Amnesia Read online

  He went right to work organizing his files, gazing at each and every old project for a while. It was almost like tuning in a radio or television station. As he studied the drawings and notes, the project would come back to him. He could envision them in their comcompleted states. He found the mall he had recalled, too, and realized it had been somewhere in upstate New York. All this encouraged him and gave him renewed energy.

  Then he discovered a beautiful picture of Megan and Sophie, Sophie obviously being a few years younger. Beside it was a picture of the three of them, but instead of standing beside them, he was standing behind them, looking over Megan’s shoulder at the camera almost as if he was an observer or a director.

  Stupid picture, he thought, but put it on his desk nevertheless.

  By the time Megan looked in on him, he had his library up, his files created, and his supplies organized. He was seated at his desk, reviewing his Rolodex to see if the names in it stimulated further recollections.

  “Wow,” Megan said. “You’ve done so much.”

  “Motivated, I guess,” he said. “You were right about some of this. Looking over the work has brought back some memories, especially of my work.”

  “Oh, good, Aaron.”

  “But these people, these names, I can’t place a face or a purpose to any of them,” he said, flipping the cards.

  “You will.”

  “I was thinking . . . maybe I should spend time just looking over our family albums, videos of holidays, birthdays, whatever. What do you think?”

  “Sounds like a good idea. I have to warn you that we don’t have all that much. We eloped and got married in Virginia Beach, you know, so we don’t have a wedding album.”

  “We don’t?”

  “No, and you always hated bringing the video camera along on our trips, Aaron. Whenever you did, you barely used it. You used to rant how people have all these pictures and videos in their homes and never look at them. I think you figured out that if all the wasted photos were strung together, they’d go to the moon and back. But you’re right. At least we have something to help restore some memories, I suppose.”

  “Daddy, when are we going to build the new clubhouse?” Sophie asked.

  “You’ve got to give Daddy a chance to get the house organized, honey,” Megan told her. “In a few days. Maybe by the weekend.”

  Sophie looked dissatisfied.

  “Maybe sooner,” he said. “We’ve got to plan it first, don’t we, Sudsy? You and I will draw it up here,” he said, tapping his drafting table. That brought a wide smile to her face.

  “Just like last time,” she said.

  He looked at Megan.

  “That’s right,” Megan said. “Just like last time. Hungry?”

  “Yeah, matter of fact, I am.”

  “Well, let’s go downtown to Grandma’s Kitchen. I’m not ready to use our kitchen yet. You said you wanted to eat there first chance we had since I raved about the pot roast and one of you favorite desserts, peach cobbler. You said you were jealous.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. He thought a moment. “I do remember loving peach cobbler. Someone made it well, right?”

  She laughed.

  “Stomachs have better memories,” she said. “Mrs. Domfort made it for you. Oh, I called Mrs. Masters. She made a quick phone call and got you in this afternoon to see Dr. Longstreet. She’s a renown specialist in things like Alzheimer’s disease. Not that I believe you are suffering from it,” she added quickly. “However, the doctor has been involved in important studies of memory. She’s connected to the Innovative Clinical Research Center in Stanford.”

  “What kind of a doctor is she?”

  “Neurologist. Mrs. Masters said she’s perfect for the problem. She was very concerned about you and wants me to call her as soon as we are finished with the doctor’s visit. It’s nice being involved with people who see you as a human being and not some number or a tax deduction, like your former employer.”

  “Yes,” he said, mostly recalling his feelings in the train station yesterday. “It is.”

  They got back into their car and started for town.

  “Very nice piece of land,” he remarked, gazing back at the house and the grounds. “Looks like the closest neighbor is about what, a third of a mile away?”

  “Precisely. You always cherished privacy, Aaron. You have this insane love for the city, but you like the change. You like being able to escape.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. It did sound like him.

  “I think you could do better work out here, Aaron, and there is plenty on the boards. There’s an expansion underway, and they need creative planners. The town fathers don’t want this community to become just another suburb. They want it to keep its characterits charm. You like those sort of challenges, Aaron.”

  “It’s seems weird being told what you like and don’t like,” he muttered quickly.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be overbearing,” she replied quickly.

  He looked up sharply. She was staring ahead, looking suddenly very nervous.

  “I didn’t mean to say you were. It’s just a strange feeling, Megan.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure it is, but if I tell you something and it’s wrong, you’ll surely sense it, Aaron. That’s only logical, right?”

  “Right,” he said. He thought a moment and repeated, “right,” but he didn’t feel as confident about that as he should.

  He glanced back at Sophie. She was staring out the window quietly, her eyelids blinking rapidly from time to time. It brought a smile to his face. She looked as if she was taking things in and recording them, each rapid blink another click of information.

  “She always so well behaved?” he asked, nodding toward the rear.

  “Compared to other children, she’s a cherub, Aaron, and you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “She has loving parents. She feels secure and supported. She knows we’re always thinking of her, her best interests. It makes a difference, Aaron. You, of all people, considering what you’ve been through, your own family history I mean, should know that.”

  “Right,” he said. He glanced at his daughter again.She turned and smiled at him, but eerily, as if she not only understood what Megan was saying, but helped write the scenario, as if she were part of some insidious conspiracy to steal his very soul.

  A chill ran through him.

  “We’re here,” Megan announced, pulling up to the curb. “Isn’t it a pleasure to be able to find a place to park so easily? Notice, there aren’t even parking meters here, Aaron. People don’t speed around, either. Remember that commercial with the appliance mechanic who was bored because he rarely received a service call, the product was so good?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do,” he said firmly. It was almost as if he remembered where there was gold buried.

  “Well, the Driftwood police department, all three of them, are vegetating in their offices,” she said and smiled. “Safe,” she reminded him.

  “You ought to be the president of the chamber of commerce,” he kidded.

  She didn’t laugh. “We’re all members of the chamber of commerce as soon as we become residents here, Aaron. It’s expected.”

  They got out and entered the small restaurant. As if they were put there by central casting, an elderly man and woman worked behind the counter of Grandma’s Kitchen. A dozen tables and three booths made up the restaurant proper. There were also ten stools at the counter. Presently, three people sat at the counter and two of the booths were filled. One waitress, a woman with strawberry-blond hair and emerald green eyes, smiled at them. She was carrying a tray to one of the booths.

  “You can have the booth if you like, Mrs. Clifford,” she said, nodding toward it.

  “Thank you, Arlene.”

  “They know you by name already?” he asked. “How many times have you been here?”

  “Only one, but that’s what I mean about charm, Aaron. It’s truly a hometown. This is my h
usband, Aaron Clifford, Arlene,” she said after the waitress had served the other patrons and stopped at their booth.

  “Please to meet you. So,” Arlene said, “are you people moved in yet?”

  “We’re moved in, but not quite organized yet, Arlene.”

  The waitress nodded and looked at Aaron. “How do you like Driftwood, Mr. Clifford, or is it too early to ask?”

  “I like it,” he said quickly, glancing furtively at Megan, who stared intently at him. “How long have you lived here?”

  “All my life,” she said with a sigh. “I’m one of those hometown girls who marries her high-school sweetheart. Jake, my husband, owns the Shell station at the end of the village.”

  “He’s a very nice young man,” Megan said. “Very helpful and very good at what he does.”

  “You know what the town slogan is, Mrs. Clifford: Everyone does their best work here,” Arlene remarked and followed it with a laugh. “It’s true, even for me. In fact,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “if you ask around, you’ll learn that I’m the best waitress in town.”

  “You are!” Megan declared.

  Arlene smiled and gave them menus. “Lemonade for you, Sophie?” she asked. Sophie nodded.

  “I’ll have one, too. They’re homemade, Aaron,” Megan told him.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Megan waved to the elderly lady working behind the counter. She had her gray hair tied in a tight bun and wore an exaggerated amount of makeup, especially around her eyes. The elderly man working beside her never looked up. He moved like a drone, evincing little emotion.

  “That’s Mrs. Morris. She’s Grandma. She’s actually in her late seventies.” She leaned over to whisper. “Her husband, Aubrey, is her third husband. The first two died, one after only four years of marriage.”

  “Really? Is it the food?” he asked.

  Megan laughed. “That’s my Aaron,” she said. “Quick wit. You’re coming back, honey,” she said, reaching for his hand across the table. “You’re coming home to me.”

  He looked into her eyes and then he glanced at Sophie, who held tightly to her rag doll and gazed up at him, smiling as if she believed that, too.

  “I hope so,” he said.

  But in his heart he still felt more like a stranger.

  He hoped it would soon end.

  . . . five

  dr. Longstreet didn’t simply have an office; she had a fully equipped clinic with a hematology lab and a radiation department that included the latest in CT and MRI equipment. Aaron was very impressed.“I would have expected something this sophisticated to be in a major urban area,” he told Megan when they arrived, registered with the receptionist, and saw the brochure describing the clinic. “Not in a small town like this.”

  The lounge was plush with a thick beige carpet, original oil paintings by contemporary artists in expensive frames, soft leather settees and matching chairs, and rich dark wood paneling. There was a built-in television set and a slew of up-to-date magazines on the long glass coffee table as well as in racks on the left. Through a door on the right was a playroom for children with an assortment of toys and video games that would occupy a child from the age of two up to early teens.

  The windows in that room had soft, dark blue velvetdrapes and looked out on the sprawling grounds which rolled over a grassy acre of land before reaching a patch of forest. On the left of the building was a small pond.

  “I told you how important Dr. Longstreet was. Her work is supported by private foundation grants. She likes being out here, and she has no trouble having people come to her. She draws from all the bigger urban areas,” Megan explained.

  Aaron smiled. “How do you know so much about her?”

  “Mrs. Masters knew how nervous I was and how concerned that you get the best doctor available, so she practically gave me Dr. Longstreet’s Who’s Who in Medicine bio. Stop making fun of me,” she added and smacked him playfully on the arm.

  “Hey. I’m not making fun of you. I’m just overwhelmed with the information you seem to have on your fingertips,” he replied, defending himself.

  Megan took Sophie into the children’s playroom and set her up with some toys while Aaron sat waiting to be called. He noted there were no other patients waiting and mentioned that to Megan when she stepped back into the lounge.

  “This isn’t the doctor’s day for patients,” she explained. “She sees patients only three days a week. The rest of the time is devoted to pure research. That’s why we have to thank Mrs. Masters.”

  “She helps us sell our house back in Westport and make a big profit. She knows the best real estate in Driftwood. She has her own plane, runs a big company, and knows the best doctors. I can’t wait to meet this amazing woman,” he muttered.

  “The moment you do, you’ll see I’m not exaggerating,” Megan said confidently. “And don’t sound so disdainful. Be happy, appreciative.”

  “Disdainful?”

  Aaron shook his head and stared at the receptionist. She remained hovering over some paperwork behind the closed glass window until a buzzer sounded. Then she opened the window and looked out at them.

  “The doctor will see you now, Mr. Clifford,” she said.

  They rose. Aaron looked back at Sophie.

  “She’ll be fine,” Megan said, seeing his fatherly concern.

  “Yes, don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on her,” the receptionist promised.

  Aaron noted that his daughter didn’t show the least sign of being afraid of being left alone. She was intensely involved with one of the video games. No insecurity there, he thought, but he felt less like a father full of pride and more like a child therapist, analyzing. He blamed that on the detachment his loss of memory had caused.

  They proceeded through a short hallway. The receptionist indicated the first door on the left, and they entered a rather Spartan office with a long table on the right upon which files were neatly piled. There was a large light maple desk that was more a computer station. Dr. Longstreet sat at the monitor and didn’t turn to them until the receptionist closed the door.

  The doctor was younger looking than Aaron had expected. She was a dark brunette with her hairtrimmed neatly at the base of her neck and around her ears. She practically had no bangs, which emphasized the wideness of her forehead under which two almond-shaped hazel eyes fixed intently on Aaron’s face. Her thin nose was a bit long and sharp and her mouth cut deeply into her tight cheeks as if it had been sliced further as an afterthought sometime after she had been born. Her jaw line was emphatic, but the way her facial bones were embossed contributed to her youthful look. There wasn’t a crease in her nearly transparent skin, much less anything resembling a wrinkle, just some thin blue veins visible in her temples and at the rear of her jaw. He wondered if she had recently had extensive plastic surgery. Her skin was that taut. However, she might not be much older than her mid-thirties, he thought.

  When she rose to greet him, he saw she had a very slim, boyish figure, almost asexual in her white lab coat. She was tall, nearly five feet eleven. He moved quickly to take her outstretched hand that gripped his with surprising strength in those long, bony fingers when they shook.

  “How do you do, Mr. Clifford,” she said. “Please, take a seat. Mrs. Clifford,” she added, nodding at Megan.

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Megan said as she sat.

  “Mrs. Masters expressed your sense of urgency to me. I hope I can help.” She sat and pressed her fingers to each other like a Hindu about to bow in greeting. “Let’s start at the beginning, Mr. Clifford. When did this present problem rear its ugly face?” she asked.

  Even though she skipped any small talk designed to make the patient feel at ease, Dr. Longstreet had an unexpectedly soft tone to her voice, soothing, compassionate. To Aaron it seemed out of place with her hard, scrutinizing gaze.

  He began by describing his experience at Grand Central and then went on to describe all that he had experienced
after Megan had rescued him at their Westport station.

  “Have you had any problems with memory since your return?” she quickly followed. “I mean, holding on to new things, new information?”

  He gazed at Megan, who shook her head.

  “No. Whatever I do now, whatever I hear, I can remember,” Aaron said. “And some things from the past do seem to be returning, but very slowly and unclearly. I mean, I have images in my mind that seem more like dreams. It’s all so confusing,” he concluded.

  “I see. Well, let me begin by explaining that there are three main types of amnesia, Mr. Clifford. First, there is retrograde amnesia, which refers to a deficit in recalling events that happened before the onset of amnesia. Second, there is anterograde amnesia, which refers to a deficit in learning subsequent to the onset of the disorder, and last is what we call post-traumatic amnesia. This refers to a range of cognitive impairments, including memory loss, that occur following an accident. Memory loss will often stretch back in time substantially, but will, shall we say, shrink to the point that only the events that occurred just prior to the accident cannot be recalled.”

  “I’m having trouble remembering everything, mychildhood, my education, family, everything,” Aaron emphasized.

  “Yes, that’s why I’m going to quickly diagnose this as retrograde. Now what we have to do is locate the cause or causes,” Dr. Longstreet said. “I’ll need to run you through a battery of tests. I assume you haven’t suffered any serious accidents, otherwise you wouldn’t be so puzzled as to this condition, but do you have any evidence of any injury, most obviously any blow to your head?”

  “No,” Aaron said, “although sometimes it feels like it.”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling and then with barely a beat asked, “Are you or have you been involved with any so-called recreational drugs?”

  Aaron shook his head, but then looked at Megan for confirmation.

  “I guess I wouldn’t know if I had been,” he realized.

  “He hasn’t as far as I can testify,” Megan said. “I mean, there was some pot when we were younger, but no acid, nothing stronger.”