Authors: G. H. Ephron
Amnesia (11 page)
THAT AFTERNOON, I drove over to the Cambridge police station and gave my statement. MacRae wasn't anywhere to be seen. An officious clerk promised that someone would call me if there were any developments.
Two days later, I hadn't heard a peep. The only reminder was my still tender rib cage. That and a deepening sense of loss. Gliding across the river at daybreak with only my racing shell and my own body had been like a purification ritual. If only for a short time, it cleared the miasma from my brain.
After a day's break, I was back rowing again. But in a borrowed shell and with the security of the crowd, it wasn't the same. Adding injury to insult, with every stroke, my muscles ached. The pain was like an annoying insect, constantly buzzing, keeping me from finding a comfortable rhythm.
Since my mind wouldn't let go, I chewed over the events of the past few days. Sylvia Jackson's overdose and the destruction of my boat had to be not only deliberate but connected. By the time I was showered, dressed, and back at work, my reluctance to get involved in this murder case had hardened into determination to see it through to the end.
As always, the routine at Pearce continued as if no outside world existed. Kwan gave me surprisingly little grief about my swim in the Charles. In fact, he was extremely solicitous. It was so out of character. So I decided to honor his birthday with a cake at staff meeting, reviving an old tradition. Traditions are good things â that's what I tell my patients. Patterns of behavior have a way of normalizing the extraordinary, of giving us the illusion that we're in control.
I drove over to Mike's in the North End to get a rum cake. I had them write, in turquoise letters across the top of the cake,
“
40
and still kicking
.” I had time to spare, or so I thought, until a truck driver who either couldn't read or couldn't measure got his truck wedged under a too low overpass. A trip that should have taken twenty minutes ended up taking an hour.
“
40
and still kicking
.” I had time to spare, or so I thought, until a truck driver who either couldn't read or couldn't measure got his truck wedged under a too low overpass. A trip that should have taken twenty minutes ended up taking an hour.
Kwan was ready for me. “Dr. Z! You're here! We're so glad you could find a moment in your busy schedule to grace us with your presence.” He took off his jacket and laid it across the threshold. “Let me assist you. We wouldn't want you to get your feet dirty.”
Kwan reached for my hand and finally noticed the box I was holding. “You come bearing gifts?”
“Beats the heck out of me,” I said, looking at the box with surprise. “What could it be?” I pried open the cardboard and peeked inside. “Gadzooks! It is a cake. Now why do you suppose ⦠?”
As the light dawned, I had the pleasure of watching Kwan turn pink and then crimson as the color rose from the edge of his collar to his eyebrows, across his forehead to his hairline.
“âStill kicking' Well, that's encouraging at least,” he said.
“Now, don't you feel terrible?” Gloria asked him.
I couldn't resist adding, “This is what happens to you, my old friend. At forty, senility sets in and you forget your own birthday.”
“I was trying to forget,” he insisted. “It's a coping strategy, not a symptom.”
“Yeah â and sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” I replied.
By the time we got around to business, only a ring of rumflavored cream remained at the bottom of the box.
“A new patient, Maria Whitson,” Gloria read the name from the board, “admitted last night. She tried to commit suicide. It's not the first time. Overdosed on an assortment of prescription drugs washed down with a pint of vodka. Her father brought her in after she called him on her cell phone.”
“I saw her this morning after they pumped her stomach,” Kwan said. “Kept asking if I was you.”
“Me?” I asked, surprised. “She knows me?”
“Well, she must not. Or she'd have known that I'm not you, don't you think? After all, I am so much better-looking, not to mention the fact that I dress better.”
I grinned. “Though you have to admit, after working together all these years, we have developed an uncanny resemblance.”
Kwan continued, “She was definitely confused. Suffering from delirium. We'll have to wait till her system clears to tell what's going on. In the meantime, I've recommended suicide precautions.”
Gloria jotted a note into her little book.
I reached for Maria Whitson's file from the nearby metal rack, opened it, and started to read: “Thirty-two years old. Divorced. No kids. Injured her head a few years ago when she got hit by a car. Since then she's been on the drug-du-jour program. They've got her taking a major tranquilizer, something for ulcers, lithium, Darvocet, an antidepressant, and, of course they've stuck her on two benzos at significant dosages.” I shook my head but didn't hop on my usual soapbox about the dangerous, unpredictable long-term effects of these drugs. “A year ago she slit her wrists and climbed into a warm bath. Father found her that time, too. They treated her for severe depression and bulimia related to sexual abuse.”
“Buh ⦠lee ⦠mee ⦠ah.” Gloria whispered, scratching
more notes. Suicidal patients with eating disorders require special attention from the nursing staff.
more notes. Suicidal patients with eating disorders require special attention from the nursing staff.
“Jeez, Louise.” I whistled. “This explains all the drugs. It looks like every time she got a new diagnosis, they added another drug. Listen to this: organic delusional disorder, bipolar illness, psychotic depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, multiple personality and borderline personality. Good grief. She was referred by Dr. Baldridge.”
“Baldridge?” Gloria and Kwan echoed my surprise. Baldridge ran a little kingdom at the other end of the Pearce campus. I couldn't remember the last time we'd gotten a referral from him. Maybe the brain injury put her in a slightly different category from his average patient. Or maybe he'd just run out of wonder drugs.
I snapped the file shut and hung it back on the rack. “Gloria, how about we start walk rounds today by giving Ms. Whitson a mental status exam? Do you think she can tolerate the stimulation of having all the staff around her?”
“She's fragile but adjusting. I think she'll be all right with it”
Maria Whitson's room was the last one at the end of a corridor. The door was open. I knocked and entered, my colleagues close behind.
The corner room had two tall windows but the light that made it through the gray window shades did little to brighten the barren green walls and mud-colored linoleum tile floor. Invisible beneath the shades, metal screens were padlocked in place.
The mattress of the hospital bed had been stripped and the room smelled of disinfectant. In a corner, Maria's silent form looked like a pile of dirty laundry. She stared listlessly down into her lap. Her blond eyelashes were caked with white bits that stood out against the red outlines of her eyes. Her flesh was pale and doughy soft.
Kwan knelt beside Maria. “Hello,” he said, “I'm Dr. Liu. I examined you earlier this morning.”
Maria slowly raised her head to look at him. There was no recognition. Her eyes drifted about the room as he continued, “These are my colleagues.” He introduced each of us in the courtly, respectful tone I've heard him, time and again, use so effectively with our patients.
He introduced me last. “And this is Dr. Peter Zak, the head of the unit here.” As he said my name, she gave a slight start that dislodged a clump of stringy hair from behind her ear. “Dr. Zak would like to talk with you. Would that be all right?”
I held out my hand. Though she didn't grasp it in response, for an instant I had the sense that someone was peering over the barbed wire. Almost as quickly as I caught it, the look was gone.
“I would like to ask you a few questions,” I said.
She looked at me blankly.
“Can you tell me who you are?” There was no response. “Your name?” I waited. “Your name is ⦔
Her mouth shaped the word, and in a little-girl voice she said, “Maria.”
“Maria ⦠?”
“Whitson.”
“Ms. Whitson, do you know where you are?”
No response.
I could feel Gloria's solid, reassuring figure moving to back me up. She came and squatted alongside me. I altered my position slightly as Gloria inched in closer. She took Maria Whitson's hand, the nails bitten down to the quick, a silver pinkie ring embedded in the flesh. “Maria?” she asked in a concerned, professional tone. “Do you remember me? I'm Gloria Alspag. I met you this morning. I'm the nurse in charge here. How are you doing? Is there anything we can get for you?”
We all waited. Maria opened her mouth but said nothing. She chewed on her lower lip. She began a low keening, rocking to and fro, hugging herself as if she were her own baby. The
rocking slowed as she tilted her head to the side, allowing the clump of hair to shift away from her eyes.
rocking slowed as she tilted her head to the side, allowing the clump of hair to shift away from her eyes.
Slowly and deliberately, she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She asked, “Could I have a drink of water?”
Gloria started to get up but I placed my hand on her shoulder. I wanted Gloria to stay right where she was and hold the connection.
I stood. There was a little stack of paper cups on the bedside table, along with a telephone and an orange plastic pitcher. I took a cup and reached for the pitcher.
Maria started violently, and began to shake her head. “No, no, no, no. Poison,” she whispered.
“How about some bottled water?” Gloria suggested.
She didn't say no, so I went out and filled the cup from the water dispenser in the nurses' station. I came back and handed the cup to Gloria.
“Thank you, Dr. Zak,” Gloria said. Then she offered the cup to Maria. Open-mouthed, Maria stared. The four of us waited, held captive in that moment of indecision. Accepting the water would be an act of trust. Finally, Maria wrapped her fingers around the cup. A collective sigh released the tension in the room. She drank greedily, dribbling some water down her chin, her eyes darting back and forth.
When Maria finished, she held the empty cup in front of her. Gloria gently took it from her.
“Would you like to sit in a chair?” Gloria asked her.
Maria looked around as if realizing for the first time that she was on the floor. She struggled to get up. Gloria and I each took hold of an arm and hoisted her up and into a chair.
I pulled up another chair opposite her and looked for eye contact. “Ms. Whitson, do you know where you are?”
Maria's hands gripped the chair arms. She looked confused. She started, “I'm” â and then looked at each of us in turn â “where?” She shrank in her seat and whispered, “I'm scared.” She paused, listening to the echoes of her own voice. “Where,
scare,” she repeated softly, “where, scare, scare, where ⦔
scare,” she repeated softly, “where, scare, scare, where ⦔
“Ms. Whitson, you're in a hospital. This is the Pearce Psychiatric Institute. We're the doctors and nurses who are here to take care of you. You're safe here.”
She looked dazed, and again the keening sound began as she curled up in a ball, hugged her knees, and started to rock herself back and forth.
I asked her, “Ms. Whitson, do you know why you're here?” I paused, hoping she'd fill the void, but she said nothing. “You've been having some problems, and apparently they must be quite serious because you tried to commit suicide.”
The rocking subsided as she uncurled.
“We're here to help you. What I need to do is get a sense of how you're doing, and one way we do that is by asking you some questions. I'd appreciate it if you could respond as best you can. Can you do that?”
This time there was a cautious but perceptible nod.
I took a pencil from my pocket and held it up. “Can you tell me what this is?”
I thought I saw a little smile start. Then her mouth worked as she struggled to shape the word. Finally, she whispered, “Pencil.”
Encouraged, I continued, “That's fine. And what's this?” I asked, pointing to an empty chair. But her attention had already wandered and she was staring at the silver ring embedded in the flesh of her little finger. With little jerking motions she tried to twist it around.
“Ms. Whitson?” She stopped twisting for a moment and then started again. “Ms. Whitson? Could you put your right hand on top of your head?”
A hand floated upward and rested on top of her head. White lines scarred her wrist. Her head tilted sideways. She met my eyes. Then her gaze shifted to the faces of my colleagues and on to the flat, gray expanse of a window shade. The hand remained planted on top of her head.
“Ms. Whitson, could you wave your left hand and stick out your tongue?”
Now a definite smile appeared. Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue emerged. But the right hand on her head and the left one in her lap remained still.
I went through the other silly-sounding questions designed to take an instant picture of that mish-mash we refer to as mental status. Near the end, although I already knew the answer, I asked, “Have you ever thought about taking your own life?” This got her attention. She jerked slightly and then narrowed her eyes. I waited, wondering if she trusted me enough to answer.
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