“Some days?” I said. He did not answer, and his silence told me what he really meant:
Most days.
There are treatments for persistent amnesia, he said—drugs, hypnosis—but most have already been tried. “But you’re uniquely placed to help yourself, Christine,” he said, and when I asked him why, he told me it was because I am different from most amnesiacs. “Your pattern of symptoms does not suggest that your memories are lost forever,” he said. “You can recall things for hours. Right up until you go to sleep. You can even doze and still remember things when you wake up, as long as you haven’t been in a deep sleep. That’s very unusual. Most amnesiacs lose their new memories every few seconds…”
“And?” I said. He slid a brown notebook across the desk toward me.
“I think it might be worth you documenting your treatment, your feelings, any impressions or memories that come to you. In here.”
I reached forward and took the book from him. Its pages were blank.
So this is my treatment? I thought. Keeping a journal? I want to remember things, not just record them.
He must have sensed my disappointment. “I’m also hoping the act of writing your memories might trigger some more,” he said. “The effect might be cumulative.”
I was silent for a moment. What choice did I have, really? Keep a journal or stay as I am, forever.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ve written my numbers in the front of the book. Call me if you get confused.”
I took the book from him and said I would. There was a long pause, and he said, “We’ve been doing some good work recently around your early childhood. We’ve been looking at pictures. Things like that.” I said nothing, and he took a photograph out of the file in front of him. “Today I’d like you to take a look at this,” he said. “Do you recognize it?”
The photograph was of a house. At first it seemed totally unfamiliar to me, but then I saw the worn step that led to the front door and suddenly knew. It was the house in which I had grown up, the one that, this morning, I had thought I was waking up in. It had looked different, somehow less real, but was unmistakable. I swallowed hard. “It’s where I lived as a child,” I said.
He nodded and told me that most of my early memories are unaffected. He asked me to describe the inside of the house.
I told him what I remembered: that the front door opened directly into the living room, that there was a small dining room at the back of the house, that visitors were encouraged to use the alley that separated our house from the neighbors and go straight into the kitchen at the back.
“More?” he said. “How about upstairs?”
“Two bedrooms,” I said. “One at the front, one at the back. The bath and toilet were through the kitchen, at the very back of the house. They’d been in a separate building until it was joined to the rest of the house with two brick walls and a roof of corrugated plastic.”
“More?”
I did not know what he was looking for. “I’m not sure…” I said.
He asked me if I remembered any small details.
It came to me then. “My mother kept a jar in the pantry with the word Sugar written on it,” I said. “She used to keep money in there. She’d hide it on the top shelf. There were jams up there, too. She made her own. We used to pick the berries from a wood that we drove to. I don’t remember where. The three of us would walk deep into the forest and pick blackberries. Bags and bags. And then my mother would boil them to make jam.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Excellent!” He was writing in the file in front of him. “What about these?”
He showed me a couple more pictures. One of a woman who, after a few moments, I recognized as my mother. One of me. I told him what I could. When I finished, he put them away. “That’s good. You’ve remembered a lot more of your childhood than usual. I think because of the photographs.” He paused. “Next time I’d like to show you a few more.”
I said yes. I wondered where he had got these photos, how much he knew of my life that I did not know myself.
“Can I keep it?” I said. “That picture of my old house?”
He smiled. “Of course!” He passed it over and I slipped it between the pages of the notebook.
He drove me back. He’d already explained that Ben does not know we are meeting, but now he told me I ought to think carefully about whether I wanted to tell him about the journal I was to keep. “You might feel inhibited,” he said. “Reluctant to write about certain things. I think it very important that you feel able to write whatever you want. Plus Ben might not be happy to find that you’ve decided to attempt treatment, once again.” He paused. “You might have to hide it.”
“But how will I know to write in it?” I said. He said nothing. An idea came to me. “Will you remind me?”
He told me he would. “But you’ll have to tell me where you’re going to hide it,” he said. We were pulling up in front of a house. A moment after he stopped the car, I realized it was my own.
“The closet,” I said. “I’ll put it in the back of the closet.” I thought back to what I’d seen this morning, as I’d dressed. “There’s a shoebox in there. I’ll put it in that.”
“Good idea,” he said. “But you’ll have to write in it tonight. Before you go to sleep. Otherwise tomorrow it’ll be just another blank notebook. You won’t know what it is.”
I said I would, that I understood. I got out of the car.
“Take care, Christine,” he said.
Now I sit in bed. Waiting for my husband. I look at the photo of the home in which I grew up. It looks so normal, so mundane. And so familiar.
How did I get from there to here? I think. What happened? What is my history?
I hear the clock in the living room chime. Midnight. Ben is coming up the stairs. I will hide this book in the shoebox I have found. I will put it in the closet, right where I have told Dr. Nash it will be. Tomorrow, if he calls, I will write more.
Saturday, November 10
I am writing this at noon. Ben is downstairs, reading. He thinks I am resting but, even though I am tired, I am not. I do not have time. I have to write this down, before I lose it. I have to write my journal.
I look at my watch and note the time. Ben has suggested we go for a walk this afternoon. I have a little over an hour.
This morning I woke not knowing who I am. When my eyes flicked open, I expected to see the hard edges of a bedside table, a yellow lamp. A boxy bureau in the corner of the room and wallpaper with a muted pattern of ferns. I expected to hear my mother downstairs cooking bacon, or my father in the garden whistling as he trims the hedge. I expected the bed I was in to be single, to contain nothing except me and a stuffed rabbit with one torn ear.
I was wrong. I am in my parents’ room, I thought first, then realized I recognized nothing. The bedroom was completely foreign. I lay back in bed. Something is wrong, I thought. Terribly, terribly wrong.
By the time I went downstairs, I had seen the photographs around the mirror, read their labels. I knew I was not a child, not even a teenager, and had worked out that the man I could hear cooking breakfast and whistling along to the radio was not my father, or a roommate, or boyfriend, but he was called Ben, and he was my husband.