Amnesia

by Andrew Neiderman

  Was it the ugly face of that paranoia showing itself again? Whatever it was, it was strong, he thought. He couldn’t help it. He started to follow her, making the same turn. Moments later he found himself on the road to Mrs. Masters’s beautiful home. He made another turn just in time to see Megan’s car pass through the gate and the gate close behind her. He pulled to the side and looked at the grand property for a moment. It was so quiet. Even the birds seemed afraid to make too much noise. Despite the clouds and brisk breeze, the wind seemed to stop just outside the gate and walls. The trees were still. It was almost as if he were looking at a Hollywood set and not a real place.

  He was about to start the engine and drive away when he saw another car approaching. He could see the driver clearly. It was Terri Richards, and she was talking in a very animated fashion to Debbie Asher, who sat beside her. He was sure that was Laurie Corkin in the rear. They, too, entered through the gate and disappeared within.

  Oh, well, he thought, maybe they’re all just having a work session at Mrs. Masters’s home rather than at the offices. Nothing especially unusual about that. Stuff your blatant suspicions, he told himself. What the hell was there to be suspicious of anyway? It is unreasonable and illogical paranoia after all.

  He went to start his car again, but before he made the U-turn, another vehicle approached from behind him, a black Chrysler Town Car. As it went by, he glanced to his left. There was no doubt in his mind this time. The driver was the same man he had seen speaking to Dr. Longstreet behind the clinic months ago, the same man who had helped him back at Grand Central, the young blond man in the pin-stripe suit.

  But that wasn’t what sent a cold shock through his heart. After all, Dr. Longstreet had made it clear that he would still experience confused, recurrent images. Maybe this was just another instance. What stunned him was who he saw sitting in the rear. It was Mrs. Domfort. There was no question. It was little Grandma-looking Mrs. Domfort.

  What was she doing here? And why was she being driven to Mrs. Masters’s property? He hadn’t seen her since he had experienced that hallucination at the dinner. Was this just another one?

  But that car wasn’t an illusion. He watched the limousine move through the open gate and disappear as well. He remained for a few minutes, waiting, watching, trying to make some sense of this.

  Then, his heart thumping, he turned around and headed back toward the village, never feeling more lost and confused. He was floating about like an astronautin a space vehicle trying to tether himself to something that would end this pointless floating. What would he find to grab and set himself straight?

  The morning’s events, especially seeing Mrs. Domfort, hallucination or not, made it impossible for him to concentrate on his work. Despite the good prognosis Dr. Longstreet revealed and her satisfaction with his progress, he was increasingly frustrated with the gaping dark holes in his memory. Ignoring it, keeping busy wasn’t enough now. He had to find a quicker way back to the past.He decided to return to his home and try to stir up some of his lost memory by searching their possessions. There were things Megan had described as wedding gifts or anniversary gifts, as well as Christmas and birthday gifts. Some items, like the LLyadro figurine of the farm girl feeding chickens, rang up sights and sounds from a past birthday of Megan’s. He could see her smiling, her eyes filling with tears of joy. Candles on a birthday cake flickered and were blown out. He could hear himself and Sophie singing “Happy Birthday” to her.

  But the odd thing about these memories was they came and went, and when they left him, they returned to that darkness that hovered in a corner of his mind. They were like the temporarily resurrected dead, brought back to life for a short time simply to prove they had once existed and then to return to their graves. They felt artificial to him, staged, unless they were somehow mixed and confused with the images that made no sense, the hallucinations, the mistakesof his mind as Dr. Longstreet described. Those memories, as distorted and confusing as they were, effected him more deeply, filled him with a stronger sense of longing, but a longing for what? What?

  When he entered his home, he went to the living room and sat staring at the furniture, the art, the vases and the decorative pieces. What’s missing here? he questioned. Why do I still feel like a stranger sitting among my own things? I should feel more of a connection.

  He rose and wandered through his home, looking at everything, no matter how small, even their salt and pepper shakers. He stood before the works of art on the walls. He sat at the dining room table. He fingered the silk napkins and traced the embroidery. He paused over every framed picture of him, of Megan, of Sophie. Sometimes, a place crystalized and some events returned, but they floated through his mind on the skin of balloons, bursting in that corner of darkness.

  Upstairs, in his and Megan’s bedroom, he rifled through drawers, held up her lingerie, brought her undergarments to his face and inhaled her perfumed scent, stirring his libido and filling the screen in his mind with images of their lovemaking. He fingered her jewelry and his own. He went over their possessions like a miser counting his accumulated quarters and dollars. Some items brought up those instant memories, some were very unfamiliar.

  Afterward, he stood at their bedroom window and looked out at the patch of trees to the west. What was it? How could he put it into words that wouldmake sense and help him to get someone like Dr. Longstreet to understand what he felt inside, why he was so empty, why he had this persistent tiny rubber ball bouncing about in his stomach and in his chest until it bounced with every heartbeat? What am I not saying to her? To anyone that could make this all go away?

  He looked back at the room and his recent memories here. It’s like dots, he thought, a thousand different dots, some connecting, but most not. He had all these minutes and hours, these days and months emerging here and there, returning and disappearing, rising like bubbles in water, popping. The thing of it is that even if they were all connected, even if they were all tied together, they still didn’t formhim.

  They didn’t give him what he needed the most.

  The didn’t give him his name. Not yet.

  The struggle and the emotional turmoil exhausted him. He retreated to the bed and kicked off his shoes. Then he lowered his head to the pillow and closed his eyes. In moments he was fast asleep and didn’t awaken until he felt himself being gently shaken.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Sophie said with a laugh on her lips. “Why are you home so early today?”

  “What?” He focused on her. Then he looked toward the doorway, where Megan was standing, watching. “What’s going on?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know, Aaron,” she said. “You left the car right in the middle of the driveway as if you had to rush into the house. I couldn’t pull around to get to the garage. I called your office earlierto see if you could pick Sophie up today, and you didn’t answer. I called here, too, but you didn’t pick up the phone.”

  “I never heard it ring,” he said, wiping his face with his palms and sitting up.

  “Look!” Sophie said, thrusting a drawing in front of him. “I made it.”

  He gazed at the picture of a pig sitting behind a classroom desk.

  “What is this?” he asked. “A cartoon?” He looked up at Megan, who shrugged.

  “Her teacher thought it was a pretty good drawing, and she couldn’t wait to bring it home to show to you.”

  “It is a good drawing!” he said. “Very good. She’s inherited some of your artistic ability,” he added.

  “Yours too, Aaron.”

  “I see that. Very good, Sophie, but why did you draw a pig in the classroom?”

  “I saw it there,” she said.

  “You saw it there?” he asked. His mind was reeling again. He had seen pigs, too. Where?

  Oh, yes, he thought, the dinner at Mrs. Masters’s.

  “Quite an imagination, she has,” Megan said.

  “Yes, quite.”

  “You really like it, Daddy?”

  “Su
re. I love it. Can I put this in my home office?” he asked.

  “Yes!” she practically screamed.

  “Good.”

  “Go change, honey,” Megan told her, “if you want to help me with dinner.”

  “Okay, Mommy. Here,” she told Aaron and left the picture on his lap.

  He lifted it and shook his head.

  “Those eyes she drew are quite good, very human,” he said. “Don’t you think this is a bit strange, Megan?”

  “Why did you come home, Aaron?” she asked, ignoring his question. “What happened?”

  She looked as if she knew, as if she just wanted to hear him say it.

  “I just got so tired,” he said instead. “I thought it would be a good idea to take it easy for a day. I’ve been going full blast for weeks.”

  She nodded, her eyes still small, suspicious. “You all right now?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Fine.”

  “Okay. I’ll start on dinner,” she said.

  “Maybe we should go out.”

  “No, it’s fine. Like I promised, I’m making one of your favorite things, Cornish hens.”

  “Great.”

  She started to turn away.

  “Megan?”

  She looked back. “What is it, Aaron?”

  “I was thinking about someone before.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Domfort,” he said.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Well, we’ve been here for months and you haven’t mentioned her and she hasn’t paid us a visit as she said she would. You haven’t sent for her either, right? I mean, being she was so close to us and all.”

  Her eyes darkened, her shoulders slumping.

  “I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to add any unpleasantness while you were going through this healing period, Aaron, and while Sophie was adjusting to a new home and a new school.”

  “What unpleasantness?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Domfort passed away a week after we left, Aaron. She had congestive heart failure. I’d rather we didn’t say anything to Sophie about it, okay?”

  He simply stared at her for a moment.

  “You’re saying Mrs. Domfort died?”

  “Yes, Aaron. I’m sorry, of course. You’re right about her. She was like a grandmother to Sophie, and in many ways, a mother to me. It’s been hard keeping it buried and to myself, but I thought it was best. I’m sure you understand, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Odd that you thought of her at this time. What made you?” Megan asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, now afraid to mention what he had seen. She would definitely think he was going as mad as a loon. “I guess we’ll have to wait until I see Dr. Longstreet again. She’s the only one who seems able to explain anything I think or see these days.”

  There was an edge to his reply, a sarcasm Megan apparently missed or chose to ignore.

  She smiled. “Good idea,” she said. “I’ll go see how Sophie’s doing and get started on dinner. Why don’t you take a good hot bath and relax? I’m looking forward to a cozy evening with you. We’ve both been going at it too hard. Got to take those little joyfulbreaks from time to time,” she added, raising one eyebrow.

  She left and he thought a hot bath wasn’t a bad idea. He went into the bathroom to run the tub. Then he looked at his pills in the medicine cabinet for a moment, took them out and turned one of them in the palm of his hand. Maybe that madman made some sense. Maybe there was something to the warning, despite how he had ended up.

  Tomorrow, he thought tomorrow, he wouldn’t take one. He’d see how it went after he stopped the medication.

  “I’m going back!” Mr. Moly had screamed at him. The man had sounded both desperate, sad, and yet strangely happy, especially when he had added, “I remember.” He almost sounded as if he was bragging.

  What the hell did he mean? And why was he pursuing me, watching me?

  Instinctively Aaron felt he would soon find out.

  And instinctively he knew he would be terrified, perhaps as terrified as that Mr. Moly.

  . . . thirteen

  his fingers trembled as they held the pill bottle the following morning. What if by stopping his medication he brought about another cerebral stroke, one that incapacitated him fully, perhaps one that killed him? Who could he blame but himself? Maybe that sick man wasn’t telling him the truth about his medication anyway. Perhaps he was delusional and thought he had stopped taking it. What dreadful irony then, huh? He would have listened to a madman instead of his world-renowned doctor, and lost his health and his family and his life, and this after all these people had made a great effort to help him get well again.He had seen Dr. Longstreet’s diplomas. What about that? Doesn’t her opinion carry more weight than the opinion of an obviously mentally ill man? Look at how much the doctor had done for him already. He was feeling better, wasn’t he? Look at all he had accomplished these past weeks, despite his condition. As Megan had said, most men or womenwho had suffered what he had suffered would probably be under more severe doctor’s care if not dead already. They certainly wouldn’t be operating a brandnew business and creating a multimillion-dollar shopping plaza.

  And yet, he did see Mrs. Domfort in that Town Car, didn’t he? Or did he see someone who looked enough like her for him to be mistaken? Worse yet, was it just another confused image, something from the past? After all, he had hallucinated about her at that dinner. Perhaps this was the last or nearly the last time something like that would happen? It had to have been an illusion. Why would Megan lie to him about Mrs. Domfort anyway? What could possibly be her reason for such deception? Shouldn’t he at least confirm Mrs. Domfort’s passing or get evidence to the contrary before he went around making these accusations, even if only in his own mind? If it came to the point where he couldn’t trust Megan, he would really be suffering severe paranoia, he concluded. I’ve got to put a stop to this or I’ll do myself greater harm, he concluded, and unscrewed the top of the pill bottle.

  For now I’ve got to stay with the program, he thought and swallowed his pill.

  When he went down to breakfast, he could see that Megan was still worrying about him this morning. Despite his emphatic pronouncements of good health and energy, she insisted on following him to his office and seeing him at work.

  “Besides,” she said, “I haven’t been there in a while, and I want to see how you’ve arranged everything since the new rug was laid and your lobby furniture arrived.”

  “It’s all just as we discussed,” he said, but he knew she was simply using that as an excuse anyway. He felt her concern. She loves me, he thought, she loves me more than I can imagine. He wondered if he deserved such devotion. What was that cryptic reference to his having an affair? Had he done something once that hurt her deeply? Was his amnesia a just result, an act of poetic justice? Despite what anyone else might think, it was important to remember your past sins as well as your acts of goodness, he thought. Otherwise, you never understood the dark cloud that occasionally made itself visible, trailing along like some relentless pursuer, determined to be there on your judgment day to reveal your faults.

  They sent Sophie to school on the school bus, and Megan followed him in her car. When they arrived at his office, the phone was ringing. While he talked, she walked through the rooms, looking at what he had done.

  “It looks terrific, Aaron,” she said as he hung up his phone. “You’ve done wonders with it and so quickly.”

  “Thanks. That was a Mr. Carpenter,” he said, nodding at the phone. “Another job.”

  “David Carpenter?”

  “Yes, you know him?”

  “Sure. We’re doing an advertising program for him. He owns Computer World.”

  “He bought a property on Island Center and wants to develop an e-mail café, a software department store, and incorporate it all into his Computer World. He said he wanted to do something very twenty-first century, something where people feel they’ve entere
d thenew millennium the moment they’ve entered his store. We’re meeting for lunch today.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, Aaron! Soon you’re going to need a receptionist here and soon after that, an assistant or something, I bet.”

  “It is kind of exciting,” he admitted. “If I only wasn’t troubled by this damn memory mess.”

  “Remember, don’t dote on it, Aaron. Follow Dr. Longstreet’s advice as much as possible, honey. She’s had a remarkable success record with all her patients.”

  “Not all,” he said. It just slipped out.

  “What? Why did you say that, Aaron? Who said otherwise, Aaron? Tell me,” she insisted, practically lunging at him.

  “No one said otherwise.”

  “Then why did you say that? Aaron?”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything, but yesterday before I went into the office, I saw a man being taken away in an ambulance. It was the same patient we had seen in the lobby one day, the man I had told you was out here, watching, waiting for me.”

  “Oh, that man,” she said, smiling.

  “You found out about him?”

  “Yes. He’s Mayor Allan’s younger brother, Stanley. He’s been in and out of mental hospitals almost all his life. He’s a chronic paranoid-schizophrenic whom Dr. Longstreet was more or less forced to treat. Mrs. Masters told me about him. The mayor, it seems, did Dr. Longstreet some favors with the zoning board, building inspectors, things to help her get her building constructed quickly, and in return she agreed to see what she could do about his younger brother.

  “It’s not fair to attribute that failure to her,” Megan continued. “She inherited him and all the maltreatments, mistaken diagnoses, trial and error performed on him for twenty years or more.”

  “How come you didn’t mention all this before, when I told you about him being out here?”

  “I didn’t find out about him until just yesterday, and I simply forgot, Aaron. Jesus, what is going on in your head?” she cried, her arms out in desperation. “Why didn’t you mention him yesterday yourself? Why didn’t you tell me about what had happened at the clinic? You didn’t say a word when you met me at Sophie’s school. Well?”