Stephanie Doyle - Remembering That Night

Since Greg refused to be seen out in public with him like that, anytime they went anywhere together he forced Chuck to wear jeans. While Chuck insisted they pinched—although at five foot six and barely a hundred and fifty pounds, Greg didn’t know what the jeans were pinching—he usually agreed to put them on. Greg also tried to tell him that women didn’t have sex with men who wore comfy-womfies in public.

“Can I see her?”

The sheriff nodded and escorted the two men back through a room that hosted a bunch of cubicles. They reached a door that led to a short hallway that ended in another door. No elaborate two-way mirror for a small town sheriff’s office. Just a window that looked into a small room furnished with a stark wood table and two folding chairs.

The interrogation room.

Sheriff Danielson pointed to the door and Greg walked over and stooped a little to look through the window.

She was sitting in a chair, her shoulders slumped, her eyes dull, her demeanor defeated. Long, nearly white blond hair almost touched the table in front of her. Despite her posture, Greg could determine she was young, maybe late twenties early thirties, and slim in a charcoal-gray short-sleeved dress.

She might have been really pretty had it not been for all the blood.

“Okay, tell me the situation again. Ben gave me the details you told him, but I would like to hear them from you directly.”

The sheriff nodded. “Officer Hampton was out on his normal patrol. He spotted her walking along the highway in the early morning. As he approached her he could see she was covered with blood. He pulled over, assessed that she wasn’t injured, but when he asked for identification she couldn’t provide it. When he asked her name, she said she didn’t know it. When he asked her what happened—”

“She couldn’t remember it,” Chuck said, finishing the sentence for the sheriff. “Cool.”

Greg gave him a severe look. “You want to wait outside?”

“I’m bored.”

“Play a game on your phone. I’m working.”

“Fine. I’ll stay here and be quiet. But no more than an hour. You need to be in and out. You follow?”

“Yes, Mom.” Chuck was like a mother hen. And he’d brought him along for exactly that reason. Despite the fact that his roommate was younger than him by seven years, he had a way of grounding Greg that was beneficial to Greg’s continued gambling sobriety. He was almost like a sponsor, except as far as Greg knew, the only thing Chuck had ever been addicted to was hitting on women.

“You want me to talk to her and tell you if she’s lying.”

“It’s a start. I don’t really have any grounds to hold her on. She wasn’t carrying a weapon. There is no crime that we know of, except someone is walking around without a lot of blood. For all we know that might be a deer she hit with her car. If you tell me she’s lying, I’m going to come up with something to hold her for at least another twenty-four hours. Otherwise I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.”

“The hospital would be a good start.”

“But she’s not hurt.”

“Sheriff, if her brain is not working, she’s hurt.”

He seemed to consider that. “True. Man, you don’t think this is one of those bumps to the head that caused this?”

“Since bumps to the head that leave the victim this physically functional rarely cause memory loss, I’m going to say no.”

“Maybe we should hit her on the head again and see if her memory comes back. You know like...what was that show? Was that The Brady Bunch?” Chuck asked.

“Gilligan’s Island,” Greg corrected. “And that idea is as ridiculous now as it was on the show. But thank you for your insightfulness.”

“Dude, she’s got amnesia. That’s totally cray-cray.”

“Chuck. You’re almost thirty. It’s time you stop talking like a teenager. It’s only crazy if she’s telling the truth. Which she most likely isn’t. Sheriff, I don’t know how much you know about memory loss...”

“Nothing. Which is why I called you here.”

“It’s highly unlikely. True memory loss like you’re describing is usually associated with a traumatic brain injury. As I said, if she’d suffered such an injury it’s unlikely she’d be upright and walking along a highway. Hysterical amnesia, which could be caused by a traumatic event, is most likely what she’s trying to emulate. However, in most cases this form of amnesia is temporary and only affects one’s memory of a particular period surrounding the traumatic event and not a person’s whole life. Like a rape victim who forgets the attack, or a child who suppresses abuse.”

“You think she’s faking it?”

“Until I talk to her I can’t be sure of course, but my guess is most likely. Which, if she’s covered in blood, means it’s a good bet she’s hiding a violent crime and you should consider holding her.”

“Hiding a crime by walking down a highway on a Sunday morning in a bloody dress? That’s not exactly covert.”

“She could already be strategizing a defense.”

“Dude, you are so cynical,” Chuck noted. “Sheriff, please understand my friend here doesn’t believe anyone, ever.”

Greg considered the veracity of that statement. Chuck wasn’t exactly wrong. “Only because I know they are lying. Okay, let me talk to her. We’ll see how good of a show she can put on for me.”

“Will it matter?” the sheriff wondered.

Greg shook his head. “Nope. Pathological liar or a great actress. None of it will fool me.”

* * *

THE DOOR OPENED AND SHE looked up. Another face. A man, a tall man with a kind face and dark curly hair that was too long and a bit ruffled. He wasn’t wearing a uniform.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Greg Chalmers and I would like to talk to you, if that’s okay.”

No, it wasn’t okay. He was going to ask her questions. Questions she didn’t know the answer to. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. She knew slow deep breathing was supposed to help. It was supposed to calm her.

She didn’t know how she knew it. She just did.

He sat down, or more accurately folded himself into the chair across the table. She could see that his smile, while gentle, was wholly insincere. She didn’t blame him for that. She was as skeptical as he was. This wasn’t happening to her. This wasn’t possible.

She couldn’t even look down at herself because the bloodstains were still there and they were starting to make her nauseous. They’d given her a washcloth to clean her hands and her face, but the smell was still there. Also that hint of metallic flavor on her tongue as if some had gotten in her mouth. No matter how many glasses of water she consumed, it was still here.

Maybe that was what she was. A vampire. A hysterical idea, except it wasn’t any crazier than what she actually was. A woman with no memory.

“Don’t,” she muttered before he could start. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want to ask you some questions.”

“I know. I know this is a police station. I know this is blood on my dress. I know this. I don’t...I can’t...It’s like...I can’t even explain it.”

“What’s the first thing you remember?”

She closed her eyes. “The sound of the siren. I heard a siren and I thought to move out of the way. Then I realized I wasn’t in a car. I was walking. I stopped and the officer got out of his car and approached me.”

“He asked you for identification.”

“I didn’t have my purse.”

“Normally you do, though?”

“Of course. I carry a purse. I can’t ever find my keys in it. It’s big. I have a big purse and the keys are always at the bottom. I know that. I know that’s true.”