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  ‘Have you come to take me home?’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Michael. ‘You’re still having treatment. Your name’s Natasha, right? That’s what it says on your notes.’

  The girl stared at him as if he had said something completely absurd.

  ‘My notes? What are you talking about?’

  Michael was about to explain when there were three rapid knocks at the door. Jack was pulling faces outside the window and making frantic hand signals.

  Michael looked quickly around the room. There was a door on the left-hand side, which was half open. He could see a white-tiled wall inside, so he presumed that this was the bathroom. Next to the bathroom, there was a closet. He went over and opened it and saw that the only clothes hanging up inside it were a pale green toweling robe and a gray dress that was still covered in plastic from Shasta Dry Cleaners.

  Jack knocked again, twice, and even more urgently. Michael turned to the girl and said, ‘Listen – you haven’t seen me, OK? I was never here.’

  ‘But aren’t you going to take me home?’

  ‘Later. Not yet. But I will. I promise.’

  At that moment he heard voices outside the door. He couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but it sounded as if somebody was asking Jack what he was doing there, and Jack was trying to explain that he was lost. For twenty or thirty seconds after that, there was silence, and then suddenly the door opened. Michael quickly stepped inside the closet and closed the door behind him, although he had to leave it a half-inch open because the catch was on the outside, and he didn’t want to lock himself in.

  A deep, accented voice said, ‘What’s this, Natasha? You’re awake!’ Michael recognized it immediately as Doctor Hamid. ‘Did you have another one of your nightmares?’

  The girl didn’t answer, but another man’s voice said, ‘Her heart rate’s up. Blood pressure’s down.’ This voice was sharper, and higher.

  ‘I shall have to give you another sedative, my dear,’ said Doctor Hamid. ‘You need all the sleep you can get.’

  ‘Maybe we should think about bringing her SS forward,’ said the other man.

  ‘No – not yet,’ replied Doctor Hamid. ‘SS is quite traumatic enough without perceptual impairment at the same time.’

  ‘So, when do you think, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. If we can see within the next few days that function is returning to the parietal lobe, then, yes, maybe we can go ahead. Otherwise – well – there’s not a whole lot of point, is there?’

  ‘She’ll be a good guinea-pig for our drug program.’

  ‘Possibly, yes. But as far as SS is concerned, it’s not as though she has anything to offer intellectually, is it? And she won’t be much good as a companion, if she’s suffering from chronic PTSD. We might as well pull the plug.’

  Doctor Hamid and his associate stayed in the room for another five minutes, while Michael remained in the closet, breathing as quietly as he could, his knees aching, his neck growing stiffer and stiffer, praying for them to hurry up and go. They said very little more to each other, and nothing that Michael could understand, although Doctor Hamid spoke to the girl as he injected her with a sedative.

  ‘There, Natasha, this should give you much more pleasant dreams,’ he said soothingly.

  The girl said nothing at all.

  Michael heard a rattling sound, and then a cough, and at last he heard the door opening and closing as the two men left. He waited for a few seconds more, and then he stepped out of the closet. He bent over to rub his knees, and then he stood up straight to stretch his back.

  He crossed over to the girl’s bedside, but the sedative had already taken effect and she was asleep. He took hold of her hand again. He couldn’t believe how cold she was, as cold as if she were dead, although she was still steadily breathing. He tucked her hand underneath the woven cotton cover.

  He stood there for a while, just watching her, trying to make sense of the way he felt about her, trying to understand who she was, and what was happening to her.

  ‘Natasha Kerwin,’ he repeated. ‘Natasha Kerwin.’

  Why had Doctor Hamid said that ‘we might as well pull the plug’? Had he seriously suggested that they were going to take her off life-support? Because that was what it had sounded like. But why? Because she ‘didn’t have anything to offer intellectually’, whatever that meant? Because she was ‘too traumatized to be a companion’, whatever that was?

  Michael felt such a strong urge to protect her, and take care of her, although he didn’t understand why that should be. She had asked him if he had come to take her home, and he wished that he could, except that he didn’t know where her home was, and she obviously wasn’t well enough to go anywhere.

  He leaned over her bed and kissed her on the forehead. Her eyelids fluttered but that was all.

  ‘Natasha Kerwin,’ he said, one more time, and then he left her bedside and opened the door to the corridor. There was nobody in sight, so he quickly stepped out and closed the door behind him. Now he had to find out what had happened to Jack.

  He walked rapidly back to the reception area. It was deserted. He tried looking into one or two rooms nearby, but they were empty, too. The clinic was totally silent. Even the sound of the floor-polisher had stopped, and the television had been switched off.

  Doctor Hamid must have told Jack to go home, and it was so cold outside that Jack wouldn’t have waited for him. Michael took one last look around, and then he pushed his way out through the clinic doors. The night was clear and frosty, and the sky was prickly with stars.

  He walked back to Isobel’s house and quietly let himself in. When he undressed and slipped into bed beside her, she turned toward him and murmured, ‘Emilio, it isn’t true, I swear it.’

  Michael lay awake for almost an hour after that, and the night was so silent and so still that he almost felt as if he could feel the world turning underneath him.

  He could think of nothing but Natasha, her white and perfect face, and Doctor Hamid saying that he ‘might as well pull the plug’.

  TWELVE

  After breakfast the following morning, Michael told Isobel that he was going to take an early walk. Toward dawn, the wind had changed around, and clouds had rolled over, pillowy and gray, with that dull orange tinge that usually warns of impending snow.

  ‘I thought you might want to come back to bed,’ she told him, smiling at him over her second mug of herbal tea.

  ‘For sure – well, yes,’ he said, although he could feel that his own smile was tight and defensive. ‘But maybe later. I don’t want to get myself caught out in a blizzard.’

  ‘Well, your loss, lover,’ she shrugged. ‘But you know that you’re more than welcome, any time.’ Her pink silky robe was open at the front so that he could see she was wearing nothing underneath, only a shiny silver pendant like a gibbous moon.

  He went through to the hallway and pulled on his boots. As he was buttoning up his coat Isobel came out of the kitchen and said, ‘By the way, I’m having some friends around this afternoon. Just a little social get-together. I hope you’re going to join us.’

  ‘OK. Fine. What else would I be doing?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have the feeling you’re not very settled, that’s all. I just wanted to make you feel at home.’

  ‘I’m fine. Really. It’s this amnesia that’s bugging me, that’s all. I keep remembering bits and pieces but I don’t know what they mean, or how they all fit together.’

  ‘How does Doctor Connor think you’re getting on?’

  ‘Catherine? She’s increased my meds, but I’m not sure that’s made any difference. Not yet, anyhow.’

  Isobel came up to him and put her arms around his neck. She looked up into his eyes and said, ‘You know that I’ll do anything for you, don’t you? And I mean anything. You’re my whole life now, Greg. I hope you understand that. I couldn’t live without you.’

  He gently prised her arms open, and kissed her on the forehead. ‘
Like I said before, Isobel, I’ll be able to give you a whole lot more of myself when I know for sure who I am.’

  ‘I love you,’ she said.

  Michael knew how happy it would make her if he said the same thing back to her, but he couldn’t. He simply smiled that tight, defensive smile and squeezed those chilly hands of hers.

  ‘I won’t be too long. I’m only going for a walk around the block, just to keep Doctor Hamid happy.’

  He opened the front door and went out into the blustery cold. Already a few snowflakes were whirling around, and they flew into his eyelashes and on to his lips so that he could taste them as they melted. He had taken his walking stick with him, but he was beginning to hobble a little less, and even since yesterday his knees seemed to have lost some of their stiffness. If my body’s on the mend, he thought, maybe my memory is, too.

  And then he thought: Natasha. Natasha Kerwin. I know you, Natasha. God knows why, but I don’t care why. I know you and there’s no way that I’m going to let Doctor Hamid pull the plug on you, whatever that means, and whatever his reason for doing it.

  He walked down past the community center and then up the slope toward the loop where the Endersbys lived. The snow was coming down much thicker now, although the wind was blowing it in wild, unpredictable patterns, as if ghosts were dancing all around him. He went up to the front door and pressed the doorbell. Inside, he heard a two-tone chime, and after a few seconds a light was switched on. Through the hammered-glass panel beside the door he saw the fragmented image of Bill Endersby coming to see who was there.

  ‘Bill!’ he said, cheerfully, when the door opened up.

  Bill Endersby looked whiter and sicker than ever. He was wearing a baggy green cardigan and gray flannel slacks that must have been three sizes too big for him.

  ‘Yes?’ he blinked, as if he didn’t know who Michael was.

  ‘It’s Greg Merrick, Bill! Greg – Isobel’s companion.’

  ‘Oh, yes. What do you want, Greg? It’s damned cold here, with this door open.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to Jack, if I could.’

  ‘Jack?’ said Bill Endersby. He sucked at his dentures, and then he said, ‘’Fraid that won’t be possible. No.’

  ‘Why’s that, Bill? Isn’t he here right now? I can come back later.’

  ‘He’s not here and he won’t be here later. He won’t be coming back at all.’

  ‘Really? Where’s he gone? I only saw him yesterday and he didn’t say anything to me about leaving. He’s OK, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s gone, and he won’t be living here no more. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Any way I can contact him? Did he leave a cellphone number, or an email address? Anything like that?’

  Bill Endersby was already starting to close the door. ‘I told you. He’s gone, and he won’t be living here no more, and that’s all I know.’

  ‘If you see Jack, or hear from him, tell him I called around, will you?’ Michael called out, as the door was closed in his face.

  And another thing, Bill – what the hell were you and your wife doing in Isobel’s back yard yesterday, staring in through the kitchen window? And how come you left no footprints? What are you – a man, or an optical illusion?

  Michael stood in the porch for a few moments, wondering if he ought to try ringing the doorbell again, and pressing Bill Endersby to tell him more. But he decided it was probably a waste of time, especially since Bill Endersby didn’t look at all well. He retraced his steps, out of the loop and back down the slope, with the snow clinging to his coat and catching in his hair. He checked his watch, and saw that it was almost 10:30 – nearly time for him to go to the clinic for his morning therapy session with Catherine.

  He trudged up the hill, back past Isobel’s house. Because the day was so dark Isobel had raised the blinds, so that he could see her inside the living room, still wearing her silky pink robe. She had her arms raised above her head, and she was pirouetting around and around, as if she were ballet-dancing, although he couldn’t hear any music. He stopped and watched her for a while, and then continued on his way. Not a single car passed him as he climbed up toward the clinic, and he saw nobody out walking – not even the girl in the red duffel coat with her sheepdog, or Jemima on her bicycle. The snow was so thick that even Mount Shasta was invisible, although he was sure that he could feel its brooding presence.

  Catherine said, ‘Let’s go back to names that you might be able to remember from your childhood. Your teachers, your school friends. Your pets.’

  But Michael asked her, ‘What’s happened to Jack?’

  ‘Jack? Excuse me? I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You know, Jack … who was living with the Endersbys.’

  ‘Oh, Jack Barr, yes.’

  ‘Well – what’s happened to him? I saw him yesterday and he was fine. Then I went around to the Endersbys’ house this morning to see him again and Bill Endersby told me he was gone.’

  Catherine nodded, and kept on nodding, as if she were playing for time. In the end, she said, ‘Sometimes, Gregory, a companion doesn’t quite fit in.’

  Michael said, ‘Really? It seemed to me that Jack fitted in with the Endersbys pretty darn good. He seemed to be rubbing along with them OK, and they were certainly fond of him. Bill Endersby said that he was like a son to them.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But Jack had other problems. Physical, and psychological. We didn’t want to jeopardize the Endersbys’ well-being. They’re quite frail, healthwise, and since they lost their son Bradley, they’ve both been very vulnerable to any kind of emotional upset. We moved Jack away as a precautionary measure – for all the parties involved.’

  ‘That tells me absolutely nothing. Where have you moved him to?’

  ‘He’s having intensive treatment here at the clinic. Then he’s going to go back into the community until he’s fully recovered.’

  ‘But not to the Endersbys?’

  ‘No. That won’t be possible. We’re urgently trying to find them a replacement.’

  ‘So where will Jack go?’

  ‘We have two gentlemen living on Siskiyou Drive. We’re planning on moving him in with them. You met one of them at the community meeting – Walter Kruger.’

  ‘Walter Kruger’s an accountant. Jack’s a biker. Do you seriously think that the two of them are going to get along together?’

  ‘Getting along together isn’t always the point, Greg. It can help, for sure, but it isn’t everything. People have other needs which are far more important than simple compatibility.’

  ‘Like?’

  Catherine gave him the slightest of shrugs. ‘Like symbiosis. Like needing each other, whether they like each other or not.’

  ‘You’ve lost me again. Why would somebody like Walter Kruger need somebody like Jack, or vice versa?’

  ‘We’re getting way off the subject, Greg. Tell me if you can remember the name of your first math teacher.’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea. Even if I didn’t have amnesia, I don’t think I would have been able to remember something like that.’

  ‘Ms Truman, that was her name. Your sister told me that.’

  ‘Ms Truman? Doesn’t ring a bell at all. But if that’s what her name was, OK, that’s what her name was. Ms Truman. Can I see Jack, since he’s here?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no. He’s still undergoing treatment.’

  ‘So what exactly is wrong with him?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that, Gregory. Patient confidentiality. But he should be up and about in two or three days. What was the name of your best friend at school?’

  ‘Natasha.’

  Catherine checked her clipboard. Then she said, ‘No, that’s not correct, I’m afraid. Your sister said it was Bradford Mitchell.’

  ‘Unh-hunh, no way. It was Natasha Kerwin, I’m sure of it.’

  Catherine stared at him narrowly. ‘Where did you hear that name? Natasha Kerwin?’

  ‘In my head. In my memory. Na
tasha Kerwin.’

  ‘What you think is a memory is more than likely something that you’ve picked up since you regained consciousness. You probably heard somebody say that name soon after you came out of your coma, and it lodged in your auditory cortex.’

  ‘What makes you so sure? It’s perfectly possible that I had a best friend at school called Natasha Kerwin, isn’t it?’

  Catherine said nothing, but turned over another page on her clipboard. ‘How about place names?’ she suggested.

  It was then that Michael thought: She doesn’t want me to believe that I can remember Natasha Kerwin. She’s deliberately trying to make me think that my mind is playing tricks on me. But I do remember her, and I would very much like to find out why Catherine doesn’t want me to think that I do.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Place names.’

  He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember houses, and streets, and parks, and shopping centers. In his mind, he could see a dull suburban road, with houses and trees slowly passing him by, as if he were sitting in the back seat of a car. For some reason, he was feeling desperately unhappy, close to tears. At first he had no idea what this road was called, but then he heard a man’s voice saying, ‘Here we are, folks! Home again! Fonderlack Trail!’

  He opened his eyes. ‘I think I can remember a name,’ he told Catherine.

  ‘You can?’

  ‘I think we must have lived there. It was a road called Fonderlack Trail. I can remember lawns. And houses. And some of the houses were gray. And I can remember feeling really sad there, although I don’t know why.’

  Catherine laid her clipboard down on her desk. ‘I think you might need some alternative medication, Greg. It seems to me like your mind is trying to compensate for your amnesia by inventing memories that never happened to you. I’m going to try you on propranolol. It’s a beta-blocker. It may help you to distinguish between real memories and made-up memories.’

  ‘But I can remember it,’ Michael insisted. ‘I can see it in my mind’s eye. Fonderlack Trail. I was sitting in the back of a car and I was almost crying.’