Forget About It Page 10

  When the doctor mentioned the new “treatments” that they were trying out, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I found out all too quickly when I walked into the eighth floor room where they’d sent me and found myself face-to-face with an odd assortment of robed individuals—clearly patients—and a prematurely gray, long-haired Grateful Dead devotee who went by the name of Dr. Debra. She had a pair of glasses on a long chain around her neck. She wore a tie-dyed blouse and a peasant skirt that went to the floor. She stood up in front of us and pointed to her name, which was written on the chalkboard.

  “I am Dr. Debra. Welcome to Dance Therapy.”

  I just looked around the room. I signed up for this? But then that thought I’d had earlier about people faking amnesia came back. What if I was right? What if nobody had amnesia, and there was a secret society of people who had done exactly what I had? Did they all know? How do I let them know I’m in on it? Do they know I’m in on it because they know that there is actually no such thing as amnesia? Are we a club?

  It was freaking me out as I searched the eyes of every person in the room. I just wanted a sign. Something. But nobody was giving me anything. Was Dr. Debra in on it too? No, I decided she couldn’t be. She had to have genuinely believed her throwback outfit would comfort her patients—after all, chances were good that she wasn’t the only one in the room stuck in the seventies. “Let’s everyone pick a partner or let me know if you can’t find anyone.”

  People started pairing off. A man timidly smiled at me. He was bald on top and wearing a cardigan sweater that looked like it had belonged to his grandfather and then to his father, and now the heirloom and its cross-generational stench were finally his. He started making his way over toward me, and a quick review told me my escape routes were blocked.

  “Hi. I’m Paul,” he said.

  “Hello.”

  “Begin to move your bodies and talk to your partner,” said Debra. “Say whatever comes to your mind. Sway and convey, sashay and parley, glide and confide. Everybody move!”

  I did not sign up for this. Paul embraced this thing wholeheartedly, and there I was, all of a sudden his dance partner. I had to do it. I self-consciously moved ever so slightly in what could I guess be called dancing if you’re using the term very, very loosely. I don’t like dancing. Never have. I guess because I’m not very good at it, but I really think dancing for the most part is embarrassing for all parties involved. Even those watching. Then Paul said something to me that I didn’t quite know how to respond to.

  “I’m eighteen,” he said wistfully. This man was clearly in his forties and he looked it. “Why do I look so old?”

  “Oh, you don’t look that old,” I said, trying to make him feel better.

  “I don’t look eighteen. They’re trying to tell me I’m forty-seven. But I’m not. I’m eighteen!”

  “Okay,” I said. “I believe you. You’re eighteen.”

  “Hold me,” he said suddenly. “The prom committee isn’t looking.” Christ. What could I do? I put my arms around the poor guy and counted the minutes until it would be over.

  I will say this: he was definitely not faking. And I started to feel tremendously guilty about my ruse. And in that moment I remembered something else I hadn’t considered: Sneevil Knievel was in my apartment and nobody was taking care of him.

  Samantha was obviously back from her trip, but she hadn’t bothered to ask about the bird or get the keys to my apartment so she could take him back. What kind of parent was she? Clearly modeling herself after our own mom.

  Todd would have to come get my keys so he could deal with Sneevil, but my phone access was limited, and as soon as I finally got back to my room and had a moment to myself, Walter showed up.

  It was funny—the first day I was there everybody was interested, available, concerned. But now, only a couple days in, I was old news. And I could tell that he felt uncomfortable, but, bless his heart, he wanted someone to represent my family.

  “So we’ve put together a file on you. The doctor told us it might help you remember,” he said. He handed it over to me cautiously, like the contents of it would seal the fate of some undercover agent. Agent Jordan, posing as anyone but herself.

  “Thank you,” I said, knowing that it couldn’t move the needle.

  “We’ll get through this, honey.” The whole thing felt really strange, and it was. Then he kissed me on my forehead, and when he did, I felt incredibly small. Like a little girl, wanting, needing, craving attention from her father—from anyone—but not getting it. Or not getting enough of it or the right kind of it. I knew that the kiss was because he was leaving even though he’d just shown up. It was a consolation prize—an ice cream cone instead of pushing me on a swing for an hour.

  “I know,” I said. And I did know. But it didn’t change my sudden wave of sorrow. He looked at me one more time before he left, and it felt like he was looking at what could have been. It was really odd. Like maybe he thought I was never coming back. I felt bad for him. He’d tried to love me the best way he knew how. I knew that. And for someone who wasn’t actually related to me, he certainly put in more effort than anyone who was.

  I opened up the file they’d made on me. There were some pictures, but it was mostly information. Information that was . . . wrong.

  “This is all wrong!” I shouted. “This . . . this is bullshit! I don’t weigh that much! How the hell do they know when I lost my virginity?!” Sam’s handiwork was evident throughout. “And I’m a C cup, dammit! Not a B cup, thank you very much.”

  “Are you talking to me?” a nurse said hesitantly.

  “No, I was talking to myself.”

  “Oh. Well . . . you have another visitor.”

  I looked up to see Lydia, the frizzy-haired, red-faced, evil idea-stealer from hell. What the hell was she doing showing up here? I wondered. And then she started talking . . . verrrry slooooowly, while the nurse made sure I didn’t freak out at the strange woman.

  “Hi. I’m Lydiiiiiaaaa. I’m your superior at Splaaash—an aaaaadvertising agency. We wooooork together.”

  Now, this was going to be fun.

  “We do?” I asked.

  “Yes, for twoooo years now.”

  “You’re my boss? Do I make a lot of money?” She shifted her feet, and I could tell she was starting to get uncomfortable. It was great. The slow talking stopped and her needles sprang out.

  “Well, I think you make a decent amount of money. Sure.”

  “Thanks,” I said, piling it on.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, leaning in slightly.

  “Better, I think.” I decided to milk the moment for all it was worth. “You seem so nice. It’s all hazy to me now, hard to describe—like not having a reflection in a mirror. But I’ll bet you and I work very well together.”

  “I . . . uh . . . Well, of course we do. We’re like a team. I’ve been instrumental in your career.” She sat down in the one chair they’d designated for visitors.

  The nurse, sensing there wouldn’t be a psychotic episode, said, “Buzz if you need anything.”

  Lydia cleared her throat. “Do you remember anything at all about work? Anything that happened before your accident?” she asked pointedly, leaning in, waiting for my answer. It took all my self-control not to read her the riot act.

  “I remember odd bits and pieces. A building. A giant color printer spitting out posters. Phones that are too loud when someone wants you.”

  “The intercom,” she confirmed, staring at me.

  “But . . . people, things that happened. No, I can’t really say that I do.”

  “Nothing that happened?” She perked up.

  “Nothing with you. I . . . You’re not familiar.” I sighed and forced my eyes to well up a little. “I’m sorry. I can tell we weren’t just coworkers. We were good friends too, weren’t we?”

  She breathed in deeply and smiled. “It’s all right. We’ll make new memories.”

  “Gosh, I sure hope so
!” I beamed. “So we were good friends?”

  “We were . . . Sure we were.” Liar. Then again, who was I to judge?

  “Like we had lunch together and stuff?” She tugged at a loose thread on the chair cushion, her eyes searching for somewhere to look other than at mine.

  “On occasion,” she said. What occasion would that be? I wondered. “Well, how do I ask this: Do you think that you can still . . . remember how to be creative?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. You mean . . . with ad stuff? I can try.”

  I could see her actually starting to sweat. There were little beads forming on her upper lip and her forehead was getting shiny. I think I watched her go through about seventeen emotions in a matter of three seconds. She was relieved that I didn’t remember, nervous that I might not be able to do her job for her anymore, hopeful that I’d regain my memory for that aspect but fearful for the other . . . It was a hell of a thing to watch. Worst of all, she was trying to simulate kindness, which was just not in her biological makeup.

  “Well, you just rest and get better now. And we all hope you come back to work very soon.”

  “Okay, I hope so, too. Thanks for visiting . . . friend!” I said, like a mildly retarded person.

  Lydia got up and walked out. She looked back at me and smiled probably the fakest smile I’d ever seen. It was punctuated with her muttering “shit” under her breath, not quite as inaudibly as she’d intended. It was delightful.

  * * * * *

  After a week or so of different therapies and diagnosis, the days were starting to get predictable. I’d suffer through dance therapy, I’d go through a series of tests, I’d draw pictures, I’d meet with specialists, and occasionally they’d throw something new into the mix.

  The doctors would sometimes speak in medical jargon that I didn’t understand and refer to affected parts of my brain, like the hippocampus—a part of the brain that’s “key in storing and processing declarative memory as well as episodic memory information.” I was informed that damage to the hippocampus usually affected access to memories prior to the damage, which was what I was experiencing. I’d hear him speak the words but get stuck on the phonetic implications. I’d hear him say “hippocampus,” and immediately I’d picture a college for hippopotami, and then take it a step further—and remember the Hungry Hungry Hippos, the childhood game of frantic marble-munching hippos, trying to see which one could eat the most. I’d remember a T-shirt I’d had, an homage to the game, which featured a shrugging hippopotamus and the caption: HONESTLY, I WAS NEVER THAT HUNGRY.

  Then there were the odd visitors here and there whose line of questioning and intention were inscrutable. They weren’t doctors or nurses, but they seemed to be there on official business. They’d ask me questions about my capacity to perform certain tasks, my function level, what I felt comfortable with . . . and they seemed very careful in trying not to offend me. They asked me about the medications I was being given, if I was feeling depressed since I’d been admitted, if I thought about harming myself, harming others, and about my general mental state.

  I heard the words “capacity” and “consent” and my mind would invariably wander—drinking contests at college parties, the abortion debate, the Senate’s “advise and consent” responsibilities on judicial nomination, the little signs on restaurant walls (I know the capacity of this room is not to exceed 241 persons, but what if it does?). All in all, my memory was exceptional. But what undoubtedly had grown worse since the accident was my attention span.

  And there was something else I realized about my hospital stay—there were no cute doctors. I was spending most of my days watching soap operas, each of which has its own hospital filled with hot young doctors and nurses, and mine had zip. I made a mental note to send a letter to the network, putting them on notice that these programs are false advertising and that, were someone to make a trip to the hospital for the sole purpose of meeting a hot young doctor with washboard abs and a killer smile, they would be sadly disappointed.

  Todd walked in and looked around, noticing the increasing number of floral arrangements that were taking over my hospital room. “Who are all of these flowers from?”

  “The guy who hit me. He’s sent me something almost every day. My mom wants to sue him, but he seems really nice.”

  “Now, that’s the old Jordan talking. The new Jordan would say . . .”

  “‘Baby needs some new shoes!’” I shouted, a little louder than I should have.

  “Word up, sister,” he said. “I stopped by your place like you asked. Your bird is psychotic, by the way.”

  “It’s not my bird— Why? What’s wrong?”

  “He’s just loud and he throws his seed everywhere. And I ain’t cleaning it up. So you’ve got that to look forward to.”

  Then, my phone rang.

  “Hi, Jordan, this is Lydia? Remember me? I was visiting you the other day? We work together?” Of course I remember you, you rapacious swamp sow.

  “Oh yeah!” I said excitedly. “The nice older lady from the office.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call myself an older lady, Jordan. I’m only a few years older than you.”

  “That’s what I meant. Older than me.”

  “I’m calling to see how you’re feeling? If you remember anything about work yet?” Was she asking me? Or telling me? She was punctuating every sentence? With a raised pitch and a question mark?

  “Nope. Not coming back just yet.”

  “Okay then. I’ll let you go rest up some more.”

  “Okay, Lydia,” I said as the cheeriest me I could muster, “thanks for calling!” And I hung up the phone and concluded just as cheerily, “You cradle-robbing, scum-sucking hag.” Todd cracked up; he was clearly enjoying my fun almost as much as me.

  * * * * *

  My release date was still a few days away, but my mom had been talking to her loony friends, who each had come up with a surefire way to help me regain my memory. So she asked my doctor if I could be released to her care, so that I could partake in some of her cockamamy treatments. Agreeing that I wasn’t dangerous to others or myself and not much of a flight risk (“We can be thankful that she seems totally devoid of the hostility and dementia that often accompany even mild amnesia,” he’d declared after a few days of my amiable fakery), he consented.

  Finally they were letting me out. I was at the nurses’ station, looking over the release papers and feeling this overwhelming rush. I couldn’t wait to start living my life as the new me, outside this hospital. Was it the new me? I wondered. The new fake me? If I faked it long enough, would I become that person? I could be as assertive as I made up my mind to be. Hell, I could be as “whatever” as I made up my mind to be. The world was my oyster. Starting now. And with a little rinsing of my memory, I could dispense with the bad like unwanted sand and oceanic grit. I turned to my mother, who had all my release papers in her hands.

  “Okay . . . where do I sign?” I said, ready to embark on my new life.

  “Your mother can do all that for you,” said the nurse. Fine by me. Todd told me there is a school of thought in medical circles that holds that a good deal of so-called amnesia is garden-variety malingering, an effort to let life slide for a little while. Since I was a poster child for that school, I figured it was time for me to start receiving some dividends.

  “Great,” I said cheerily. “So on the next really nice day can you write me a note to get me out of work, then?”

  “For what?” my mom said with a confused look on her face.

  “No, I was kidding. You know how mothers write notes when their kids are sick and staying home from school.”

  “Are you feeling sick?”

  “Never mind,” I said. I didn’t know whether she was slow on the uptake and never got out of her own head long enough to focus on me, but it was like so many moments with her—better just left alone.

  Our first stop: the chiropractor’s office.

  I’d never been to a chiropractor befo
re. There were scented candles burning and New Age music playing. This was more like it—screw all that hospital stuff. I didn’t know if a massage came as part of the treatment, but already it was better than my sterile room at the hospital.

  Dr. Mangere walked in and, before he even asked me my name, he carefully placed his palms on either side of my neck and wrenched it to one side.

  “Ow!” I screamed.

  No reaction from Dr. Mangle Me. He grabbed my head again and wrenched it to the other side.

  “Jeez!”

  “Do you remember anything now?” he asked, as if his practically breaking my neck had been the miracle cure.

  “No!” I practically screeched.

  “Come back in a week,” he ordered.

  “Yeah, I’ll be sure to remember that.”

  Then he raised his hand and began to reach for me again. I put my arms out to block him and forcibly knocked his arms back with a move that was partly a quick double karate chop and partly a manic cheer—“DE-FENSE!” I mean, my neck goes only two ways and he’d already yanked it both ways, so I had to draw the line. Needless to say, he was a little startled by my block.

  “I’m just reaching for the thermostat,” he said as if he were talking to a crazy person. “It’s a little chilly.” Here at last, I’m sure my mother thought, was the hostility and dementia my doctor had missed.

  “I thought you were going to yank me again,” I offered meekly.

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  We stared at each other for a minute, not quite knowing where to go from there.

  “Okay then. I’ll see you next week,” he said. “I’m reaching for the door now and I’m just going to turn the knob and walk out of this room.”

  Great. Now in addition to being an amnesiac, I was being treated like a dangerous nutcase. But you know what? I felt kinda good. Nobody had ever been scared of me before. I was always okay-by-me Jordan, walk-all-over-me Jordan, go-ahead-and-cheat-on-me Jordan, I’d-love-to-do-your-work-assignment-while-you-actually-have-a-life Jordan. This was cool. I mean, I wasn’t going to go karate chopping every person I came into contact with, but I was enjoying mentally fighting back on behalf of the timid little wimp I’d been before.