Amnesia Read online

  Why didn’t anyone else notice the horror of her?

  When he arrived at the Westport station, hequickly fled the train. He was hit by a cold gust of wind coming off the ocean. Did I have an overcoat I left somewhere? he wondered.

  He squeezed the collar of his sports jacket closed with his right hand and stood there trying to decide what to do next. He had hoped that once he arrived, all his recollections would come rushing back. It would be as if a dam had cracked. He looked forward to drowning in memories and laughing about all this, but nothing happened. There were no faces, no voices, no sounds in his mind except the reverberation of some echo making him feel as if he were inside an enormous metal drum.

  Other passengers hurried off the train, knocking into him, but not pausing even to say pardon me or excuse me. They were all fleeing, he thought. Maybe they finally saw the horror. As he walked along slowly, he gazed at as many people as he could, hoping that someone would say something and strike up a conversation. No one here gave him more than a passing glance, either. They carried their urban indifference into the suburbs like Typhoid Marys infecting everyone with the same anomie. Couldn’t anyone see what kind of trouble he was in? What was he to do, stop someone and say, please help me? I forgot where I live and terrible things are happening to me?

  Yes, he told himself. That’s exactly what you have to do.

  He checked the address on his license and walked up to a man and a woman who had just greeted each other. He waited for them to pull out of their embrace.

  “Pardon me,” he said, “but could you tell me where this would be?” He read off his license.

  They stared at him and then looked at each other before the man spoke.

  “Yeah, that’s about four miles west of here,” he said.

  “Four miles? Either someone picks me up or I drive there, I guess,” he muttered.

  The two looked at each other again.

  “Was someone supposed to meet you at the station?” the woman asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, are you visiting someone there?” the man asked with a tone of impatience.

  “No. I guess this is my address,” Aaron said, turning his wallet so they could see he had read it off his license.

  “You guess that’s your address?” The man’s eyebrows nearly jumped up and off his face. He looked at the woman, who shook her head. “If it’s on your license, it should be your address, don’t you think?”

  Aaron gazed around. There wasn’t anyone waiting for anyone.

  “Are you all right?” the woman asked.

  “No,” he said. “I’m having trouble remembering things, anything about myself actually, and I keep having horrible visions,” he said. “Bees, fires, blood, skeletons,” he catalogued, laughing at his own list of madness.

  “Huh?” the man asked. His look of annoyance settled into a confident smirk. “Did you drink too much before you got on the train?”

  “I don’t think so. I can’t remember. I don’t feel drunk exactly. I just feel . . . invisible.”

  “But you did have something to drink before you boarded the train, right?” the man concluded with satisfaction, driving home his point like some trial attorney. He probably is an attorney, Aaron thought.

  “Yes,” Aaron admitted.

  The man’s smirk deepened as he nodded.

  “If you had a car left for you, it would be over there, the commuters’ parking lot,” the woman said, speaking fast, pointing and stepping back as if he had some contagious disease.

  He looked in that direction.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You don’t know what? You don’t know if someone left you a car?” the man asked gruffly.

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t know that, no.”

  “Well, is it something often done for you?” the woman asked softly, compassionately.

  “I don’t know what kind of car I have anyway.”

  “Well, you have to know,” the man said. “This is ridiculous. No one gets that drunk, for crissakes. Look, do you have any car keys on you?”

  “No,” Aaron said. “That’s right. I would, wouldn’t I?”

  “So then someone is supposed to pick you up,” the woman concluded happily. “Why don’t you call someone and ask for help?” the woman said.

  “Yes,” Aaron said, lifting his eyes toward her. “Good idea. I’ll call someone and ask for help,” he repeated as if it was some doctor’s prescription.

  “There’s a pay phone over there,” the man said, nodding to his left.

  “Good luck,” the woman said.

  The two started away, the man shaking his head.

  “Too many martinis,” he muttered loudly. “There’s a guy not eager to come home.”

  Could that be true? Aaron wondered. Could my unhappiness with my life be the cause of this amnesia and these hallucinations?

  He found the pay phone and dialed for information. They wanted money for that. He scooped up his change and found the required amount. A mechanical voice asked, “What listing, please?”

  He thought a moment and then asked for himself.

  “One moment, please.”

  The number was given. He had no trouble committing that to memory. In fact, everyone he saw and heard now was as vivid as could be: the battered drunk who bumped into him, the well-dressed woman who had laughed at him, the elderly lady who swung her pocketbook at him, the man in the pin-striped suit who had helped him at Grand Central, the faces of the couple with whom he had just spoken, all of them, strong, vivid recollections. His memory was functioning fine on an immediate level.

  Then why can’t I remember anything before now? he wondered.

  He hung up and then lifted the receiver and tapped out his telephone number. More money was required. He didn’t have the exact change, but he overpaid and that worked. It rang.

  Sweat was streaming down the back of his neck as if his brain had sprung a leak. Maybe that’s it. Maybe my brain developed some hole at the bottom and all my thoughts, my memories are spilling out.

  “Hello,” he heard a little girl say.

  “Hello. Who is this?”

  “Is this my daddy?”

  “It’s Aaron Clifford,” he said.

  “That’s you, Daddy,” the voice replied and followed it with a giggle. “You sound funny.”

  He heard someone in the background ask who it was.

  “It’s Daddy. He says he’s Aaron Clifford.”

  “What’s he doing?” This older female came on the line. “Where are you, Aaron? I waited over an hour for you and finally brought Sophie home. You’re over two hours late!”

  “I’m at the station,” he said.

  “Well, where were you? I called Charlie Levine and he didn’t know anything.”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “What are you saying, Aaron? You’re talking stupid. I’ve already eaten, too. And you knew we had so much left to do tonight. Of all nights to be late.”

  “I . . .”

  “What? What’s going on?”

  “I can’t remember anything,” he said. “Nothing. I had to look at my wallet to discover who I am.”

  There was a silence.

  “Have you been drinking, Aaron?”

  “Yes, I had a drink.”

  “A drink? One drink?” she asked with some incredulity.

  “I can’t remember. It might have been more. I’m seeing things, terrible things, too.”

  “Jesus, Aaron. It’s after nine. I’ve been worried sick. You don’t call. You don’t let me know you’re going to be late. I have all this pressure on me and you do this at precisely the wrong time.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really can’t remember anything, anything at all.”

  “What are you saying, Aaron? You’re not making any sense.”

  He hesitated.

  “I
can’t remember your name,” he confessed.

  The silence lingered a bit longer.

  “Are you fooling around? Is this your idea of a joke because we’re moving tomorrow and you were never crazy about the idea? Because if it is—”

  “We’re moving tomorrow?”

  “I can’t take any more of this, Aaron. I’m going to hang up. I swear. You can call a cab.”

  “No. I’m serious. I really am,” he emphasized, his voice a bit shrill. This woman’s voice, this phone connection, had become his lifeline. “There’s fire sometimes and ugly creatures and blood, too.”

  She was silent.

  “I don’t even remember what our house looks like, much less where it is,” he said in as calm a voice as he could muster.

  “All right. Just stay where you are, Aaron. I’ll ask Mrs. Domfort to watch Sophie. I’m not dragging herout again. It’s late. I should be getting her ready for bed.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help it,” he said.

  “I’ll be there in about a half hour.”

  “Good.”

  “And Aaron?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Megan. You do remember what I look like, don’t you, Aaron?”

  He was silent.

  “Jesus, Aaron,” she said in a voice as tight as piano wire. “Don’t move from the platform.”

  The click was like a gunshot. He stood there for a moment with the dead receiver in his hand. Then he turned and looked down the tracks. They ran into the darkness.

  Just where he was.

  . . . two

  she was pretty, outstanding, with the sort of energy in her eyes that all but guaranteed she would be quite photogenic. As she approached him, even in the diminished glow from the lights at the station, he could see she had a rich complexion a shade or two lighter than pecan with a greenish-blue tint in her eyes that was extraordinary.Standing in light pink sneakers, she was still almost as tall as he was. Her hair was dark brown, thick, and healthy. It was styled so it angled at her jawbone and framed her face, the portrait of natural beauty with not much makeup, just a slight tint of lipstick. She wore a light blue soft leather jacket, a black body suit, and tapered jeans. A gold bracelet hung loosely on her right wrist.

  There was something about everyone, about their personal energy, their aura, that was either positive or negative, Aaron thought. Often, someone was positive to one person and for no apparent reason negative to another. Although Megan’s physical beauty impressedhim initially, it was truly the feeling he had the moment she stepped before him that helped him relax and not only feel good, but great. He felt he could bond with this woman again and again, no matter what. He mused that if he had to, he could actually fall in love again with this woman and it would be as if it was the first time.

  Looking at her small, perfectly straight nose with its almost imperceptible turn-up at the tip and her full, sensuous lips, he was almost grateful he had forgotten her as well as himself. The surprise was too delicious, too wonderful, not to be appreciated. What a funny idea, especially now, he thought. I am going mad. Only a madman would find something pleasant in all this.

  She stood in front of him and stared at him for a moment, looking as if she wanted to be sure herself that this was Aaron Clifford, her husband, the father of the little girl who spoke to him on the phone. He waited anxiously, his heart pounding. A new and terrifying possibility occurred to him. What if he wasn’t Aaron Clifford? What if she asked him who he was and how he dared to impersonate her husband’s voice on the phone? How did he get her husband’s wallet? Had he done something to the man?

  “What’s going on, Aaron?” she finally asked. He felt his body sigh with relief.

  “I don’t know,” he said. He shrugged and tried to smile, but it was as if his face were frozen. He swallowed and looked around. “I can’t remember anything about my past, my identity. I really had to look in mywallet to see who I was, and I had to get telephone information to find out our phone number.”

  She continued to study him, scrutinizing his eyes for validity.

  “I swear,” he said. “I’m telling you the truth. I wouldn’t kid about something like this.” That made him smile. “Funny, saying that. How do I know I wouldn’t? That’s the odd thing. There are feelings, very general ideas, instincts that are familiar,” he said, fixing his eyes on her so she would understand that, “but not details, not specific and essential information about myself, the sort of information anyone needs to have, I suppose.”

  “What are you saying, Aaron? You’re babbling.”

  “Am I?”

  He gazed around.

  “Even this doesn’t feel right. I could be on some Greek Island and it would be the same. Do I always come home by train or do I commute with people? You mentioned someone named Charlie Levine. Do I commute with him?”

  “You’re scaring me,” she said, taking a step back.

  “Imagine what it’s doing to me. You said your name was Megan?”

  “Stop it, Aaron. You’ll terrify Sophie, especially if you act like you don’t remember her, too.”

  “I don’t,” he admitted. “How old is she? Do we have more than one child?”

  “Aaron!”

  “Sorry,” he said. Actually, he felt like crying. Tears did form in his eyes. He rubbed his forehead.

  “Did you get hurt—mugged or something?”

  He looked up, encouraged that he was finally getting through to her.

  “I don’t think so. I have money and I don’t have any injuries I can see or feel. How do I look?” he asked her, actually hoping she would find something wrong, some way to explain all this. He turned so she could look at the back of his head, his neck, anything.

  She shook her head.

  “You don’t look injured.” She thought a moment. “Maybe we should go right to the hospital,” she added, her voice dropping. It was more to herself than to him.

  He thought for a moment. Of course they should, but he was feeling a little better now that he was with someone who knew him. There was some relief and this situation couldn’t last. Surely this can’t last, he thought.

  “No,” he said. “Let’s just go home. Maybe this will pass as soon as I’m in familiar surroundings. It’s really sort of embarrassing. How can you not know your own home, right?”

  She considered him.

  “Perhaps you just drank too much,” she offered. “I’ve heard that alcohol can do this to you sometimes. People wake up after a wild night and are unable to recall what they did the night before.”

  “Yeah, maybe that’s it,” he said. “It’s something temporary, right? Could be just a reaction to something I drank. Or maybe”—his eyes lit up with the possibility— “someone put something in my drink! You know, like LSD? Some sort of hallucinogen for a practical joke, huh? I could have had a very bad reaction.”

  “I don’t know, Aaron. I wasn’t with you and you don’t remember where you were, is that true?”

  “No, no, I don’t,” he said. “I just found myself wandering in circles in Grand Central. But that’s exactly what could have happened: Someone slipped me something. Sure. I bet that’s it.” He felt himself relax a little more. “I’ll be all right,” he said. “Once whatever it is goes out of my body, I’ll be all right.” His chant became a little mantra. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Yes, you will,” she agreed.

  She threaded her arm through his and led him toward a black Mercedes 420 S-class.

  Nice car, he thought. Beautiful wife, nice car. So far, I’m happy.

  I will be all right.

  The house was a good size classic two-story Queen Anne with wedgewood blue siding, ebony shutters and a sidewalk bordered by trim hedges. There was an attached garage, and the driveway was illuminated by replicated late nineteenth century brass streetlights. The lawn was a carpet of vibrant green. Even in the darkness he could see how well manicured it and every plant, tree, and bush was. It looked like it was set on
a nice size piece of land, too, with the nearest home blocked by a patch of birch and maple trees.“I guess we really are moving,” he muttered when the garage door went up.

  Cartons were piled along both walls and in the rear, leaving barely enough space for their car. Some pieces of furniture had been broken down and set out as well, along with pictures and lamps.

  Megan had said barely a word all the way back from the station. She looked sullen, waiting for the door to stop rising. Aaron gazed at the front of the property again.

  “Why are we moving?” he muttered. “This is very nice.”

  “This is really all a joke, isn’t it?” she snapped back at him. “It’s all part of some sick plan of yours, right, Aaron? Who put you up to it, Charlie Levine?”

  “No!” he practically shouted. “I’m not joking. I can’t recall why we’re moving. And I don’t remember any Charlie Levine, either. Who is he? I’m serious. I don’t remember him. Do we commute together?”

  She stared at him a moment, scrutinizing his face again and looking as if she was reluctantly giving him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Sometimes you do,” she replied. “Seeing the house hasn’t stimulated any memory?” she asked in a softer tone.

  He shook his head. “Sorry,” he said.

  She sighed deeply.

  “We’re moving to a nicer community and we’re moving because of my work,” she said. “It’s a little longer commute for you, but we agreed the trade-off was worth it. Does any of that sound familiar?”

  “What work? What do you do?”

  “I’m a graphic artist, Aaron. I’m working for an advertising firm there.”