“I don’t understand,” Cardinal said. “She doesn’t remember who she is or where she’s from …”
Dr. Paley raised a manicured finger. “That isn’t amnesia. It’s post-traumatic confusion. We don’t know what the mechanism is, but basically when the brain receives a jolt it’s as if all the pathways get scrambled and information doesn’t flow the way it normally does. She hasn’t really forgotten who she is, she just can’t retrieve it.”
“She will be able to, though, right?” Delorme said. “She will remember eventually?”
“Oh, yes. Dr. Schaff assures me that the actual brain damage is minimal. We can expect normal affect to return probably in a week, maybe three at the most. And by then she should have pretty much a continuous autobiography, too.”
“And what about the crime itself? Getting shot?”
“That she will never remember.”
“Can’t blame her,” Delorme muttered. “For sure, it must have been pretty horrific.”
“That’s not why,” Dr. Paley said. “She’s not repressing the memory—the information just isn’t there. People make the mistake of thinking memory is like a videotape. It isn’t. It’s not a recording of what happened. Two sets of encoding have to occur before an event is stored in long-term memory. First, information has to be processed by the brain in a way that makes it comprehensible. Then, it varies, but in about twenty minutes, half an hour, the information gets encoded into long-term memory—different location in the brain, different recovery system. If some trauma shocks the brain before this happens, it will be as if the event itself and everything within about a half-hour on either side of it never happened.”
Cardinal sagged. “So we’re not going to get any info out of her?”
“Afraid not.”
“Can’t you use hypnosis?”
“God forbid. Hypnosis has been thoroughly and completely discredited. You remember all those child abuse witch hunts? Satanic ritual abuse? Daycare centres that were the scene of orgies? There’s never been any corroborative evidence for any of it. Furthermore, the interview records show that those bits that weren’t infantile fantasy on the part of the children were memories put there inadvertently by overzealous police, prosecutors and social workers. Same with sodium amytal. You’ll get what a patient thinks you want to hear, you won’t get the truth. Don’t worry. You’ll get lots out of this young woman eventually. Just not a direct memory of who shot her and where. Think of it like a computer. You know what happens if you’re typing something up in your word processor and there’s a power failure before you save it?”
“Yes,” Delorme said. “Unfortunately.”
“It’s a pretty exact analogy. And I want to caution you before you talk to her. Please note my words, now. People in a confused state are extremely suggestible. If you go in there and suggest maybe her brother shot her, she’ll start ‘remembering’ that her brother shot her. So, please—for the good of this young woman as well as for the good of your case—do not make any suggestions to her as to how she might have come to be shot, or even how she might have come to be in Algonquin Bay. If you hint that maybe she was going to school here, something like that, she’ll start remembering that she was going to school here. That’s why I videotape all my interactions with her; I want people to know that her memories are hers, not mine.”
“False memories are the last thing we want,” Cardinal said. “But we need to find out who might be after her.”
“I hope you do. Just don’t ask her.”
“Even without suggesting an answer?”
“You’ll only slow her progress. She’ll try and try to remember, and it’ll upset her, and that’s only going to set her back.”
Dr. Paley picked up a mug with a picture of a fat tabby on it. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ve just made some tea. Will you have some? Or coffee? It’s pretty awful stuff, I’m afraid.”
Cardinal and Delorme demurred.
“You know what it’s like,” Dr. Paley continued, “when you’re trying to remember a name or a movie title that’s just on the tip of your tongue? You try and you try and you can’t do it. Then half an hour later, when you’re not trying, it comes to you.”
“So what are you going to do for her?” Delorme said. “Just keep her in bed for three weeks?”
“No, we’ll let her have the run of the ward when she wants. I go at things sort of sideways. I’ll be giving our young friend cues of various sorts. Various stimuli—music, images, smells—that might provoke a response. Well, tell you what, why don’t you go in and introduce yourselves? She won’t remember you from the other day, Detective, but maybe you can establish some kind of rapport. Why don’t you meet me in the staff lounge when you’re done? It’s just down the hall on the right, past her room. I’ll have something to show you.”
Cardinal and Delorme went down the hall. The door to the girl’s room was manned by a uniformed cop named Quigley. Cardinal was going to pass by with a nod, but Quigley was clearly relieved to have some company.
“No one’s come to visit,” he said. “Except Dr. Paley. I think she’s getting a bit better, though.”
“Has she been out of her room yet?”
“Nope. But they leave the door open most of the time. I see her getting up and staring out the window. What do I do if she decides she wants to wander around, visit other patients?”
“Keep track of anyone she visits. And especially keep an eye out for visitors. No one gets in to see her without talking to me or Delorme first. You make them wait right here. Anyone hanging around in a suspicious manner, you check ’em out and let us know right away.”
“Will do,” Quigley said. “Seems like a nice kid.”
She looked small and frail lying against the pillow. Her hair was a red blaze against the white of the bed, her skin, except for the freckles, almost matching the sheets. The bandage on her temple was a miniature pale flag. She stared at Cardinal with no sign of recognition, which was unnerving even though he had been expecting it.
“We met a few days ago,” he said. “I’m Detective Cardinal. But here’s someone you haven’t met—my partner, Lise Delorme.”
The girl smiled shyly as Delorme shook her hand.
There was a pause, during which Cardinal became aware that he was in an awkward position. If he couldn’t ask her questions relating to her injury, he didn’t know what he was doing there.
“How’s your head, after your operation?” Delorme asked. “You must have one nasty headache.”
“My head?” The girl touched her hair absently, fingers fluttering round the bandage. “It’s actually not too bad.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Maybe when you’re doing better, I can take you to a good stylist. See what she can do with that shaved patch.”
“That would be nice. What’s your name again?”
“Lise.”
“Lise.”
The young woman looked out the window. Down the hill, a train loaded with oil tankers rolled lazily past the school.
“You know what I can’t understand? I can’t understand why I remember some things and not others. Why do I know what a stylist does, when I can’t remember my own name? Why do I remember how to speak, how to tie my shoe, but not where I’m from? How come I can’t remember any of the people I meet?”
“You’ll have to ask Dr. Paley that one,” Cardinal said. He noted the irritation in her voice. The rise in her emotional temperature, slight though it was, seemed a harbinger of recovery.
“I’m afraid to ask anybody anything,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve already asked it nine times and people will hate me.”