hard time believing it isn’t real.”
“Mom, please.” I hated that she brought it up with the doctors again, even though it was clinically relevant. That she was talking to them as though I wasn’t in the room, like grown-ups discussing their child’s invisible friend in her presence. Voices a little too upbeat and encouraging, yet laced with trepidation.
“Please, call me Ted,” Dr. Talcott said. My mom nodded, though I knew she would do no such thing because this was a case when formality mattered. “Ted” would most certainly not have the answers we needed, but “Dr. Talcott” just might.
“The thing with false memories that is so fascinating—so fascinating—is how real they seem to the patient experiencing them,” Dr. Talcott continued, excitement filling his voice. He’d admitted to us earlier I was only his second false-memory patient—the first an elderly man who’d had a stroke and woken up believing he had won an Olympic gold medal in pole-vaulting at the 1948 London games. However, according to this man’s wife, while he had been a pole-vaulter that year, he had failed to qualify for the Olympic team. “False-memory patients can recount incredibly detailed descriptions of the event they’ve invented. It’s fascinating.”
Mom scowled at his mention of this being “fascinating” three times in one breath. Because to us this was anything but—it was terrifying. Devastating, even. Especially when the doctors said they had no way of knowing if the hidden memories would reveal themselves, and if these false ones would eventually disappear when my brain reset.
“So what can we do?” Dad asked. “About these false memories? Is there some sort of treatment? Or medication? Whatever she needs.” He rested a hand on my shoulder. “Anything she needs.”
Dr. Mulder shrugged his shoulders, my chart still stuck to his chest. “Brain injuries aren’t like broken bones. They don’t heal with predictable patterns, and unfortunately there’s little medically we can do.” Dad smiled at me and rubbed my shoulder. I didn’t smile back.
“Based on how things look right now, there’s a good chance you’ll have some postconcussive symptoms, like headaches and mild dizziness, and those we can treat with medication. Though we expect those symptoms will alleviate with time,” Dr. Mulder said. “But as for the confabulation—as I said, there’s no magic pill, so to speak. Which is why Dr. Talcott is here. This condition is better treated with psychotherapy.”
“So, therapy is the answer here?” Dad asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Mulder replied.
Therapist Ted nodded, adding, “There’s great evidence therapy can help patients in these cases. But it’s a long process. As you can imagine, trying to reintegrate into a life that isn’t familiar can be a challenge.” He leaned on the rail at the end of the bed, and I noticed a wedding band on his finger. Shiny. I wondered if he was recently married, which made me think about Daniel. And Matt. I blinked hard and swallowed against the nausea that accompanied my pounding head. “However, the sooner you’re able to get back to your life, your routines, Lucy, the better.”
I didn’t want to do therapy, nor was I interested in this “long process.” I wanted to see Daniel, to have him comfort me and tell me everything was going to be okay. I wanted to apologize for missing our first wedding anniversary. And I desperately wanted—needed—everyone to stop looking at me like they expected more, like I was letting them down with every screwed-up memory I recounted.
But most of all I wanted to remember. To know the truth the way everyone else in my life seemed to. It was so easy for them to correct me, to gently explain the memories that felt so real were not, in fact, real at all. It was simple for them to be hopeful, because they weren’t inside my head where things were a jumbled mess.
If only getting things back to normal was as easy as going to a lost-and-found box, like we’d had in elementary school. A spot I could retrieve my memories like I might have a misplaced hat, or pair of sneakers, or my favorite pencil case. But it wasn’t going to be that easy, because according to the only two people in the room who had experience with this sort of thing, what had been lost might never be found.
One week later I was finally out of the hospital and desperate to get home. My parents had wanted me to stay with them initially, but I had balked at the idea, imagining the sort of hovering they would do if I moved back into my old bedroom. But even Therapist Ted had thought that sounded like a wise idea.
“This next while may feel like you’re speeding down a highway without the safety of your seat belt,” he’d said during his last visit as I was getting ready to be discharged. “Being in a familiar place, with the people you remember best, is likely a good transition strategy.”
“Our place will be familiar,” Matt had interjected before I could respond. But even with his confident (if not a bit hostile) tone, he looked worried as he said it. And fair enough. My memory was fuzzy, to put it mildly. There was a lot I didn’t remember and we were all on edge because of it.
Eventually my parents conceded, though they insisted on staying in our guest room for a while—at least until they were satisfied I wasn’t going to fall apart without them.
I do know this place, I thought with relief as we approached the front steps to the low-rise brick building in Leslieville, a short distance from Toronto’s downtown core. I could picture the buzzer pad that opened the front door, had no issue recalling the code. Once I walked into the building, I knew I had to go up a set of stairs, and then one more before reaching 2B, where I lived. When tested in the hospital on the wheres and whats of my current life, I had remembered the apartment and its location without trouble, had correctly described the high ceilings and exposed brick and great windows facing east so you could see the sun rise. But what I still didn’t remember? That Matt and I had lived in this place, together, for the past two years.
Climbing the last flight of stairs, my dad stayed close behind me, holding my elbow, his other hand pressed firmly to my lower back. As I unlocked my condo’s front door and walked through, my hand shaking with anticipation, I turned instinctually to drop my key into the silver dish on the hallway console. It was a small win, but an important one. I knew where I lived and where my key went, so I must belong here.
“Dad, I’m okay,” I said, because he still had his hand on my back. I was embarrassed by all the attention, like I was a kid again versus a twenty-eight-year-old who hadn’t needed her dad to help her do anything for more than a decade.
Still, I understood why my parents fussed. Why Matt’s eyes continued to dart my way, like he was waiting for me to collapse, or to break into a million pieces right there on our hardwood floor. Be forced to admit I’d forgotten yet another critical truth about my life.
“Of course you are, honey,” my dad responded, rubbing my back in tight little circles. I glanced over my shoulder at him and smiled, hoping it would help him relax. Mom busied herself with taking our coats and hanging them in our front closet, then announced she was going to put the kettle on. My mother felt a good cup of tea was the answer to nearly every situation, even this one.
“Here, let me take that for you,” Matt said, his face pinched and full of hurt I knew I was responsible for. He reached for my overnight bag, looking so tired—dark circles under his eyes, his lips dry and cracking when he tried to smile. I didn’t know this Matt, who stood in front of me in jeans and a sweatshirt, unlike the tailored suits I usually saw him in. The Matt Newman I had worked with for the past few years, who always seemed
