Mr. Nobody(10)

I feel the cringe twang again deep inside me.

“Listen, Richard, can I just say again, I am so sorry for what happened at Stanford. I just, I can even…”

He’s chuckling now, oh God, somehow that makes it worse. What a lovely man.

“Emma, I told you the last time we met. It’s fine. I mean, I wish we’d discussed your questions in a more private setting but, heck, that’s the nature of medicine, right? You’ve got to be able to question things. Anyway, put it out of your mind for now.”

I hear the receiver pull away slightly at his end of the line and a muffled yawn.

“Sorry, Emma,” Groves continues. “It’s not you. You’ll have to excuse me but I’m on Eastern Time, it’s, er, 3:32 in the morning here in Massachusetts. Long past my bedtime.” He gives a tired chuckle, warm and throaty. “We’re pulling an all-nighter in the lab. So I thought, why not call you in England at a decent hour while I’m up anyway.” I realize it’s still Sunday night where he is. He’s pulling an all-nighter on a Sunday; Jesus, the Americans work hard. Monday morning in London suddenly feels infinitely more manageable.

    “Well, I’m glad you called! So…what is it I can do for you, Richard?” Even as I say it I wonder if there genuinely is anything I could help him with. It seems unlikely. Unless, of course, he needs someone to embarrass him publicly at another upcoming function.

I hear him sigh heavily. “Ugh, okay, Emma, I really hate all this. You see, I’m usually a planning-ahead man, not a fan of changes to my schedule, snap decisions, that sort of thing. I suppose it’s a pretty old-fashioned way of working but it’s what I’m used to. So, I apologize if you’re the same, but I’m afraid the reason I’m calling is all quite seat-of-the-pants. Anyway, to cut to the chase, I got a call this morning, my morning, from the UK about a patient over there and it made me think of you. Sorry, just one moment—” He breaks off; there’s the scratch of something being pressed against the receiver mouthpiece on his end. I notice I’m standing up; I’m not sure when that happened.

I wait. I look at my gray office door, the gray slat blinds, the neat piles of green patient folders on my desk. Then his voice comes back like warm honey on the line.

“My apologies. The natives are restless here. Where was I?”

“You got a call and thought of me,” I prompt, sitting back down.

“Ah, yes. So, I got a call from Peter Chorley, at Cambridge. Do you know Chorley?”

I rack my brains, but I feel like I would remember a Peter Chorley if I’d ever met one. “No. I don’t think I do. No.”

“He’s got tenure, head of Neurolinguistics at Cambridge. No background in our field but he does a lot of advisory stuff, freelance, over there in the UK, government consultancy, initiatives, boards—that sort of thing. Jack of all trades, to some extent. Anyway, he called to gauge my interest on working with a patient over there in England. He thought it would be exactly my kind of thing—but as you can tell, I’m pretty swamped up here. So, long story short, I suggested you.”

    I clutch the phone hard as if it might suddenly and inexplicably be yanked from me, my breath catching in my throat.

Oh my God.

Richard continues. “You’re there already, you know your stuff, it’s a small field and this is exactly what you’ve been after, am I right?” He asks it triumphantly, a man doing someone a solid favor.

I genuinely cannot believe this is happening. “Er…” is all I manage.

“It’s an intriguing case. I promise you, you’ll love it,” he adds encouragingly.

And I’m absolutely certain I will love it, but that’s not the problem. The problem is I’m pretty sure Richard Groves has made a mistake and dialed the wrong number.

I try to think if there are any other neuropsychiatrists who (a) look like me, or (b) have names similar to mine.

He must be trying to get hold of someone else, surely? Things like this don’t happen. Or at least they don’t happen to me.

But then, neuropsychiatry isn’t a huge field, especially in the UK, especially when it comes to specialists in memory. And now that I really think about it I might be one of the few British specialists who’s actually had the balls to introduce themselves to Groves and spoken to him in person—we don’t tend to get out much, neuropsychiatrists; social time does tend to eat into precious work time. So perhaps I am pretty high on his list of options after all. And who am I kidding? I pushed for this, didn’t I? I pushed so hard for this chance. Every time I’ve met Richard I’ve pushed. I talked, I listened, I hung on his every word. I basically low-level stalked him for this opportunity. I’ve foisted my diagnostic theories down his throat at every juncture. And I sure as hell never saw anyone else pushing through the crowds to get to him to debate diagnostic methodology. God knows no one’s pushed to be at the forefront of his mind more than I have. So maybe it isn’t so strange? Perhaps in a way I chose him.

    “I know it might seem like a shot out of the blue, Emma. But you’ve been on my radar for a while now. You know how rare these cases are. And you’re over there. I could’ve called Tom Lister at John Radcliffe; he’s…well, he’s not as—shall we say—invested as you are in new research. Let’s be straight. You’ve got ideas, theories—I’ve read your research material—but you haven’t had a real stab at a fugue case yet. And you were right, about brain imaging, we should have used it, every case should, it should have been used to rule out or verify fugue. If I’d had the tech twenty years ago, I’d have been shouting at doctors in lecture halls too. It’s what I’d use now myself, and I know for damn sure it’s what you’ll use.” He gives a youthful laugh. “Listen, I know you’re busy over there, you’ve got your own thing going on in London, it’d mean traveling north, uprooting for a while, but I really think this could be the opportunity you’ve been after. I wouldn’t be where I am today if someone hadn’t taken a shot on me, and this is me giving you yours. What do you say?” He leaves the question hanging in the air, an ocean between us.