Элисон Скотч: The Song Remains the Same

“Mom’s on her way,” Rory says, like I’ve asked a question. I smile at her because she has been so giving this past week, so available when I know she’s had other things to attend to: her life back home, the gallery she’s left to come take care of me. The old me didn’t seem like someone who needed taking care of, but Rory does it well all the same.

“So there’s good news,” Dr. Macht says. “We’ve gone over your CAT scans, the MRIs, sent them to the best specialists out at UCLA, and it doesn’t appear that there’s anything permanent going on in your brain.”

“So why can’t I remember anything?”

“Could be a variety of things.” He clears his throat. “It could be psychosomatic…”

“Wait, you think this is intentional?” I stutter. Of all the things that have occurred to me lying here through the endless hours, intentional amnesia wasn’t one of them.

“No, no, nothing like that, not intentional. That wouldn’t be the word to use. But sometimes when people undergo an extremely traumatic event, their brain shuts down for them. It’s called dissociative amnesia—in reaction to the stress of what you’ve been through, the brain has blocked it out. Only yours took it too far—it blocked out too much. With dissociative amnesia, you can still remember all of the generalities of the way life works—you may remember world history references or what the Statue of Liberty is, for example, or”—he gestures to the television—“how a remote control works or that you flush the toilet upon using it. You just can’t remember the way that your life has worked.” He hedges, waiting for me to absorb this, to protest and say, Well of course that’s just utterly ridiculous! I’m not some sort of whacked-out head case! But I don’t. Don’t say that. Because who knows? Just who the hell knows? Maybe I am. A quick glance at the photo on the cover of People tells me that I don’t have any idea of who I really am, how the square pegs of my life refuse to fit into the round holes.

When I don’t respond, he continues. “But, that said, we’re just working on theories here. Amnesia—any form of it—is quite rare, and I happen to think it’s more likely that there is indeed some damage, and with time, and with use, your memory should return. Maybe in bits and pieces.”

“So my options are that I have actual brain damage or that my brain is damaging itself?” I say finally.

“What’s the time frame?” Rory interrupts, and Dr. Macht opts for the less prickly of the two questions.

“Unclear. Could be anywhere from tomorrow to months from now. Your therapist,” he says to me, “will come in and explain what you can do to nurture your memory back. Think of it as a muscle: you need to flex it to regain strength.”

The overhead PA system pages him to the nurses’ station, and he’s off with a nod and a promise to check in later that evening before he goes back into surgery.

“This all feels a little preposterous,” I say to Rory, using my good arm to rub the apex of my neck, “like someone is pulling the world’s worst practical joke.” I flop my hand down and hold up my palm. I’d noticed the scar there earlier today, running from my lifeline clear down my wrist.

“This,” I say, thrusting my hand upward. “How’d I get this?”

“Childhood accident—a broken plate,” Rory says, leaving it at that and easing into the chair beside the bed. She roots around in her bag, unveiling a mini box of doughnuts and two Snapple bottles, which clang against each other in her hand. A melody of iced tea. “I know it’s junk,” she says, “and that it can’t really fix anything. But we always ate doughnuts and Snapple when we signed an artist or had something else to celebrate. The day I convinced you to open the gallery in the first place, we binged like we’ve never binged before.” She pauses, awash in happy nostalgia. “Mom used to make doughnuts fresh for us when we were kids. Now we settle for Dunkin’.”

“What are we celebrating?” I ask. “That one day—maybe in ten years, maybe never, according to the experts—I might not be committed to an asylum?”

“No, nothing specific.” She unscrews the top of one of the Snapples. “But I thought it might be nice. Something your little sister can do for you. We’re all…well, we’re all feeling a little helpless.” She hands me a jelly doughnut, which promptly explodes upon my first bite all over my gown. “Now you look like you’re bleeding, too.” She giggles.

“That’s not so funny.”

“No, you’re right.”

We snicker anyway. I lick the jelly off of my lips.

“Do you always have to watch this guy?” She nudges her head up toward the TV, toward Jamie Reardon. “It’s on every time I’m in here. Sort of macabre, isn’t it?”

“I like him.” I shrug.

“He’s just some talking head, a piranha circling the waters.”

“No, he seems different,” I say, like I have experience discerning between tabloid reporters and not, between different and not. But Anderson did, and he liked him, too. Something wholesome, welcoming about him. “I don’t know, he feels like he’d be easy to talk to.”

“Funny, he stopped me outside—there’s an entire mass of reporters out there—and asked if you were up for an interview. I told him to stop being such a leech, feeding on catastrophe.” She crosses her six-inches-longer-than-mine legs. “Please tell me you’re not going to think about talking to him. That would just be so entirely out of character.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Who knows what my character is anyway?”

“Well, I do, for one. I’ve lived with you for twenty-seven years. And you were never one to seek publicity. I practically had to beg you to agree to help me promote the gallery, consider anything out of the straight and narrow. That you agreed to consider Hope Kingsley—the artist you were going out to see in San Francisco—was no small miracle. She was from the slush pile and, oh man, were you a bitch about the slush pile.”

“The slush pile?”

“The commoners, as you said. The un-agented. In theory, you’d think you of all people would want to nurture untapped talent, but it was just the opposite.”

This does not at all sound like the fabulous me !

“Why me of all people?”

“Because you had more talent in your left toe than just about anyone I know. Maybe other than Dad. But maybe even more than him. It made me crazy as a kid.”

“Painting?” I ask, surprised.

“Music,” she says, like I should have already known.

I chew on this, and then, apropos of nothing but because I no longer have a filter, I say, “Did you know that I was pregnant?”

“Oh god.” Her lower lip starts to tremble.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I wasn’t blaming you. I meant, since I can’t remember it, did you know that I was pregnant?”

She shakes her head, composing herself. “No. I’m surprised, actually.” She considers it. “What does Peter say about it?”

“We haven’t talked much about it yet. It feels weird—having a husband who I don’t remember.”

“You have a sister who you don’t remember, either.”

“True,” I say. “But he’s always darting around, sort of skulking in the corner. It just feels…different. He’s seen me naked, seen my orgasm face, you know, stuff like that. I know that for all intents and purposes you and I don’t know each other, either…but it feels like we do, it feels like we’re family.” I laugh. “Though maybe I shouldn’t be talking about my orgasm face to you, either.”

“Well, it’s an adjustment period for all of us,” she says, firming her jaw, closing the subject.