‘And how long will this amnesia last, doctor?’
‘I don’t have amnesia.’
‘Well that depends, it can really vary quite considerably: a day or two, a few weeks. In some cases a full recovery from amnesia can take many months.’
‘I don’t have amnesia.’
‘And with Rachel’s type of amnesia, where she believes she is remembering something which hasn’t actually happened… well, that is rather… unusual, shall we say, so it is hard to say how long it will last. I would like to make arrangements for her to see a specialist in this field.’
My father then asked the question I had been most afraid to hear voiced aloud.
‘Could her amnesia be permanent?’
There was a long silence. I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath to hear Dr Tulloch’s response until I began to feel dizzy from lack of oxygen.
‘There is that possibility, although it is far too early to say for sure,’ he replied in gentle tones. ‘The specialist will be better able to give you a clearer idea on that.’
He got to his feet then and shook my father’s hand, our consultation clearly at a close. As my father pushed the wheelchair from the room, I took one last look back at the white-haired doctor, who was already shuffling my pile of papers and case notes into a neat pile. His eyes met mine.
‘I don’t have amnesia.’
On the doctor’s advice I was to be discharged from hospital the following morning. The specialist appointment would take some time to set up and it was felt I would recover more speedily in my own home. I felt that was highly unlikely, as the last time I saw my own home in Great Bishopsford there were clearly other people living in it. However, I was anxious to get out of hospital, if only to prove to everyone that I wasn’t suffering from some weirdly interesting medical condition and that I was, in fact, telling the truth. And obviously I wasn’t going to be able to prove anything from a hospital bed.
‘Who knows,’ said Dad hopefully, ‘once you’re back home you might find everything just clicks back into place.’
He looked so optimistic, I didn’t have the heart to point out yet again the facts I knew to be true.
‘Maybe,’ I offered. ‘Although even in your world I don’t live with you any more, do I? So don’t go expecting it all to come rushing back, eh?’
He looked anguished, as though I’d deliberately tried to hurt him with my words.
‘There is no “your world” and “my world”, Rachel. That’s just your injuries talking. You’ll see that once we get you back home.’
I tried to smile, and was pleased to see I must be a better actress than I had thought.
‘I’m sure you’re right, Dad.’
Matt had clearly been primed about the meeting with Dr Tulloch and its outcome, for when he came in to see me during visiting hours, half obliterated by the most enormous bouquet of flowers I had ever seen, he immediately bent to kiss me and spoke in a strangely irritating conciliatory tone.
‘Rachel, my love, poor you. Amnesia. No wonder you’ve been acting so strangely since you came round. Do you remember anything at all? Do you know who I am?’
For one devilish moment I thought of playing along with it but I backed down in the last instant. That was just too cruel.
‘Yes, Matt, of course I know who you are, we’ve known each other since we were teenagers. It’s just… well, I’ve kind of “forgotten” things that happened recently.’
He passed the flowers to a nurse who had come in to take my blood pressure.
‘Can you put these in water, nurse?’
She didn’t look too happy to be distracted from her duties by a visitor, but she took the mammoth bunch of flowers and I mouthed a small apology to her over Matt’s shoulder. That was one thing I hadn’t forgotten: Matt was used to getting his own way and could come across as somewhat arrogant, if you didn’t know him better.
‘So when you say you can’t remember things that happened recently, just how recently do you mean? The last few days?’
I shook my head.
‘The last week?’
I shook my head again.
‘Longer than that?’
Shaking my head wasn’t going to do it this time.
‘I’ve kind of “lost” the last five years.’
He sat down heavily in the chair. ‘Shit!’
I stayed quiet, letting him absorb the impact of my words.
‘So you don’t remember anything about us? Nothing beyond when we left school? You don’t even remember us getting engaged?’
I bit my lip, knowing he was in shock, but unable to share his emotion. I had, after all, broken up with Matt five years ago. And the Matt I had left behind had been an eighteen-year-old boy, not the bewildered man who sat staring at me now in helpless confusion.