Hadrian's Wall (3 page)

She was wearing a white jacket, making me
think she was another resident; but the look of her made me feel
quite apprehensive. She gave me a weird stare that reminded me of
the television documentaries about the animal kingdom when a snake
appeared from nowhere, waving its tail and hypnotizing a helpless
mouse. It was exactly the same look—that of a predator.

I noticed that she was holding a folder
containing my medical records with enough force to tear it in
half.

“So...it’s you!”

Huh?

She evaluated my confusion and then
continued, twisting her thin lips as she spoke. “The girl found
unconscious on the Mountain of Polish Man.”

“Mountain of Polish Man?”

“You do not know anything about us, right?”
Her accent was British, her question sounded scornful.

“No,” I whispered. “Should I? Who are you?”
She laughed at my confusion.

“No, you should not...if you really came to
Hadrian’s Wall by accident...and to answer your question, my name
is Asia.”

Mmm...a strange name! Definitely not
English. Does she also consider herself to be as great as a
continent or is the name a tribute to her almond-shaped eyes? I
thought that English people were more friendly and formal in their
first meetings, but this girl obviously didn’t fit that
description.

“I still have no idea how I got here.” I
glanced at her coat, looking for a badge to confirm her full name
and specialty, but there was none. It made me even more
apprehensive, wondering why she would not want her status to be
acknowledged.

Asia seated herself on the edge of my bed.
Her eyes were strange—a brown color that I had never seen
before—somewhere between burgundy and chocolate. They were eyes
that evoked fear in me.

Suddenly her eyes were yellow. Yellow? When
I blinked, she quickly picked up her glasses hanging from a chain
around her neck and put them on her face. Like Adrian’s, the lenses
were slightly shaded.

“In fact, it is very strange, especially
when you have such a powerful weapon...” She looked meaningfully at
my left hand and casually pointed at it. “Interesting tattoo.”

I followed her eyes to my tear-shaped
birthmark between the forefinger and thumb on the back of my
hand.

“It’s not tattoo. I was born with it.”

“How convenient,” she murmured. “Why
now?”

“I don’t understand.”

Suddenly, another resident appeared in my
room—a tall, frail-looking young man with flyaway hair the color of
rust.

“Asia, you should not be here. This ward is
mine today.”

She smiled. “I just wanted to meet the new,
mysterious patient from Caledonia.”

His scowl did not match his baby face. “Go
back to your patients. Must I remind you what our orders are?”

I looked at Asia and could have sworn I saw
a flash of anger cross her face, though it wasn’t easy to decipher
her emotions because of the darkened lenses.

“That’s not fair, Jay!” Her indignant
reaction seemed to have more than one meaning.

Worried, he glanced at me and then back at
Asia again. “Stephen is in the building now. You might wonder what
will happen if he finds out you are here.”

A hint of dread crossed Asia’s face. Within
one second her eyes widened and her mouth opened. “Stephen,
Stephen...the eternal guard dog!” she muttered.

She looked at me one last time. “Saved by
the bell!” Smiling, she passed by Jay and left us.

Jay looked down for a moment and then at me.
“I’m sorry, I should have been doing my rounds earlier.”
Embarrassed, he scratched his head. “I believe that Asia saved me
this effort.”

Of course, I was not buying this charade,
but I let it pass. I got the impression that he didn’t expect me to
believe it. He approached my bed and picked up my records.

“Another resident,” I sighed. “Where is
Adrian?” I glanced at his nametag, which read, “Jay O’Neal /
Neurology.”

Mmm...Irish, Welsh, or Scottish boy? That
would explain his red hair and freckles, but does not explain the
contrast between old worn shoes and the wristwatch that very few
people could afford—Rolex or Omega? So many contradictions...it
seems that I am surrounded by them lately.

O’Neal stopped in the middle of room and
opened my folder, but said nothing. He must have read that the only
big news of day was the discontinuation of intravenous
medication—at least, I celebrated it. Despite the sleepless nights
that left me tired all day, the persistent fever had finally
relented. Already, I was eating better and required only periodic
doses of medication dispensed from a nebulizer.

Dr. Way, the orthopedist, and Dr. Endfield,
the pulmonary doctor, both emphasized that I should not overtax my
ribs. They monitored me all the time. My visit to the Radiology
Department for x-rays was one of the few events that allowed me to
be released from the special brace that I was forced to wear at all
times.

Jay O’Neal took the pen from his pocket and
made a little note in my records. “You need rest,” he recommended
before leaving.

As if that were possible!

* * *

I could not forget the strange episode. It
was seared into my mind like a red-hot brand. My biggest fear was
that Asia would come back. The last thing that I wanted or needed
was to be forced to remain under the medical supervision of a
psychopath who seemed to harbor an unjustified grudge against me.
Every night, I listened intently, anticipating the worst, but
thankfully, she never came back. I guess Stephen—her boss or
supervisor—must have given her a well-deserved scolding.

How foolish I am! Even though she scared me,
I still wanted to learn something about her! Asia “No-Last-Name”
had said something about a “Mountain of Polish Man” and I was
intrigued. What does that have to do with me?

* * *

Despite my growing curiosity, two days later
Dr. Talbot interrupted my routine by referring me to a psychiatrist
for evaluation. At first I thought it was because of my memory
problem—or rather my lack of memory, but he argued that since the
tests did not reveal any organic “disorder” his main concern was
now the nightmares impeding my recovery. He said I needed to sleep
well in order to regain my strength, but I could not.

“As for the amnesia, that problem should be
temporary,” he said. “Amnesia usually settles because of a
psychological trauma, which may or may not be accompanied by a blow
to the head.”

My concussion apparently explained the
physical aspect, but I lacked information about what had caused the
original trauma. It could take time, so I needed a little
professional help. He is still speaking Greek, so why do I keep
nodding?

* * *

That afternoon, after my daily sunbath on a
secluded terrace, which was strangely not open to other patients,
the nurse pushed me in my wheelchair into the clinic ward. On one
of the doors was a sign. “Dr. Adam Barringer—Psychiatrist.”

The nurse knocked and without waiting for a
reply, quickly pushed my wheelchair inside. I wanted to tell her
that I could walk, but I already knew what the answer would be:
“No, you must ride...hospital rules,” so I resigned myself to the
usual constraint that the wheelchair ride caused me.

To my astonishment, we entered a small, cozy
lounge—far from the sterile environment that I expected. Behind the
U-shaped counter attached to the wall, a girl was typing furiously
on her computer. tec-tec-tec... After a quick exchange of
greetings, the nurse introduced me.

“Dana, this is Melissa, the good doctor’s
new patient.” Turning to me, she said, “When you are finished, ask
to Dana call me and I’ll come get you.”

Be brave, young lady was all she needed to
say...

I nodded, all the while pressing my lips
together so I would not laugh like a hysterical girl. The nurse
gave me an encouraging smile and then departed.

When the door closed behind her, I let out a
sigh.

Okay, I admit that she was a sweet
person—very caring and friendly. What was her name? I’ve always
been bad about remembering names. On the other hand, I never forget
a face. Yes! I remember! Bernice...that’s her name. I must buy her
a small gift when I leave the hospital—a gesture of thanks for the
wonderful way she has treated me. I was never treated this well
before—except by the nurse from my childhood. Bernice was like
her.

Oops! How will I buy a gift—or anything
else, for that matter? I have no money! I felt my stomach muscles
clench. Oh my God! No money, no job, no friends...and no
memory!

Suddenly, with her eyes still glued to the
monitor, Dana clicked the computer’s mouse twice. Without realizing
my despair, she turned her back and began rummaging through file
drawers as if looking for something.

I breathed deep and gave quiet thanks when I
found some magazines to distract me. There were many scattered on
the table—fashion, current events, movies. I looked at the
pictures, comparing my limp, shapeless, brown hair to the beautiful
tresses of supermodels and movie stars. When I was halfway through
the magazine, a silent signal apparently had been sent because Dana
got up from her chair and went into the doctor’s office carrying my
medical records.

“It’s your time. Dr. Barringer will meet you
in a moment,” she said when she emerged from his office. She walked
across the room and exited through another door.

A few minutes later she reappeared, followed
by a tall, elegant man, who I assumed was the doctor. My first
impression of him was good. Mmm...better than my initial impression
of Dr. Talbot. The psychiatrist looked me straight in the eye.
There was no superior or probing look like doctors often employ
when they meet a new patient.

That’s cool!

I appraised his appearance quickly,
something he seemed to expect—at least, it seemed like it didn’t
bother him. That was cool, too. He was wearing the same kind of
white jacket that I was accustomed to seeing everywhere. He also
wore surgical gloves like those I’d seen on Adrian’s hands. He was
undeniably handsome. He looked a little like Dr. Kildare. Oh,
yes...even though I don’t like doctors, I never missed an episode
on Saturday night television. Like Dr. Kildare, the “good doctor”
is hot!

No doubt, his kind would attract any
woman—sandy hair, smooth and short, strong jaw, two dimples on the
cheeks appearing when he smiled, a hint of sensitivity and
compassion when he drew his eyebrows together. The only problem was
that Dr. Barringer seemed too young for his occupation. I could
have mistaken him for one of the medical students; however, there
was an authoritative aura around him which inspired my
confidence.

“Miss Baker, welcome to my office.” His
smile widened when he pressed my hand.

“You can call me Melissa, please,” I
stammered, my suspicion having returned.

He helped me up from the wheelchair. I
walked in front of him, tottering while he spoke a few words with
his secretary. I knew why I was so nervous. After all, I’d been
through this once before and knew what to expect from a
psychiatrist. He would diagnose me as crazy, just like the
government doctor who had evaluated me when I was a child. I was
afraid to provide ammunition to the enemy, remembering the advice
given me by another young orphan girl many years ago: “When in
doubt, pay attention to everything. Listen, but don’t talk.” Thus,
I held my tongue and waited, not allowing myself to look around his
office for fear of being misunderstood.

“Okay, Melissa!” Dr. Barringer closed the
door behind him. “Call me Adam, if you like. Please sit down.”

Although the chair was ultra-comfortable, I
sat more rigidly than my brace compelled me to sit. I think I even
forgot to breathe for a few seconds. I fixed my eyes on the glass
top of his desk, facing the window, not daring to admire the
beautiful view of the garden that he most likely had given the
angle of the building. I knew I should not let down my guard given
the relaxed atmosphere of his office.

The doctor seemed to be reading everything
that was on my mind because he gently smiled. “Don’t be afraid,
Melissa. You have my word that whatever we talk about will not
leave this room. I’m not here to make assessments or judgments. My
only objective is to help you.”

He leaned against a shelf filled with books,
his arms crossed in front of him in a casual manner. His gesture
drew my attention to the wall beside him where there were some
framed diplomas. Smiling, he continued. “That is, if you will let
me help you. Let me put it this way. If you will not label me an
executioner, I will not label you crazy. How about that? Do we have
a deal?”

I had to laugh. He laughed too and when he
did his brown eyes flashed strangely bright. Suddenly, I saw the
picture of a boy in his face—someone strangely familiar, which
evoked feelings of complicity and affection. I felt the need to be
protective of the child whose image flashed across his face and
quickly disappeared. Suddenly, I was not scared anymore, but my
sense of reason continued to issue warnings. It was dangerous to
let myself form impressions that only my emotions were
recognizing.

The doctor did not sit down right away;
instead, he moved to a small table, carefully arranged with a plate
of cookies, a small sugar bowl, cups, spoons, napkins, and two
thermos carafes—one black, one red.

“Would you like coffee?” he offered, showing
me the black pot. “A cookie?”

I refused both and watched as he poured
coffee from the red pot.

He finally sat down behind his desk, sipping
his coffee for a few seconds before removing my examination reports
from the file folder on the table.

“I hear you’re having nightmares...”
Dangerous theme. He noticed my embarrassment, but continued. “Dr.
Talbot mentioned that you cannot remember anything about what
happened between the time you left Dailey’s Crossing and your
arrival in Hadrian’s Wall.”