Jesse Ball - The Way Through Doors

— Yes, but I don’t know her. I only saw the accident.

— All right, well, do you think she would want you to stay with her?

— I suppose so, I said. If I were in an accident, I would want someone to stay with me.

— Me too, said the clerk.

— All right, I’ll go down there then.

— Third room on the left, he said, and gave me an approving nod.

These sorts of nods, from complete strangers during trying circumstances, help to cement one’s self-worth in a way that a compliment from a friend never can. All-embracing, they confer a general air of approval upon one’s movements for a brief time. No price can be put on them.

The third room on the left was not really a room. It was just a screened-off area of a big room. The girl lay, still unconscious, breathing softly. The orderly looked up when I came in.

— Are you her boyfriend?

— Yes, I said.

— What’s her name?

— Mora Klein.

The orderly wrote that down.

— And your name? he asked.

— Selah Morse.

— You know, she doesn’t have any identification on her.

— I’m aware of that, I said. She doesn’t like to carry identification. She never wants anyone to know who she is.

— Inconvenient, isn’t it? asked the orderly.

— You have no idea, I said. When will she come out of it?

— Any minute, he said. I gave her a shot.

— What kind of shot? I asked.

— Just a shot, he said.

And just at that moment, she began to stir. Her eyes opened and she looked dazedly around. She started to sit up, but the orderly held her down.

— Where am I? she asked.

Her voice was very fitting. It sounded like the comforting noises that faraway things make in morning.

— Mora, you’re in the hospital, I said. You were in an accident.

— It’ll be all right, the orderly told her. Your boyfriend’s here. He brought you.

— Yes, I said, I’m here.

She looked at me, smiled, and closed her eyes.

— Stay here, said the orderly. Keep talking to her. Try to keep her awake. The doctor will be here in a moment.

I looked down at Mora. Her face was a bit pale, but she seemed remarkably unhurt. I didn’t see any bruises or lacerations on her face, arms, or hands. She must have landed entirely on her head.

— You’ve got to stay awake now, Mora. The hospital doesn’t want you to fall asleep. If you do, you’ll sleep forever, and that wouldn’t be any good for any of us.

Mora opened her eyes again. They were gray. She looked up at me.

— Who are you? she asked.

— Selah Morse, I said again. You don’t remember me?

— No, she said. I don’t remember anything.

— Well, don’t worry, I said. Things will be sorted out shortly. The important thing is that you’re okay.

She smiled again and closed her eyes. The doctor came in.

— Mr. Morse? he asked.

I did a half bow.

— I’m Dr. Platt. You’ll have to leave while we examine the patient. Someone will fetch you afterwards.

— Good-bye for now, Mora, I said, bending over the gurney and kissing her on the cheek.

I wasn’t sure whether I was going to do it, and then I had done it. Her skin was very soft.

— Good-bye, she said.

After fifteen minutes or so, an attendant came out to call me back in. He was a large man, quite hairy.

— Morse! he called out.

— Here, I said, and hurried after.

As we walked down the hall, the doctor emerged from a side room.

— Well, he said, she had quite a blow to the head. Strangely, her body is largely unhurt where the taxi hit her. The only damage is due to the concussion. She seems to have entirely lost her memory. It will come back, probably, but these things take time. It would be helpful for you to construct a book for her, detailing her past circumstances. Such memory aids can help patients regain what they’ve lost.

— I see, I said.

— The important thing for the next eighteen hours, he said, is to keep her awake. She can be discharged tonight, as long as you’ll take her somewhere quiet and stay with her.

— I’ll do that, I said.

We had paused in the hall. The hairy attendant had gone on. The doctor’s expression was kind. He gave the impression of being in the process of doing a hundred things at once, yet having truly and certainly a moment free in which to stand here quietly speaking with me.

— I’ll do that, I said again.

— Good, good. There’ll be some papers to sign. Insurance, etc. You should go in now and see her. She’s been asking for you.

I shook his hand.

— Thanks, Dr. Platt, I said.

— No trouble.

The doctor paused a moment longer. He looked on the verge of asking me a question.

— If you don’t mind my asking, he said, where do you buy your suits?

I looked at him a moment.

— It’s just that they remind me of the sort the secret policemen used to wear back in Albania. I was raised there. I’m sure it’s the same design.

I held out my arm for him to feel the fabric. He did.

— From an Albanian tailor on East Fourth Street, I said.

I considered telling him about the secret pockets, but refrained.

— The man’s a miscreant, I continued. He is difficult to deal with. The only way we can get him to do anything is by sending a girl named Rita over. She’s lovely and young, and he’ll talk to her.

— Thanks, said Dr. Platt. I’ll look into it. East Fourth…

— Between First and Second, I finished.

— You make that book for her, he said. Everything you can remember about her life. No matter how small or picayune.

— I’m looking forward to it, I said.

I went back into Mora’s room. She was wearing a hospital gown, sitting up, and eating what looked like a bowl of vanilla ice cream.

— I thought that was reserved for children who’ve just had their tonsils out, I said reprovingly.

— Didn’t I get my tonsils out? she asked, as if meanwhile winking, though she did not actually wink.

This was a special gesture that she had perfected.

— Not yet, I said. We can stay for that, though, if you like.

— I’d rather go, she said. Can we?

— Yes, let’s, I said. Give me a moment.

I went back out into the hall and down to the clerks’ counter. I showed them my Seventh Ministry badge and explained that this visit had never taken place. While there was no real reason for them to believe me, they did. Through a half-open door, the doctor was watching me. I smiled and waved. He waved back. I returned to Mora’s room.

— Well, Mora, I said. It’s time to go. Get changed and we’ll head out.

— To where? she asked.

— Well, I suppose we’ll go back to my place.

— All right, she said. Close that curtain and help me with this thing.

I shut the curtain and turned around. She had gotten out of bed and was trying unsuccessfully to untie the dressing gown. She turned her back to me.

— Untie that, she said. You know, this is all very strange. I don’t remember you at all. Not even a little. Are you sure you’re my boyfriend?

— Quite sure, I said. You have a little tattoo of the Morton salt girl with an umbrella on the small of your back.

— Do I? she asked, trying to look over her shoulder.

— No, I said. I was just joking.

I untied the dressing gown. Underneath she had only her underwear on, and it was all I could do to act as though I had seen this spectacle a thousand times. I fetched her dress from off a chair and handed it to her. She pulled it over her head, then slipped on a pair of green shoes. Extending her arm, she said:

— Shall we?

— Yes, let’s.

And so we left the hospital together. There was a line of taxis outside. I chose one at random and told the cabbie my address. Mora sat down in the taxi and I sat beside her.