Chapter 12 Monday, November 19

The cafe is lively and is a branch of a chain.The stuff is green or brown, but it's all disposable, although -- judging by the posters on the walls -- it's eco-friendly.My coffee was served in a paper cup that was monstrously large, and Dr. Nash sat in an armchair across from me. This is the first time I've had a chance to look at him closely; or at least the first time today, so it has the same meaning for me.I had just finished packing up after breakfast when he called—on the flip phone—and picked me up about an hour later, by which time I had read most of the journal.I stared out the window on the drive to the cafe.I am confused, very confused.When I woke up this morning - though I'm not sure I know my name - for some reason I knew I was an adult and a mother even though I didn't expect to be middle aged and my son was dead up.It's been a chaotic day so far, one surprise after another—the mirror in the bathroom, the scrapbook, then this journal—and the most shocking thought is that I don't trust my husband.After encountering these, I don't want to dig deeper into anything else.

But now, I can see that he's younger than I expected, and even though I wrote in my journal that he doesn't have to worry about getting fat, I realize that doesn't mean he's as thin as I thought.He was a solidly built man, accentuated by an overly baggy jacket, with surprisingly thick body hair growing on his forearms, which occasionally peeked out from the sleeves of his coat. "How are you feeling today?" he asked as we sat down. I shrugged. "I don't know. Feeling confused, I think." He nodded: "Go ahead." I pushed away the cookie that Dr. Nash gave me, I didn't order a cookie, but he gave it to me. "Well, I wake up vaguely aware that I'm an adult, I don't realize I'm married, but I don't find it particularly weird to find someone in my bed."

"That's fine, but—" he began. I interrupted him: "But yesterday I said in my diary that I woke up and knew I had a husband..." "Are you still keeping a journal?" he said, and I nodded. "Did you bring it today?" I brought it, in my bag.But there are things in it that I don't want him to see, and I don't want anyone to see.private matter.My experience.The only experience I have. Things I noted about him. "I forgot to bring it." I lied.I couldn't see if he was disappointed. "Okay," he said, "that's okay. I understand that it's really frustrating when you remember something one day and seem to forget it the next day. But it's still progress, and overall you remember More than before."

I don't know if what he said is still close to the truth.In the first few entries of this journal, I wrote about my childhood, my parents, and the parties I went to with my best friends.I saw myself and my husband when I was young, when we first fell in love, and I saw myself writing novels.But since then?Lately I've been seeing only my lost son and the attack that caused this situation, and maybe the best way to deal with these things is to forget. "You say Ben bothers you? What he told you about his amnesia bothers you?" I swallowed.What was recorded yesterday seems to have become very distant, divorced from my life, almost unreal.a car accident.The attack took place in a hotel room.Neither seems to have anything to do with me.But I had no choice but to believe the facts I recorded.I have to believe Ben really lied about how I got to be like this.

"Go on..." he said. I started with the car accident story I told and went on to the hotel room I remembered, but I didn't mention the love and romance I had in recalling the hotel scene - the flowers, the candlelight And Champagne, I watched him while talking, he occasionally whispered a few words of encouragement, and even scratched his chin halfway through, and narrowed his eyes, but that look was not so much surprised as thoughtful. "You know this, don't you?" I said after I finished. "You already knew this?" He put down his drink: "No, I don't know. I know it wasn't a car accident that caused your amnesia, but I didn't know that Ben kept telling you it was a car accident until I read your diary that day. I also know that you... had an accident... You must have been in a hotel the night you lost your memory. But the other details you mentioned are new and, as far as I know, this is the first time you've remembered things yourself. That's great news Chrissy .”

good news?I wonder if he thinks I should be happy. "So that's true?" I said. "It wasn't because of a car accident?" He paused, and then said, "Yes, not because of a car accident." "But why didn't you tell me Ben was lying when you read the journal? Why didn't you tell me the truth?" "Because Ben must have his own reasons," he said, "and it didn't feel right telling you he was lying. It wasn't right at the time." "So you're lying to me too?" "No," he said, "I never lied to you. I never told you that it was a car accident that made you what you are today."

I thought about what I had read this morning. "But the other day," I said, "in your clinic, we talked about this..." He shook his head. "I wasn't talking about the car accident at the time," he said. "You said Ben told you how it happened, so I thought you knew it. Don't forget I hadn't looked at your logs at the time, and we were sure mixed things up..." I can see how things get mixed up.Both of us sidestepped a subject, preferring not to mention it by name. "Then what happened?" I said. "In that hotel room? What was I doing there?"

"I don't know enough," he said. "Then tell me what you know," I said.Those words came with anger, but it was too late to take them back.I watched him brush a non-existent crumb off his trousers. "Are you sure you want to know?" he said.I felt like he was giving me one last chance.You still have time to let go, he seems to be saying.You can go on with your life without knowing what I'm about to tell you. But he was wrong.I can not.Without the truth, my life is fragmented right now. "Yes." I said. His voice was slow and faltering.He uttered a few words, but couldn't complete a sentence.

The story is a spiral, as if wrapped around something dreadful—something best left unmentioned—and it stands in comic contrast to the usual chatter in a café. "It's true. You were attacked. It was..." He paused. "Well, very bad. You were found walking around looking confused. You had no papers on you and had no memory of who you were, what happened, head injuries. The police thought you were robbed at first It's gone." There was another silence, "When I found you, you were wrapped in a blanket and covered in blood." I feel cold all over my body. "Who found me?" I said.

"I am not sure……" "Is it Ben?" "No, it wasn't Ben, it wasn't. It was a stranger. Whoever it was, he calmed you down and called an ambulance. Of course, you were taken to the hospital with internal bleeding and emergency surgery." "But how do they know who I am?" For a horrible moment, I thought maybe they never found out who I was.Maybe everything, my whole history and even my name, was added to me the day I was found out.Even Adam is. Dr. Nash spoke. "It wasn't difficult," he said. "You checked into the hotel under your own name, and Ben contacted the police to report you missing before anyone found you."

I thought of the person knocking on the door of the room, the person I had been waiting for. "I don't know where I am?" "No," he said, "he obviously doesn't know." "Does he know who I'm with? Who attacked me?" "No," he said, "the police have never arrested anyone for this. The evidence is scant, and there is no doubt that you cannot assist the police in their investigation. It is presumed that the person who attacked you erased all traces of the hotel room, leaving You ran away. No one saw anyone coming in or leaving. It was clear that there was a lot of activity in the hotel that night - there was a party going on in one of the rooms, and there was a lot of people coming and going. You may have been unconscious for a while after the attack, you It was midnight when you left the hotel downstairs and no one saw you leave." I sigh.I realized the police must have closed the case years ago.To everyone - even Ben - it's not news, it's old history, except me.I'll never know who attacked me, or why.Unless I remember. "What happened after that?" I said. "What happened after I was taken to the hospital?" "The operation was successful, but there were secondary symptoms. It was obviously difficult to stabilize your condition after the operation, especially your blood pressure." He paused. "You fell into a coma for a while." "coma?" "Yes," he said, "you were in danger at any time, but, well, you were lucky. The hospital you were in was very good, and they took aggressive measures to get you back. But then it turned out that you lost memory. At first they thought it might be temporary, a combination of brain damage and hypoxia, which was a reasonable hypothesis—" "I'm sorry," I said. "Anoxia?" The word stopped me. "I'm sorry," he said. "Lack of oxygen in layman's terms." I feel like the world is spinning, everything is shrinking and deforming, it seems to be getting smaller, or I am getting bigger.I heard myself saying, "Lack of oxygen?" "Yes," he said, "you have symptoms of a severe lack of oxygen to the brain. Possibly carbon monoxide poisoning—though no evidence of this has been found—or asphyxiation from compression of the neck, and the marks on your neck are also That matches. But the most likely explanation is near-drowning." He paused, waiting for me to digest what he'd told me. "Do you remember anything about drowning?" I closed my eyes.All I saw was a card on the pillow that said I love you.I shook my head. "You recovered, but your memory didn't improve. You spent a week or two in hospital, first in ICU, then in general ward, and when you could be transferred you went back to London." Back to London.certainly.I was found near the hotel; must have been some distance from home.I asked where my place was found. "In Brighton," he said. "Do you know why you're there? Is there any connection with this place?" I tried to think about my vacation, but nothing came to mind. "No," I said, "nothing. I don't know anyway." "Take a look there sometime, it might help. See what you remember?" I felt a chill run through me.I shake my head. He nodded. "Okay. Of course, there are many possible reasons why you were there." Yes, I think.But only one involved flickering candles and bouquets of roses, not my husband. "Yeah," I said, "of course." I was a little curious as to which of us would mention the word "affair" and how Ben would feel after finding out where and why I was there. Then I suddenly thought of the real reason why Ben wanted to hide his amnesia from me.He has no reason to remind me that ever - however briefly - I chose another man over him.I feel a chill.I put another man above my husband and now look back at what it cost me. "And then?" I said, "I moved back in with Ben?" He shook his head. "No, no," he said, "you are still very ill and you have to stay in the hospital." "how long?" "In the beginning, you were in the general ward for several months." "and then?" "Transferred to the ward." He said.He hesitated—I thought I was going to tell him to go on—and then said, "To the psychiatric ward." The word surprised me. "Psychiatric wards?" I pictured those horrible places, full of howling, deranged madmen.I can't imagine myself staying there. "yes." "But why? Why are you there?" His tone of voice was very soft, but his tone faintly revealed annoyance.Suddenly I feel pretty sure we've been through this before, maybe many times, presumably before I started journaling. "It's safer there," he said. "At that time your physical injuries are almost healed, but your memory is the worst. You don't know who or where you are, and you have symptoms of delusions, saying The doctors plotted against you, and you kept trying to escape." He waited a moment, "You're becoming more and more unmanageable. You're being moved between wards for your own safety as well as for the safety of others." "other people?" "Occasionally you get into a fight." I tried to imagine what it was like.I imagine someone waking up every day feeling lost, not knowing who they are, where they are, or why they're in the hospital.Want to find the answer, but can't find it.People around them know more about them than they do.It must have been hell. I remember we were talking about me. "and then?" He didn't answer.I saw him lift his eyes and look past me to the door of the cafe, as if he was watching, waiting.But there was no one there, no one opened the door, no one came in or left.I'm curious if he's really thinking about running away. "Dr. Nash," I said, "and what happened?" "You've been there for a while," he said.His voice was almost a whisper now.I think he's told me this before, but this time he knew I'd write it down, and it wasn't with me for hours. "how long?" He didn't say a word.I asked again. "how long?" He looked at me with a look of sadness and pain on his face. "7 years." He paid the bill and we left the café.I feel numb.I didn't know what I was expecting, I guessed where I had been most ill, but I didn't expect it to be there, suffering all kinds of pain at the same time. As we were walking, Dr. Nash turned to me. "Chris," he said, "I have a suggestion." I noticed that he spoke casually, as if he was asking me which flavor of ice cream I like best.A randomness that can only be feigned. "Go on," I said. "I thought it might be helpful to see the ward you were in," he said. "You've been there a long time." I reacted immediately, and shouted involuntarily: "No!" I said, "Why?" "You're going through memories," he said, "think about what happened when we visited your old house." I nodded. "That's when you're reminded of something, and I think that might happen again, and we can spark more memories." "But--" "You don't have to go. But...well, I'll be honest. I've contacted them and made arrangements. They'd be happy to welcome you, to welcome us. Anytime. All I need is a phone call , let them know we're moving. I'll go with you. If you feel pain or discomfort, we can leave. It'll be all right. I promise you." "Do you think this might help me get better? Really?" "I don't know," he said, "but it's possible." "When? When do you want to go?" He stopped.I realized the car parked next to us must be his. "Today," he said, "I think we should go today." Then he said something strange. "We're out of time." I don't have to go.Dr. Nash did not force my consent to go.But even though I don't remember doing it—too many, actually—I must have said yes. The journey is not long, we are silent.I couldn't think of anything, I couldn't think of anything to say, I didn't feel anything.My mind was blank and clean.I took the journal out of my bag - regardless of the fact that I had told Dr. Nash that I hadn't - and started writing the latest entry.I want to take note of every detail we talked about.I corresponded quietly, almost without thinking.We didn't speak as we pulled over and walked through hallways that smelled of disinfectant, which smelled like stale coffee mixed with fresh paint.People passed us in wheelchairs with infusion bottles hanging from them.The posters on the walls were a little peeled off.The overhead lights flickered and hummed.All I can think about is the 7 years I spent here.It felt like a lifetime, but I don't remember any of it. We stopped outside a double door. "Fisher Ward".Dr. Nash pressed a button on the wall intercom and whispered something into it.He was wrong, I thought as the door opened.I didn't survive that attack.Chris and Lucas who opened that hotel room door were dead. Another double door. "Are you all right, Chris?" he said.Then the first door closed behind us, sealing us between the two.I didn't answer. "This is the secure ward area." I was suddenly convinced that the door behind me was closed forever, and I could never get out. I swallowed my saliva. "I see." I said.The inner door is opening, and I don't know what to see behind it, and I can't believe I've ever been here. "Ready?" he said. A long corridor.As we passed, doors opened on either side of the corridor, and behind them I could see rooms with glass windows.There is a bed in each room, some with folded quilts and some without, some with people sleeping, but most of them are empty. “Patients here have a variety of etiologies,” Dr. Nash said. “A lot of them are schizophrenic, but there are also bipolar disorder, acute anxiety, depression.” I look at a window.A girl is sitting naked on the bed staring at the TV.In another room sat a man, rocking back and forth, wrapping his arms around himself as if to ward off the cold. "Are they all locked up?" I said. "Patients here are locked up under the Mental Health Act, also known as isolation. They are placed here for their own good, even against their will." "For their own good?" "Yes. They are either a danger to themselves or a threat to others and they must be kept in a safe place." Let's move on.When I passed by a woman's room, she looked up. Although we met, there was no expression in her eyes. Instead, she slapped herself on the face, and her eyes kept looking at me. When I looked back When she shrank back, she slapped herself again.An image flashed in front of me—a tiger walking around in its cage while visiting a zoo as a child—and I pushed the hallucinations away and walked on, determined not to look to the left or right. "Why did they send me here?" I said. "Before that you were placed in a general ward with a bed like everyone else, and you spent some weekends at home, basically together, but you became more and more difficult to manage." "Difficult to manage?" "You would get lost. Ben had to lock the door of the house. A few times you became hysterical, convinced he had hurt you, and you were locked up by force. When you got back to the ward you were better for a while, but You later exhibited similar behavior there as well." "So they've got to find a way to lock me up," I said.We've come to a nursing station.A man in uniform is sitting behind a desk typing on a computer.We walked over and he looked up and said the doctor would be on his way.He invites us to sit down, and I glance at his face—crooked nose, gold stud earrings—for clues of familiarity.nothing.This ward seemed completely alien. "By the way," Dr. Nash said, "on one occasion you were missing for about four and a half hours. The police found you by a canal in nothing but pajamas and a robe. Ben had to go to the police station to pick you up. You Not going with any of the nurses, they don't have a choice." He told me that after that Ben immediately started looking for a room change for me. "He thinks a psychiatric ward isn't the best place for you. He's right, really. You're no danger to yourself or anyone else, and spending time with patients who are sicker than you may even make your situation worse. Worse. He writes to the doctor, the director of the hospital, your MPs, but he has nowhere else to go." "Then," he said, "a lodging for people with severe brain injuries was established. He lobbied hard, and you were evaluated and found suitable, but cost became an issue. Ben had to take a leave of absence to come. Taking care of you because he couldn't afford it, but he didn't give up. Apparently he threatened to take your story to the media, so there were some meetings and some grievances, but in the end they agreed to pay and you entered as a patient The center and the government agreed to pay for your hospital stay as long as you were not fully recovered. You moved there about 10 years ago." I thought about my husband, and tried to imagine him writing letters, rambling, building up.It seems impossible.The man I met this morning seemed very humble.Not weak, but easygoing.He's not like the kind of guy who makes trouble. I'm not the only one whose personality has been changed by my injury, I think. "The center is quite small," Dr. Nash said. "It's just a few rooms in the rehab center and there aren't many residents. A lot of people come to help take care of you, and you have a little more independence there, and you're safe and your situation improves. " "But I don't live with Ben?" "No. He's living at home. He needs to keep working, and he can't juggle taking care of you with work. He's decided—" A flash of memory suddenly dragged me back to the past.Everything was slightly blurred and covered in a mist, and the image was so bright I almost looked away.I saw myself walking down the same corridor as here, and being led back into a room I vaguely knew was mine.I was wearing slippers and a blue gown that buttoned back, and with me was a dark-skinned woman in uniform. "Go, honey," she said to me, "look who's coming to see you!" She let go of my hand and led me to the bed. A group of strangers sat by the bed, looking at me.I saw a dark-haired man and a woman in a beret, but couldn't see their faces clearly.I'm not in the right room, I want to say.Mistaken.But I didn't say a word. A child—about four or five years old—stands up.He had been sitting on the edge of the bed just now.He ran up to me and called "Mommy" and I caught him talking to me and I didn't realize who he was until then.Adam.I squatted down, he threw himself into my arms, I hugged him and kissed the top of his head, then stood up. "Who are you?" I said to the group by the bed. "What are you doing here?" The man's expression suddenly became sad.The woman in the beret stood up and said, "Chris, Chris. It's me. You know who I am, don't you?" She came up to me, and I realized she was crying too. "No," I said, "No! Get out! Get out!" I turned and left the room, but there was another woman in the room—standing behind me—and I didn't know who she was or who she was. How did I get there, I started crying.I fell to the floor, but the kid was still there, hugging my knees.I don't know who he is, but he keeps calling me Mommy, over and over.Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, and I don't know what he was for, or who he was, or why he was holding me... a hand touched my arm.I flinched back quickly, as if it stung me.Someone is talking. "Chris? Are you all right? Dr. Wilson is here." I opened my eyes and looked around, and there was a woman in a white coat standing in front of us. "Dr. Nash," she said, shaking his hand, then turned to me. "Chris?" "Yes." I said. "Nice to meet you," she said, "Hilary Wilson." I took her hand.She was a little older than me: her hair was starting to grey, and around her neck hung a pair of half-moon spectacles on a gold chain. "Hello," she said, and for some reason I was sure I'd seen her before.She nodded toward the corridor. "Let's go!" Her office is spacious, with rows of books and boxes stacked with paper spilling out of the boxes.She sat down behind a desk and pointed to two chairs across the table, and Dr. Nash and I sat down.I watched as she took a file from a pile of papers on her desk and opened it. "Now, dear," she said, "let's see." My image froze and I knew her.I've seen pictures of her while lying in the scanner, and though I didn't recognize her then, I do now.I've been here, many times, sitting where I'm sitting now, in this chair or something like it, and watching her read through the lenses with her glasses gracefully held up, while she's on the file take notes. "I've seen you before..." I said, "I remember..." Dr. Nash looked back at me and then at Dr. Wilson. "Yes," she said, "yes, you've seen me. Not too often, though." She explained that she had only started working here when I moved out, and that I wasn't even her patient at first. "Of course you remember me very gladly," she said. "It's been a long time since you lived here." Dr. Nash leaned forward and said it might be helpful to see my former room.She nodded, squinting through the files, and after a minute she said she didn't know which one. "It's possible that you rotated a lot of rooms," she said. "A lot of patients do. Can we ask your husband? The file says he and your son come to see you almost every day." I've read about Adam this morning, and hearing his name gave me a burst of joy and a little relief: I'd seen him a few times as he got bigger.But I shook my head. "No," I said, "I'd rather not call Ben." Dr. Wilson did not insist: "A friend of yours named Claire seems to come here often. Ask how she is?" I shook my head: "We have no contact." "Ah," she said, "it's a pity, but it's okay. I can tell you a little bit about the situation." She glanced at her notes and shook her hands. "Your treatment was mainly done by a psychiatrist." It was presided over by the consultant doctor. You have been hypnotized, but I am afraid the effect is limited and it will not last." She continued to read the file. "You don't get a lot of medication, sometimes sedatives, but mostly to help you sleep - it's noisy here at times, as you can imagine," she said. I thought of the howling I had just imagined, and wondered if I had ever looked that way myself. "What was I like then?" I said, "Am I happy?" She smiled. "In general, yes. You are very popular, and you seem to be particularly close to a nurse." "what is her name?" She scanned the notes: "I'm afraid it didn't say that. You often play solitaire." "Solitaire?" "A card game. Maybe Dr. Nash can explain it to you later?" She looked up. "According to the notes, you have occasional acts of violence," she said. "Don't panic, it's inevitable in your situation. People who have suffered severe head trauma tend to be violent, especially when the part of the brain that manages the self When the restraint part is damaged. Also, people with amnesia like you often have a tendency that we call "fabrication." Things around them don't seem to make sense to them, so they feel the need to make up details, The details may be about themselves and those around them, about their experiences or what happened to them, presumably because they wish to fill in the memory gaps. In a sense, understandable. But if the frustrated person's fantasies conflict Sometimes, it often leads to violence. Life must be very confusing for you, especially when people come to see you." visiting people.Suddenly I was afraid that I had hit my own son. "what did I do?" "You hit the staff occasionally," she said. "Not Adam? My son?" "It didn't say in the notes, no." I sighed, not completely relieved. "We have a few pages from your diary that you kept," she said. "Would it be helpful to see these things? You might understand the confusion better." It feels a little dangerous.I looked at Dr. Nash, who nodded, and she pushed a piece of blue paper in front of me, and I took it, too scared to even look at it at first. I started reading the page, which was scribbled all over.The letters at the top of the page were clearly written and neatly arranged in the lines printed on the paper, but near the bottom the writing became large and messy, each letter several inches high, and only one line was written. Got a few.Despite the fear of what I might see, I read it. At 8.15am, the first entry read: I am awake.Ben is here.Directly below this entry I wrote: 8:17 AM.Don't worry about the previous record.That was written by someone else.Underneath I wrote: 8:20 and I'm only waking up now.Not just now.Ben is here. My eyes flicked down the page again. At 9:45, I just woke up, definitely for the first time, then a few lines later, at 10:7, and now I'm definitely awake.All records are deceiving.I just woke up now. I looked up: "Is this really me?" "Yes. For a long time you seem to have just woken up from a very long, deep sleep. Look at this." Dr. Wilson pointed to the paper in front of me and began to read the notes on it. "I've been there. It's like dead. I just woke up. For the first time, I can see again. Apparently they encourage you to jot down your feelings so you can remember what happened before, but I'm worried You're just convinced that all the previous records are someone else's. You start to think that the people here are experimenting on you, locking you up against your will." I looked at the paper again.The entire sheet of paper is filled with nearly identical records, each with a time difference of only a few minutes.I feel cold all over my body. "Is my situation really that bad?" I said.My words seemed to echo in my own head. "There was a time, yes," said Dr. Nash. "Your notes show that you could only retain the memory for a few seconds, sometimes a minute or two. Over the years, this time has gradually become longer and longer." I can't believe I wrote this.It seems to have been written by someone whose mind is completely mixed up and in a mess.I read those words again.It's like dying. "I'm sorry," I said, "I can't—" Dr. Wilson took the page from me: "I understand, Chrissy. It's sad, I—" Then fear came over me.I stood up, but the room was already spinning. "I want to go," I said. "It's not me. It won't be me, I—I'm not going to hit anyone, ever. I'm just—" Dr. Nash stood up too, and Dr. Wilson.She stepped forward and bumped into her desk, knocking documents flying to the floor, and a photo fell to the ground. "God—" I said, and she crouched down and covered it with another piece of paper, but I saw enough. "Is that me?" I said, my voice rising into a scream, "Is that me?" In the photo is the head of a young woman.Her hair is brushed back, exposing her face.At first it looks like she's wearing a Halloween mask, she's looking at the camera with one eye open and the other closed, there's a huge purple bruise on it, both lips are swollen and pink, There are cuts and slits on it.Her cheeks were swollen, giving her face a disfigured appearance.I thought of crushed fruit, rotten plums. "Is that me?" I screamed.Even though the face was twisted and swollen, I could tell it was me. My memory split from there, split in two.One half was calm and unflappable, and it watched the other half of me jumping around and screaming, and Dr. Nash and Dr. Wilson had to grab me by force.You really should play by the rules, it seems to say.This is so embarrassing. But the other half was stronger, it managed to take over the body and become the real me.I yelled, one time at a time, turned around and ran to the door, and Dr. Nash followed me.I opened the door and ran, though I didn't know where to go.A barred door appeared.Siren.There is a man chasing me.My son is crying.I used to do these, I think.我曾经经历过这一切。 我的记忆变成了空白。 他们肯定是让我安静了下来，说服我跟着纳什医生一起离开；我接下来的记忆是在他的车里，他开着车，我坐在他的旁边。天空开始集起了云，街道变成了灰色，不知道为什么变得平展起来。他在讲话，但我集中不了精神，仿佛我的脑子绊了一跤，跌到了什么东西上，现在跟不上来。我看着窗外，看着那些购物和遛狗的人，看着推婴儿车和自行车的人，想知道这一切——苦苦地寻求真相——是不是我真正想要的。是的，它可以帮我好转，但我能希望得到多少？我不期望有一天像个正常的人醒来知道一切，知道对以后的日子有什么计划，知道经过了什么样的曲折才达到此时此地，才变成现在的我。我所能期望的是有一天照镜子的时候将不再结结实实地吃上一惊，会记得我嫁给了一个叫本的男人，失去了一个叫亚当的儿子，我不需要看到一本自己的小说才知道我写过一本。 但即使要求这么少，却仍然似乎遥不可及。我想到了在“费舍尔病房”看见的一幕幕。疯狂和痛苦。完全混乱的头脑。我离那里比离康复要近，我想。也许，对我来说学会带着种种病情生活是最好的。我可以告诉纳什医生不想再见到他，可以烧掉日志，埋葬掉我已经了解的真相，把它们跟那些未知的事实一起彻底藏起来。我可以逃离过去却不会后悔——在短短几个小时以后我甚至不会知道自己曾经有过日志和医生——然后我可以简单地活着。一天接着一天，互不相关。是的，偶尔关于亚当的回忆会浮出水面，我将会有悲伤和痛苦的一天，会记得我错过了些什么，但它不会持久。不久我会睡着，悄悄地忘记一切。那会是多么容易，我想，比这容易得多。 我想到了刚刚见到的照片。那副摸样深深地刻进了我的脑海。是谁那样对我？Why?我想起了关于酒店房间的记忆。它还在那儿，隔着一层，够不着。今天上午我在日志里读到我有理由相信自己有过外遇，可是现在我发现——即使这是真的——我也记不起那个男人是谁。我只知道一个名字，在几天前刚醒的时候记起来的，以后却不知道还能不能记起更多东西，即使我想要回忆。 纳什医生还在说话。我不知道他在说什么，便打断了他。“我在好转吗？”我说。 有一会儿他没有回答，接着说：“你觉得你在好转吗？” 我怎么觉得？I can't tell. “我不知道。是的，我想是的。有时候我能记起过去的事情，记起一些回忆中的片段，读日志的时候会找回来。它们感觉起来是真实的。我记得克莱尔、亚东、我的母亲。但是，他们就像我抓不住的线，像气球，我还没有来得及拉住它们已经飘上了天。我记不起我的婚礼，记不起亚当迈的第一步、说的第一个字。我记不起他入校、毕业。所有事情。我甚至不知道我是不是去了他的毕业典礼，也许本觉得带我去没有意义。”我吸了一口气。 “我甚至记不起得知他的死讯时的情形，也不记得埋他的时候。”我哭了起来，“我觉得我要疯了。有时我甚至不认为他死了。你能相信吗？有时候我想本在这件事上也骗了我，跟其他所有事情一样。” “其他所有事情？” “是的。”我说，“我的小说。那次袭击。我失去记忆的原因。所有事情。” “可是你觉得他为什么要这么做？” 我有了一个念头。“因为我有外遇了？”我说，“因为我对他不忠？” “克丽丝。”他说，“这不可能，你不觉得吗？” 我没有说什么，他当然是对的。在内心深处我不相信他的谎言是为了报复多年以前发生的事情，理由很可能更加平淡。 “知道吧，”纳什医生说，“我觉得你在好转，你在记起事情，比起我们第一次见面的时候要频繁多了。这些零零碎碎的记忆？绝对是一种有进展的表现。它们代表着——” 我向他转过身：“进展？你把这个叫做进展”现在我几乎是在喊，愤怒从体内喷涌而出，仿佛我再也装不下它了。“如果进展就是这样，那我不知道我是不是想有进展。”泪水无法控制地涌了出来，“我不想要！” 我闭上了眼睛，任凭悲伤肆虐。不知道为什么无助在此刻感觉并不糟糕，我不觉得丢脸。纳什医生在跟我说话，告诉我先不要灰心，事情会好起来的，要冷静下来。我不理睬他。我无法冷静下来，也不想要冷静。 他停了车，关掉引擎。I opened my eyes.我们已经驶离了主街，在我的前面是一个公园。透过模糊的泪眼我看见一群男孩——我想是少年——在玩足球，把两堆外套当成了球门柱。天已经开始下起了雨，但他们还在踢。纳什医生转身面对着我。 “克丽丝。”他说，“我很抱歉。也许今天去那里是个错误。我不知道，我原本以为可能会激发其他的回忆，我错了。无论怎么样，你不该看到那张照片……” “我甚至不知道原因是不是照片。”我说。我已经不再哭了，可我的脸是湿的，我能感觉到一大股鼻涕正流出来。“你有纸巾吗？”我们。他越过我在手套箱里找了起来。“是这一切造成的。”我接着说，“看见那些人，想象我也曾经想那样过。还有那篇日记。我不能相信是我写的，我无法相信我病成了那样。” 他递给我一张纸巾。“可你不再是那样了。”他说。我接过纸巾擦了鼻涕。 “也许更糟。”我轻轻地说，“过去我写过：就像死了。可是现在呢，现在更糟糕。这就像每天都快要死去，一遍又一遍。我需要变得好起来。”我说，“我无法想象再这样下去了。我知道今天晚上我会去睡觉，明天一觉醒来我会什么也不知道，后天醒来也是如此，然后接下来又是一天，直到永远。我不能想象，也不能面对。那不是生活，只是活着，从一个时刻跳到另外一个时刻，不知道过去也不能计划未来。我想动物肯定就是这样。最糟糕的是我甚至不知道我不知道些什么，可能还有很多事情等着伤害我，我做梦也想不到的事情。” 他把手放在我的手上，我倒进了他的怀里，心里知道他会怎么做、他必须怎么做。他的确这么做了。他张开双臂抱住我，我让他抱着。“会好的。”他说，“会好的。”我能够感觉到脸颊贴着他的胸膛，我吸了一口气，吸进了他的气味、刚刚洗过的衣服和隐隐约约其他的味道。汗味、性感的味道。他的手放在我的背上，我觉得它在移动，慢慢摸过我的头发、我的头，刚开始是轻轻地，但在我开始抽泣之后动作变得更坚定了。“会没事的。”他低声说，我闭上了眼睛。 “我只是想记起受到袭击的那天晚上发生了什么。”我说，“不知道为什么，我感觉只要记起了这件事，我就能想起所有事情。” 他的口气很轻：“没有证据证明是这种情况，没有理由——” “不过我是这么想的。”我说，“我知道，虽然不清楚原因。” 他搂了搂我，轻轻地，几乎轻的让我感觉不到。我觉得他结实的身体挨着我，便深深地吸了一口气，这时我想起了另一个时刻，当时我也被人抱在怀里。又是一幕会议。我跟现在一样闭着眼睛，身体紧紧地被压在一个人身上，尽管是不同的人。我不希望被这个男人抱着，他在伤害我。我在挣扎，努力想要逃脱，但他很强壮，把我拉向他。他说话了，婊子，她说。贱人，尽管我想争辩，却没有。我的脸贴在他的衬衫上，而且就像在纳什身边一样，我在哭、在尖叫。我睁开眼睛看见他身穿的蓝色尘沙、一扇门、一个梳妆台，还有梳妆台上方的三面镜子和一张画——画着一只鸟。我可以看到他强壮的手臂，上面有发达的肌肉，一条血管贯穿而过。let me go!我说，接着我在旋转，倒了下去，或者是地板升上来接住了我，我说不清。他抓起我的一把头发，把我向门口拖去。我扭过头去看他的脸。 正是在那儿回忆再次让我前功尽弃。虽然我记得看见了他的脸，却不记得看到的摸样。一点儿头绪也没有，只有一片空白。仿佛无法应付这个空洞，我的脑子绕着认识的脸打转，转出了各种荒谬的摸样。我看见了纳什医生、威尔逊医生、“费舍尔病房”的接待员、我的父亲、本。我甚至看到了自己的脸，在我举起拳头打出去的时候那张脸在笑。 别碰我，我叫着，求你了！可是袭击我的那个神秘人还是打了我，我尝到了血的味道。他在地板上拖着我，接着我被拖到了浴室，在冰冷的、黑白相间的瓷砖上。地板上有蒸汽结成的水珠，湿湿的，房间闻起来是橙花的味道。我想起我刚刚一直在期盼着洗澡，期盼着把自己打扮漂亮，向着也许他来的时候我还没有出浴，他便可以跟我一起洗，我们会做爱，在肥皂水里搅出波浪，打湿地板、打湿我们的衣服和所有的东西。因为在经过这么多月的怀疑以后我终于明白了，我爱这个男人。I finally know.I love him. 我的头重重地撞在地板上。Once, twice, three times.我的视线变得模糊，有了重影，又恢复了正常。耳边嗡嗡作响，他喊了一些话，可是我听不见。那些话回荡着，仿佛有两个他抱着我，都在扭我的胳膊、扯着我的头发，跪在我的背上。我恳求他放开我，我也变成了两个。我咽下了一口唾沫，是血。 我猛地缩回了头。fear.我跪着，我看见了水，还有泡沫，它们已经在变薄。我想说话却做不到。他的手卡着我的喉咙，我无法呼吸。我被推向前方，向下推，向下推，快的让我以为永远不会停下来，接着我的头埋进了水中。橙花的香味进了我的喉咙。 我听见有人说话。“克丽丝！”那个声音说，“克丽丝！站住！”我睁开了眼睛。不知怎么的我已经下了车，我在跑，穿过公园，能跑多快就跑多快，在后面追我的是纳什医生。 我们坐在一张长椅上。它是水泥的，上面有木头横条。其中一条不见了，其他的被我们压得有点弯。我感觉到太阳照在我的后颈上，看见了地上长长的影子。男孩子们还在踢球，尽管现在一定快要踢完了；有些人在陆续离开，其他人在谈话，一堆被当做球门杆的外套已经不见了球门失去了标记。纳什医生问我发生了什么事。 “我记起了一些东西。”我说。 “关于你被袭击的那晚？” “是的。”我说，“你怎么知道的？” “你在尖叫。”她说，“你不停地说放开我，说了一遍又一遍。” “刚才就像我在那儿。”我说，“我很抱歉。” “请不要道歉。你想告诉我你看到了什么吗？” 事实是我不想。我觉得似乎有些古老的本能告诉我这段回忆最好是不要告诉别人，可是我需要他的帮助，我知道我可以信任他。我把一切都告诉了他。 我讲完后他沉默了片刻，接着说：“还有吗？” “不。”我说，“我记不得了。” “你不记得他长什么样子？那个袭击你的男人？” “不。我完全看不见。” "What's his name?" “不。”我说，“什么也没有。”我迟疑着，“你觉得知道是谁袭击我可能有帮助吗？看见他的脸有用吗？想起他有用吗？” “克丽丝，没有真正的证据，没有证据表明这是真的。” “不过有可能？” “这似乎是你埋得最深的记忆之一——” “因此有可能？” 他沉默着，然后说：“我已经有过类似的提议，也许会到那里可能会有帮助……” “不。”我说，“提也别提。” “我们可以一起去，你会没事的。我保证。如果你再回去一趟，回布莱顿——” "No." “——你很有可能会记起——” “不！别说下去了！” “——它可能有点用？” 我低头看着我的两只手，它们叠在我的腿上。 “我不能回那儿去。”我说，“我做不到。” He sighed. “好吧。”他说，“也许我们下次再谈？” “不。”我低声说，“我做不到。” “好吧。”他说，“好吧。” 他露出了微笑，不过表情似乎有些失望。我急于想给他点什么东西，让他不要放弃我。“纳什医生？”我说。 "how?" “有天我记下了想起的事情，或许跟这个有关。我不知道。” He turned and faced me. “说下去。”我们的膝盖碰在了一起，两个人都没有往回缩。 “当我醒来的时候，”我说，“我隐隐约约地知道我跟一个男人在床上。我记起了一个名字，但不是本的名字。我不知道那是不是跟我发生外遇的男人的名字，那个袭击我的男人。” “有可能。”他说，“可能被压抑的记忆开始浮现了。那个名字是什么？” 突然间我不想告诉他，不想把它大声说出来。我觉得这样做会让它成真，把袭击我的人变回到现实生活中来。I closed my eyes. “埃德。”我低声说，“我想象醒来躺在一个名叫埃德的人身边。” There was a silence.一段似乎永远不会结束的时间。 “克丽丝。”他说，“这是我的名字。我叫埃德。埃德、纳什。 ” 我的思绪狂奔了一会儿。我的第一个念头是他袭击了我。“什么？”我惊恐地说。 “这是我的名字。以前我告诉过你，也许你从来没有记下来过。我的名字是埃德蒙。埃德。” 我意识到那不可能是他，当时他几乎还没有出生。 "But--" “可能你在虚构，”他说，“像威尔逊医生说过的那样？” “是的。”我说，“我——” “或者袭击你的人也用这个名字？” 他一边说一边大笑起来，轻松带过了当时的局面，但他这幅摸样表现出他已经明白了一件事，而我过了一阵子——实际上，是在他开车送我回家以后——才反应过来。那天早上我醒来时很开心，很开心跟一个名叫埃德的男人躺在一张床上。但它不是一幕回忆，那是一个幻想。醒来躺在一个名叫埃德的男人身边不是我经历过的过去——尽管我的意识正在逐渐情形，我的头脑却不知道他是谁——而是我想要的未来。我想跟纳什医生上床。 而现在，我一不小心就告诉他了。我泄露了自己对他的感觉。当然，他很有专业素养。我们都假装刚刚发生的事情没有什么大不了，可是这种假装本身恰恰也泄露了此事的重大。我们走回车里，他开车送我回家。我们谈着各种琐事。天气、本。我们可以谈的事情不多：有不少领域我完全没有涉猎过。谈话中途他说道：“今天晚上我们要去剧院。”我注意到他在用人称复数“我们”时很小心。别担心，我想说。我知道我自己的位置。可是我一句话也没有说，我不希望他把我当成怨妇。 他告诉我明天会打电话给我：“如果你确定要继续治疗的话？” 我知道我不能停下来，不能现在停。在发现真相之前不能。我欠自己一个真相，否则我的生命只有一半。“是的。”我说，“我确定。”无论怎么样我需要他提醒我记日志。 “好的。”他说，“很好，下次我认为我们应该去看看你过去待过的别的地方。”他向我坐的地方看了一眼。“别担心，不是那里。我想我们应该去你从费舍尔病房出来以后搬去的护理中心，它叫做韦林之家。”我没有说话。“距离你住的地方不太远。要我给他们打电话吗？” 我考虑了一会儿，想知道这样有什么用，接着却意识到我并没有其他的选择，而且不管去哪里，总比什么都不做强。 于是我说：“好的。给他们打电话吧。”