“I’m calling from Princess Margaret’s. I’m one of the night nurses on the psych ward. Listen, I’m really sorry to call at this hour but it says in the patient notes to call you immediately if there is any change—”
I sit forward on the bench. “What’s happened?”
“Well, er, I thought you’d want to know that the patient has started talking.”
I freeze. He knows who I am and he’s started talking. “What did he say?” I ask.
“Okay, so, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, to be honest. But when I went in to do checks about half an hour ago the patient was sitting up in bed reading and I said, ‘How are we doing tonight’ or something like that, you know, just to be polite, I knew he wasn’t talking, but then he did. He said, ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Just like that. And then I asked if he needed anything and he said he’d like to speak to Dr. Lewis. And then he said to tell you that he’s sorry you burnt your fingers that night.”
My heart leaps into my throat. My mind races until I suddenly decide that I just must have heard him wrong.
“Sorry. What did you say?” I hear the wobble in my voice.
“I know, sorry, I have no idea what that means either—”
“No, say it again. What he said,” I bark.
“Er, okay,” he continues, cowed. “His exact words were ‘Tell Dr. Lewis I’m ready to talk to her. Tell her I’m sorry she burnt her fingers that night,’ and that was it really.” He tails off, fearful of further admonishment.
I stare out into the shadows beyond the garden, the suffocating darkness of the wood, my breath shallow.
He knows things about me. Just like Rhoda said.
But he couldn’t have been there that night. He’s sorry I burnt my fingers. How could he know something so intimate, something so slight, unless he had been there? And if he knows that, what else does he know? And more important, what else is he saying at the hospital right now? He’s calling me Dr. Lewis now but he knows my name was Marni.
“Hello? Doctor?” The voice on the line drags me back.
“Yes, sorry. I’ll be there in…” I shoot up from the bench and look over the low fence to the frosted windshield of my car and then down at my sleepwear and socks. “I’ll be there as soon as I can—just tell him I’m on my way.”
26
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 9—WHAT’S MY NAME?
When I enter the room he’s talking, a few nurses and aides clustered around him. His voice is low and calm but I can already make out a British accent. Not Ukrainian, not Syrian, not any of the other heavily accented dialects that the papers had been so eager to hear him speak. He’s just plain old English.
He falls silent when he sees me enter and heads turn in my direction. Their expressions are inscrutable. It’s impossible to know what he’s told them, what he’s already said, if he’s mentioned me, and yet I search their faces for clues.
The way he’s looking at me, as if I’m an old friend he hasn’t seen in years, as if we knew each other so well.
“Marni?” he asks simply. It’s unmistakable in his tone. He knows me.
My glare rakes across the group and their stares scatter like pigeons. I need to say something, I know, and I need to say the right thing.
“My name is Dr. Lewis. I’m the specialist handling your case, we saw each other very briefly yesterday. Do you remember?”
I feel bad disregarding his clear recognition of who I am, but we will get to that in good time, preferably alone.
“What should I call you? Is Matthew all right?”
I’ve confused him. He blinks. “Matthew’s not my real name. You know that, don’t you?” he asks.
“Yes, I know. Do you remember your real name?”
He looks hurt for a second and I wonder if I’m being too cold, too distant to this person who so very clearly knows me.
“I can’t remember my name, no.” He shakes his head.
“Would you like us to stop using the name Matthew? Is there another you’d prefer?” I ask, my tone gentler now.
“No.”
“Okay.” I make a decision. “Would everyone mind stepping out and giving us the room, please? I’m sure you’ve all got other patients to see to.” There are looks of disappointment but the room quickly clears.
“Marni?” he says again. He’s studying my face intently; he seems less sure this time, this time it really is a question.
“Why do you keep using that name, Matthew?”
“Because it’s your name. I can’t remember mine but I can remember yours.”
No shit.
“How do you know that name, Matthew?” I hold his gaze. If this is some kind of game of chicken, I want him to know I’m up for the challenge.
“I don’t know. I just do.” He sounds confused. Peter was right. If this guy is faking, he’s the best I’ve ever seen.
“What else do you know? Do you remember anything else?” I make my way over to his bed and sit beside him.
“Only glimmers. Running through a wood at night.” The memory seems to cause him concern; his face darkens. “I don’t know if I’m chasing or being chased.” He looks at me for some kind of reassurance but I have none to give him.
“Are you scared in the memory?” I ask.
“No, not in the memory itself, but when I recall it, it scares me.”
“Do you think this memory explains how you ended up on the beach nine days ago?”
“Er, I don’t think so.” He hesitates. “This memory is old. Maybe years ago. It was at night. There was someone there with me. Something went wrong.” He closes his eyes sharply as if to block a thought. I notice his fingers start to tremble in his lap.
“It’s okay, Matthew.” I move to him and place a gentle hand on his shoulder. He lets me, and I feel the warmth of his skin through his cotton T-shirt. “We don’t need to go back over it right now. Why don’t you tell me about something else? What other things do you remember?”
He looks up reluctantly; there are dark circles under his eyes. “Little things,” he answers. “About people, the people here. I seem to remember these strange things about them. Or rather I know them. What makes them tick, things that have happened to them, things I shouldn’t know, but somehow I do. How could that be?” He asks in such a reasonable way I almost try to answer, but I stop myself. I shake my head instead.