The Forgetting(4)

‘Not to worry. Can you tell me what year it is?’

Without any effort, the answer is there, as easily as if someone had written it on a piece of paper and handed it to me. The doctor smiles and I feel like a child passing a test.

‘And what about the prime minister of the UK – can you tell me who that is?’

Again the answer materialises, as if by magic, and it seems almost miraculous to me that it should be waiting to be plucked from wherever it has been stored.

‘That’s excellent. Can you count backwards from twenty for me?’

I count with ease and it feels as though something is returning to me, as though words and thoughts are pulling into focus.

‘What’s this?’ The doctor holds up a pen and I tell her what it is – correctly, I am sure.

‘What date is Christmas Day?’

It is an easy question and I answer automatically, without any conscious processing of thought.

‘That’s great. And can you tell me your date of birth?’

I open my mouth to reply, wait for the date, the month, the year to tumble out, but nothing comes. Scrunching my eyes closed, I search in the darkness for some thread of memory, like Theseus in the Labyrinth securing a safe exit, but however diligently I hunt, there is nothing there.

The apology stings as I open my eyes.

‘That’s okay.’ The doctor issues me with a sympathetic smile. ‘Mrs Bradshaw, as the nurse has already told you, you were involved in a road traffic accident earlier today. You were the passenger in a car, driven by your husband . . .’ She pauses, looks over her shoulder, confirming that the man standing behind her in navy blue trousers and a checked grey shirt is the man to whom I am married. ‘I don’t know the precise details – I’m sure your husband can tell you more – but you sustained a head injury, for which you’ve had a CT scan, and there’s no visible damage. But you suffered a concussion and a period of unconsciousness. Now that you’re awake, we’ll find you a bed on a ward and keep you in overnight for observation. But there’s nothing immediately to worry about, okay?’

I find myself nodding even as a sense of disquiet creeps across my skin.

‘What about her memory? There must be something on the scan – some kind of damage to her brain – to explain why she can’t remember anything?’ The man has stepped forward, his voice filled with urgency.

The doctor clasps the clipboard to her chest. ‘Issues with memory rarely show up on brain scans. But temporary amnesia is extremely common in cases of concussion. It’s very encouraging that her semantic memory seems to be intact.’

‘Semantic memory?’ The man frowns and I notice the way the skin hooks over the corners of his eyes, as if ready to protect him from something he might not want to see.

‘Semantic memory is recall of facts. Common knowledge, if you like. It’s different to episodic memory, which is an individual’s personal history.’

‘And it’s my wife’s episodic memory that’s been affected? That’s why she doesn’t know who I am?’ There is a hairline fracture in the man’s voice. I watch the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple, watch him steady the emotion on his face just as someone might settle a distressed child.

The doctor glances down at me. ‘Like I say, it’s very common for concussion to be accompanied by some degree of confusion – memory loss being the most prevalent. It usually only lasts a few hours, so please try not to worry.’

There seems to be an ellipsis at the end of her speech and it is not until the man asks the question that I realise what is missing.

‘But it could go on for longer?’ His voice is low, as if not quite trusting that saying the words out loud will not jinx the answer.

There is a pause, into which a thousand possible permutations seem to fall.

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. In my experience, there are as many iterations of concussion as there are patients. It really is a case of taking things hour by hour. Now, let me make a few calls and find you a bed on a ward. It may take a little time, so just get some rest. You’re very welcome to stay with your wife, Mr Bradshaw.’ Offering me one final, reassuring smile, she sweeps out of the cubicle, closing the curtain behind her.

There is a moment’s stillness and then the man lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. ‘I’m so sorry, my love. It should be me in that hospital bed, not you. I was the one driving when we crashed.’

The man – my husband – strokes the inside of my wrist with his thumb and it sends fresh waves of panic coursing through my veins. There is an instinct to wrench my hand away, as though there is heat in his fingers and I am at risk of getting burnt. I breathe deeply against the feeling, instruct myself to calm down, tell myself it is fine: the doctor has confirmed this man’s identity. ‘I don’t even know your name.’ The confession feels both dangerous and absurd. This man is my husband and yet I do not know his name.

The man hesitates and I try to read the sequence of expressions that flit across his face: bewilderment, hurt, fear I think, though I cannot be sure because there are no memories to guide me.

The cubicle curtain rustles behind him and he glances over his shoulder, then back at me, tries to raise his lips into a smile. ‘Stephen. My name’s Stephen.’