Steven Watson - Before I Go to Sleep

Good news? I wondered if he thought I should be pleased. “So it’s true?” I said. “It wasn’t a car accident?”

He paused, then said, “No. No it wasn’t.”

“But why didn’t you tell me Ben was lying? When you read my journal? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Because Ben must have his reasons,” he said. “And it didn’t feel right to tell you he was lying. Not then.”

“So you lied to me, too?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve never lied to you. I never told you it was a car accident.”

I thought of what I had read this morning. “But the other day,” I said. “In your office. We talked about it…” He shook his head.

“I wasn’t talking about an accident,” he said. “You said that Ben had told you how it had happened, so I thought you knew the truth. I hadn’t read your journal then, don’t forget. We must have got ourselves mixed up…”

I could see how it might happen. Both of us skirting around an issue we didn’t want to mention by name.

“So what did happen?” I said. “In that hotel room? What was I doing there?”

“I don’t know everything,” he said.

“Then tell me what you do know,” I said. The words emerged angrily, but it was too late to snatch them back. I watched as he brushed a nonexistent crumb from his trousers.

“You’re certain you want to know?” he said. I felt like he was giving me one final chance. You can still walk away, he seemed to be saying. You can go on with your life without knowing what I am about to tell you.

But he was wrong. I couldn’t. Without the truth, I am living less than half a life.

“Yes,” I said.

His voice was slow. Faltering. He began sentences only to abort them a few words later. The story was a spiral, as if circling around something awful, something better left unsaid. Something that made a mockery of the idle chat I imagine the café is more used to.

“It’s true. You were attacked. It was…” He paused. “Well, it was pretty bad. You were discovered wandering. Confused. You weren’t carrying any identification at all, and had no memory of who you were or what had happened. There were head injuries. The police initially thought you had been mugged.” Another pause. “You were found wrapped in a blanket, covered in blood.”

I felt myself go cold. “Who found me?” I said.

“I’m not sure…”

“Ben?”

“No. Not Ben, no. A stranger. Whoever it was calmed you down. Called an ambulance. You were admitted to a hospital, of course. There was some internal bleeding and you needed emergency surgery.”

“But how did they know who I was?”

For an awful moment, I thought perhaps they had never discovered my identity. Perhaps everything, an entire history, even my name, was given to me the day I was discovered. Even Adam.

Dr. Nash spoke. “It wasn’t difficult,” he said. “You’d checked into the hotel under your own name. And Ben had already contacted the police to report you as missing. Even before you were found.”

I thought of the man who had knocked on the door of that room, the man I had been waiting for.

“Ben didn’t know where I was?”

“No,” he said. “Apparently he had no idea.”

“Or who I was with? Who did this to me?”

“No,” he said. “Nobody was ever arrested. There was very little evidence to work with, and of course you couldn’t really help the police with their investigations. It was assumed that whoever attacked you removed everything from the hotel room and then left you and fled. No one saw anyone go in, or leave. Apparently the hotel was busy that night—some kind of function in one of the ballrooms, lots of people coming and going. You were probably unconscious for some time after the attack. It was the middle of the night when you went downstairs and left the hotel. No one saw you go.”

I sighed. I realized the police would have closed the case years ago. To everyone but me—even to Ben—this was old news, ancient history. I will never know who did this to me, and why. Not unless I remember.

“What happened then?” I said. “After I was taken to the hospital?”

“The operation was successful, but there were secondary effects. There was difficulty in stabilizing you after surgery. Your blood pressure in particular.” He paused. “You lapsed into a coma for a while.”

“A coma?”

“Yes,” he said. “It was touch and go, but, well, you were lucky. You were in the right place and they treated your condition aggressively. You came around. But then it became apparent that your memory was gone. At first they thought it might be temporary. A combination of the head injury and anoxia. It was a reasonable assumption—”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Anoxia?” I had stumbled over the word.

“Sorry,” he said. “Oxygen deprivation.”

I felt my head begin to swim. Everything started to shrink and distort, as though it were getting smaller, or me bigger. I heard myself speak. “Oxygen deprivation?”

“Yes,” he said. “You had symptoms of a severe lack of oxygen to the brain. Consistent with carbon dioxide poisoning—though there was no other evidence for this—or strangulation. There were marks on your neck that suggested this. But the most likely explanation was thought to be near-drowning.” He paused as I absorbed what he was telling me. “Did you remember anything about almost drowning?”

I closed my eyes. I saw nothing but a card on a pillow, upon which I saw the words I love you . I shook my head.

“You recovered, but your memory did not improve. You stayed in the hospital for a couple of weeks. In the intensive care unit at first, and then the general ward. When you were well enough to be moved, you were transported back to London.”

Back to London. Of course. I was found near a hotel; I must have been away from home. I asked where it was.

“In Brighton,” he said. “Do you have any idea why you might have been there? Any connection to that area?”

I tried to think of holidays, but nothing came.

“No,” I said. “None. None that I know of, anyway.”

“It might help to go there, at some point. To see if you remember?”

I felt myself go cold. I shook my head.

He nodded. “Okay. Well, there could be any number of reasons why you’d be there, of course.”

Yes, I thought. But only one that incorporated flickering candles and bunches of roses but didn’t include my husband.

“Yes,” I said. “Of course.” I wondered if either of us was going to mention the word “affair,” and how Ben must have felt when he realized where I had been, and why.

It struck me then. The reason Ben had not given me the real explanation for my amnesia. Why would he want to remind me that once, however briefly, I had chosen another man over him? I felt a chill. I had chosen someone over my husband, and look at the price I had paid.

“What happened then?” I said. “Did I move back in with Ben?”

He shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “You were still very ill. You had to stay in the hospital.”

“For how long?”

“You were in the general ward at first. For a few months.”

“And then?”

“You were moved,” he said. He hesitated—I thought I would have to ask him to continue—and then said, “to a psychiatric ward.”

The word shook me. “A psychiatric ward?” I imagined fearful places, full of crazy people, howling, deranged. I could not imagine myself there.

“Yes.”

“But why? Why there?”

He spoke softly, but his tone betrayed annoyance. I felt suddenly convinced we had been through all this before, perhaps many times, presumably before I had begun to keep my journal. “It was more secure,” he said. “You had made a reasonable recovery from your physical injuries by now, but your memory problems were at their worst. You didn’t know who you were, or where. You were exhibiting symptoms of paranoia, claiming the doctors were conspiring against you. You kept trying to escape.” He waited. “You were becoming increasingly unmanageable. You were moved for your own safety, as well as the safety of others.”