh.” She shook my hand with a cool, dry grip. She was in her fifties, short, her pale skin more white than brown. Beady eyes peered at me over the top of gold-rimmed bifocals.
“I’m Bart,” I said, using the alias.
“So how can I help,
Bart?”
“My memory’s gone,” I told her bluntly.
She seemed unimpressed with this declaration and said, “You can’t recall what you’ve done earlier today?”
“I can’t recall what I’ve done before today.” I hesitated. “Ever.”
Now her thin eyebrows came up—slightly. “What you had for dinner last night?”
“No idea.”
“Whether you went to work yesterday?”
“I don’t even know what I do.”
“You don’t know what you do?”
“That’s the thing, Doc. I know it’s July. I know I’m in New York. But everything about me before this morning—autobiographical information, I’d guess you’d call it—is gone.”
She considered that. “But you know your name?” she said, indicating the questionnaire attached to the clipboard in her hand.
I shook my head. “My name was on my driver’s license, which was in my wallet when I woke up, which was in my pocket. At first I thought I had someone else’s wallet, because I didn’t recognize my photo or my name. But then, well, I just sort of had a feeling it was me.”
“A feeling?”
“I don’t know, Doc. Like being hungry. Just a feeling, an instinct. It was like that, sort of. I don’t know how to explain it better.”
She took a pen from the desk and scribbled something on the clipboard. I couldn’t see what she was writing, but given the conversation thus far I imagined it might be something along the lines of: Patient equates his ego to hunger, believes he is a cheeseburger.
I waited for Avni Singh to continue. She did so a moment later.
“When you look in a mirror,” she said, “who do you see?”
“Me,” I said.
“So you recognize your reflection?”
“No—what I mean is, I know it’s me, you know, the way a monkey would know its own reflection, even if it’s never seen itself before. So I recognize it’s me. I just don’t recognize me.”
She scribbled more notes. Patient now believes himself to be a monkey.
I clenched my jaw in frustration at my inability to articulate my situation. “Look, Dr. Singh,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “I know how this sounds. But it’s the truth.”
“Yes, I see,” she said in a distracted, almost indifferent way. She peered at me again over the bifocals. “Do you have any history of seizers, anxiety, depression?”
I stared at her. “Are you listening to what I’m saying?”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t know my goddamn name, Doc! So how would I know whether I have a history of goddamn seizures?” I stood to leave. “You made your forty bucks. Thanks for your time.”
Dr. Singh stood as well. “Where are you going?”
“To be alone.”
“Please,” she said, indicating for me to sit again.
I hesitated.
“I’m happy to try to help you,” she said. Then, sensing my skepticism, added, “Look…Bart…my next patient is going to tell me about chronic back pain, or irritable bowels, or a skin rash, or what they’ve diagnosed on their own to be a broken hip. You, on the other hand… I’ve been doing this job for many years now, but I’ve yet to come across a case like yours before.”
“That’s supposed to be confidence inspiring?”
“I’ve treated patients with memory loss before, yes,” she amended. “Just not to the extent you’re describing.”
She indicated again that I sit. I studied her, and decided maybe I’d read her wrong. Maybe she hadn’t been distracted earlier because she was uninterested; maybe she’d been distracted because she was trying to figure out what had happened to me.
I sat.
“Thank you,” she said, though she remained standing. She set the clipboard on the desk and folded her arms across her chest. “Bart…can you tell me, do you remember what you did today?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Everything.”
“How do you feel at the moment? Dizzy? Nauseous? Hungover?”
“I don’t think my memory going AWOL is the result of having a few too many last night, Doc.”
“I’m not saying you’re merely hungover,” she said. “I asked because a hangover can be an indication of alcohol abuse, which, over time, can lead to a thiamine deficiency, which can lead to a fugue state.”
“Fugue state?” I repeated.
“It’s a rare psychiatric disorder characterized by amnesia—including memories and other identifying characteristics of individuality.”
I perked up. “Is it reversible?”
She nodded. “And usually short-lived, ranging from a few hours to a few days.”
A delicate hope swept through me—delicate because I knew my memory loss didn’t have anything to do with a thiamine deficiency; it had to do with that fucking machine I’d been hooked up to. However, the fact people can lose their memory and get it back was welcomed news, regardless.
Avni Singh said, “I’m going to ask you a couple simple questions, if that is all right?”
“Shoot,” I said.
“Can you describe your mother or father?”
“What they look like? No.”
“Can you recall their names?”
“No.”
“Do you know what month it is?”
“I told you that. July.”
“What is the capital of the United States?”
“For real?”
“Please?”
“Washington, DC.”
“What is the world’s most populous country?”
“China. Unless India’s caught up.”
“Do you know what you’re going to do tomorrow?”
I frowned. “Haven’t thought about it.”
“Any idea?”
“No, none.”
Avni Singh said, “May I examine your head?”
“I haven’t hit it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“How would you know this if you can’t remember anything before this morning?”
“Because it doesn’t hurt.”
“Pain recedes.”
I shrugged. “Be my guest.”
She tilted my head this way and that, parting my hair, prodding my skull. I sat patiently, feeling like an ape getting groomed by its kin for parasites.
Avni Singh said, “There doesn’t appear to be any signs of trauma.” She stepped away from me and assumed a thoughtful expression. “I suppose a blood test might—”
I frowned. “A blood test?”
She nodded. “Trauma to head is the most likely candidate for memory loss, but an epileptic seizure or a viral infection can also produce similar effects. A blood test could reveal low thyroid functions, or low vitamin B12—”
“I didn’t lose my memory from not eating enough goddamn fish, Doc!” I said, thinking once again of the microwave I’d been hooked up to. “Listen,” I added. “You mentioned that a fugue state can be a result of alcohol abuse. Can it also be a result of something else?”
“Certainly,” she replied. “A tumor, a stroke—but without running diagnostic tests I can’t tell you anything for certain.”
“No tests. Not right now. I just want to know what you know about memory loss.”
“I’m not a neurosurgeon—”
“Humor me, would you?”
Dr. Singh hesitated, then shrugged. “There are two main types of amnesia I’m familiar with. The more common is called anterograde amnesia. Patients can’t remember new information, like what they had for breakfast, or where they left their car.”
“My short-term memory is no problem,” I reminded her.
“Yes, so we’ve established. The other type of amnesia is called retrograde amnesia, ‘retro’ meaning it happened before the injury. In this case patients can’t remember information or events that occurred before the trauma.”
“Like their name or where they live?”
“Their name, facts about their life—everything you’ve described.
”
“So why can I recall who the president is and other shit—stuff—I must have learned before today—those are long-term memories, right?—but nothing about me?”
“Like I said, Bart, I’m not a specialist. Nevertheless, I believe that the memories you’re describing—the name of the president and such—are stored in a different part of your brain than your autobiographical memories, just as your motor memories such as walking and speaking are stored in a different part of your brain. This is why you know what a bicycle is, you can likely ride one if you tried, but you can’t remember the first time your rode one—can you?”
I shook my head. “So you’re saying only a specific part of my brain has been affected?”
“That would be my guess. But again, because there are no physical signs of trauma, I would recommend—”
“Thanks, Doc,” I said, hopping off the bed and going to the door. “If I change my mind about any of those tests, you’ll be the first to know.”
I left before she could say anything more.
***
As I continued down Second Avenue, I replayed everything Dr. Singh had told me and wondered if maybe I should have gotten a blood test after all. But really, what would have been the point? I didn’t, as she suspected, have thyroid or vitamin B12 deficiencies. I had a case of someone screwing around inside my head. So what I needed was a CT scan, or an MRI, something that would show what was going on in my brain, show how badly that machine had scrambled it. Those options, however, were out of the question. I’d need to see a neurosurgeon. I’d need to fill out forms that couldn’t be falsified. I’d need to provide my insurance card, proof of identity. Which meant I’d be in the system for anybody looking for me to find. So it seemed I was back to square one. I knew a bit more about memory loss and amnesia, thanks to the good doctor, but I was still in the dark about what happened to me—or how to reverse it.
What I needed to do was figure out what that Doctor Who machine was, but the only way to accomplish this would be to return to the apartment, which was also out of the question. I’d seen Pulp Fiction (at least I believe I had, because I could recall the plot), and I wasn’t prepared to deal with a Vincent Vega taking a shit in the bathroom with a MAC-11 within easy reach.
Dark Hearts: Four Novellas of Dark Suspense Page 7
