Mr. Nobody(60)

Matthew answers with a lightness of touch that makes my heart ache. “Sorry, but I don’t remember a house. Any house. If I’m honest with you, I don’t remember much of anything before I was found on that beach. I remember what’s happened over the last ten days…but that’s about it, at the moment.” His answer is kind but there’s a finality to it. How could there not be? Right now he has nothing to give them, there is only future stretching out ahead of him.

The Taylors stare at him, lost, unclear where the conversation should go next. They begin to realize, after all their years of searching, that the prize they were fighting for might have changed so utterly that he may now be just a stranger who doesn’t even recognize them.

Mr. Taylor speaks first, breaking the flat silence, trying to infuse it with the magic they thought they would find here. “You look just like him, you know. Our Benj.”

“He means you look just how he might have looked,” his wife corrects him gently.

    “Yes, yes. He was only…well, twelve, when he left, you know.” Mr. Taylor gives a forced smile before turning to elicit help with the floundering exchange, first from me and then the police social worker. “Doc, what do you think? Sue? Do you think that we might be onto something here…?” He falters, because what can he say? Is Matthew ours? Is this one finally our Benjamin?

I look to the social worker, but she remains mute, her expression a dumb show of empathy.

Excellent. Well, that’s helpful. Thanks a bunch, Sue.

I grasp the untethered conversion. “It’s hard to say, Mr. Taylor. All we can do really is wait. There was the chance that Matthew might have recognized you immediately and then we would have known. However…I’m not sure that has happened. But memory is a complex system. I think perhaps Matthew just needs time and hopefully things should start to come back to him. And once they do, we should be in a better position to know.”

“Of course, of course. We don’t want to rush anything.” Mr. Taylor is piteously quick to agree.

I notice Matthew’s gaze drift away to the window. Jesus. God knows what’s going on in his mind. His energy has dwindled, though, that much is clear. He can’t keep this up anymore. He doesn’t recognize these people, I am still the only person in this room whom he recognizes. This is a dead end. I make a decision.

“I think what would probably be best is if we finished up here for today. We should hear back on a DNA match by later this afternoon, and if it’s a fit then we can check back in a couple of weeks and see where Matthew is in terms of recovery by then, if that works for you both?” There’s a heavy pause while neither Taylor answers, so I dive back in. “I know it’s not the outcome any of us wanted today, but what’s important now is Matthew’s recovery and giving him the time he needs to adjust.”

Mrs. Taylor sits up straighter in her chair. “Yes, yes, Doctor, you’re quite right,” she says. I can see in her eyes she’s already trying to work out what they’ll tell everyone outside, everyone back home, the people on TV. Just another false alarm. Twenty-seven years of false alarms.

    “Let’s go, Jim, come on,” she says, sliding her hand into one of his and giving it a little squeeze. He looks into her eyes, lost for a moment until she smiles at him. The bravery, the selflessness, of that smile breaking my heart.



* * *



—

They leave us with promises of more contact to come, at least that will be the official line when they reach the press outside. But I think we all know in our hearts this is the end of Matthew’s role in the Taylors’ lives. Matthew isn’t their son. Watching them walk away hand in hand down the corridor, I find myself hoping they find it in themselves to stop, to stop searching, and finally carve out their own little piece of life in the time remaining.

When I turn back to Matthew he’s watching me. He holds my gaze silently for a long while, a calmness settling back between us as the Taylors’ footsteps recede. A sad smile breaks across his face and he gives me the tiniest shake of his head. He doesn’t know them. He isn’t their son. I think of the real Benjamin, out there somewhere. Whether he’s a lost forty-year-old man or a twelve-year-old boy in a shallow grave, either way, I hope he’s at peace. I follow Matthew’s gaze as he watches the couple clear the corner at the end of the corridor.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “They’ll be fine. You did a really good thing, Matthew. Why don’t you head back to the ward and get some rest? You deserve it,” I say.

Back in my office I call Peter. I need to find out why the hell this fiasco was ever allowed to happen in the first place. Why a meeting was scheduled before DNA results were confirmed.

“I can only apologize.”

    Peter can only apologize. And seeing the six missed calls from him on my mobile I’m inclined to believe that he did do everything within his power to stop the Met from wading in without medical consent.

“I wasn’t informed of their sudden interest in the case until this afternoon, Emma! If I had been, this would have gone through the appropriate channels instead of the less than ideal scenario we now find ourselves in.” This is the most agitated I’ve ever heard Peter. He pauses to regain composure. “I tried to contact you but I’d imagine you were already in the thick of it there. I’m so sorry, Emma.”