Dying to Remember Read online

  “Fine.” Barnes had expected this—that’s what psychiatrists do.

  “I’d like you to repeat three words for me: frog, apple, and umbrella.”

  Barnes complied.

  “Have I said those words to you before?”

  “I don’t know. Probably, or you wouldn’t ask.”

  “That’s right. Now, I want you to form an image in your mind of a green frog eating a red apple and holding up a black umbrella. Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. I’ll ask you about that later.”

  Barnes jotted something on a piece of paper.

  “What are you writing?” asked Dr. Vincent.

  “Frog, apple, umbrella.”

  “Let’s not do that. I want you to remember without writing them down.”

  “Fine.” Barnes scribbled over the words.

  “I’m pleased to see you’re beginning to rely upon notes,” Dr. Vincent said.

  “Well, I don’t have much of a choice.”

  “It will become an important part of your daily living, but we’ll talk more about that later. Right now I’d like to focus on another exercise.”

  “I’m really not in the mood for these things.”

  “This is important,” Dr. Vincent said, “and it isn’t difficult. I’m going to say a series of one-digit numbers, and I want you to repeat them. I’ll say them slowly, and I’ll start with five digits. Okay?”

  Barnes put aside his pen and paper. “What’s normal?”

  “Normal recall is anything from five to eight.”

  “Then start with ten.”

  They compromised and began with seven. Barnes worked his way up to thirteen. Afterward Dr. Vincent asked him to recall the three items from earlier.

  “Three items?” Barnes echoed.

  “Yes. I asked you to form a picture in your mind of an animal doing something. Try to remember. Close your eyes.”

  Barnes closed his eyes and tried to form an image. He saw Elizabeth. She was sitting across from him sipping wine over dinner. A candle lit the small table at Anthony’s, a seafood restaurant they’d gone to many times, and the flickering light danced across her glass and in her eyes. Elizabeth liked to wear sweaters when the weather turned cold, and Barnes pictured her in a black cashmere V-neck with the sleeves pushed up.

  “What do you see?” Dr. Vincent asked.

  Barnes cleared the image from his mind. “Nothing.”

  “Try harder.”

  He attempted to relax and focus his thoughts at the same time. Another image took shape. Barnes opened his eyes. “A frog.”

  “Very good. What’s it doing?”

  He hesitated. “Eating a red ball.”

  “Close. That’s an apple. What else do you see?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a parachute.”

  “Excellent.” Dr. Vincent rubbed his hands together. “It’s an umbrella. The three words I asked you to remember were frog, apple, and umbrella.”

  The psychiatrist proceeded with another test, this one involving repeating a series of digits and each time adding another number to the end.

  Barnes worked his way up to thirteen. “What’s normal for this?” he asked.

  “Around twenty, but you shouldn’t judge yourself by a single test.”

  “Let’s do it again.”

  “We will,” said Dr. Vincent. “Tomorrow.”

  Barnes started to protest, then stopped himself. What was the point? They both knew he wouldn’t do any better. Not today.

  He recalled the final scene of the movie Gone with the Wind, when Rhett Butler walked out on Scarlett O’Hara, leaving her utterly alone, her life in shambles. Despite that, Scarlett held her head high and proclaimed to the world, “Tomorrow is another day.”

  Tomorrow is another day, Barnes told himself. He couldn’t help but wonder what it had in store for him.

  Chapter 12

  The next day Dr. Vincent retested Barnes. Barnes’s ability to recall the repeated serial digits improved by only one, to fourteen. His recollection of events from the week to ten days before the poisoning remained minimal, but Dr. Vincent assured him much of it should come back with time and therapy.

  “Your memory loss before the poisoning almost certainly has a psychological basis,” Dr. Vincent said.

  “So now in addition to brain damage,” said Barnes, “you think I have psychiatric problems.”

  Dr. Vincent nodded. “It’s possible the domoic acid has impaired your midrange memory, but I don’t believe that’s the case since you can remember events from the evening of the poisoning. We don’t know much about domoic acid, but a neurotoxin that affects memory would almost certainly have a more global effect if it caused amnesia; it wouldn’t likely spare the events of one evening.”

  Probably not, but Barnes hesitated to accept the lack of another explanation as a justification for a psychiatric cause. Too often physicians did that with a wide range of ailments, telling patients their pain or their fatigue or their nausea was all in their head. “Do you really know anything about domoic acid?” he countered.

  “We’re learning more every day,” said Dr. Vincent. “And you will, too.”

  That answer was just too pat. “How am I going to learn if I can’t remember anything?”

  Dr. Vincent had an answer for that, too. “We’ll give you a substitute memory.”

  “A substitute?”

  “That’s right. You’re going to carry a small notebook, and it will tell you what transpired earlier in the day and in previous days, as well as things you’ll need to remember to do later.”

  “I don’t do notebooks.”

  “Then just one sheet of paper. The important thing is that you’ll have a written record of what you’ve done and what you need to do. You’re going to be discharged soon, and your notes or your sheet of paper will be your surrogate memory. I’ve also made arrangements for your follow-up care in Boston.” He handed Barnes an appointment card. “You’ll be seeing Dr. Parks.”

  Barnes tried to imagine himself back in Boston without Elizabeth and without even a short-term memory. “How am I supposed to remember this?” he asked.

  “Just look at the card.”

  “How am I supposed to remember I’ve got the card?”

  “You’ll write it on your list of things to do.”

  “How am I supposed to remember I’ve got that?”

  Dr. Vincent’s face wrinkled in thought. For a moment he looked past Barnes, as though searching for the answer in a far corner of the room. Then he said, perhaps more to himself, “We’ll have to figure that out.”

  Chapter 13

  The next day Dr. Vincent visited Barnes again.

  “I’ve changed the face of your watch,” he said, handing Barnes’s Rolex to him.

  Barnes looked at it. In bold black script on a white background it displayed the words “Examinez votre poche droite.”

  “What have you done to my Rolex?” He had bought it less than a year ago for more than what some people pay for a new car.

  “We discussed this,” Dr. Vincent explained. “I changed the face to remind you to look in your right pocket.”

  “Examinez votre poche droite,” Barnes read aloud.

  “It’s French so other people won’t know what it means, so you won’t feel self-conscious.”

  “So I won’t feel self-conscious. Wearing a Rolex watch with this on it?”

  “Put it on.”

  Barnes shoved the watch onto his wrist. “I can’t believe I let you do this.”

  “In your pants pocket you’ll keep your list of reminders and things to do,” said Dr. Vincent.

  “Fine.”

  “Whenever you happen to glance at your watch, which you’ll probably do every few minutes, you’ll be reminded to look in your right pocket. Your list will also remind you that you have a tape recorder in your inside jacket pocket . . .” He handed a tape recorder to Barnes. “. . . for when you have things to remember that are to
o cumbersome to write down.”

  Barnes put the recorder in his lap. “When am I being discharged?”

  “Soon. Maybe the day after tomorrow. We’ll have to make arrangements.”

  Finally some good news. He had no idea the full extent of his problems, or even how long he’d been in the hospital, but right now all that mattered was getting out of there and going home. He imagined Rex bounding toward him, with Elizabeth in his wake. “I should call my wife,” he said, “or is she already here?”

  “Uh, about that . . .”

  Dr. Vincent rebriefed Barnes on Elizabeth’s murder, then resumed the conversation about going home. “You should call a relative,” he said. “It would be a good idea to have someone come to the hospital to pick you up.”

  “I don’t need an escort. I just need to get out of here.” Anything would be better than this.

  “Believe me; you’ll be better off with a relative.”

  “You don’t know my relatives.”

  “Then perhaps a colleague. There must be someone who would do that for you.”

  A colleague. Denny Houston, a fellow cardiothoracic surgeon, was his closest friend. The only question was, would Denny do that?

  Later in the day, Barnes called Denny’s office in Boston. Like Barnes, Houston was recognized as one of the top surgeons in the country, and their similar skills and reputations had led to a camaraderie. Denny had grown up in Kentucky, but he fit right in with the East Coast surgeons, butting heads with the best of them. Barnes had never asked him for a favor—he’d never needed to—but he always felt Denny would go out on a limb for him, if it was important. And clearly this was important.

  “Hey, buddy,” Houston said when he heard Barnes’s voice over the phone. “How the hell are you?” The melody of his Louisville drawl filled Barnes with a sense of well-being.

  “Okay. I’m getting out tomorrow.” Barnes was reading a note he had written to himself. “Looking forward to going home.”

  “Me, I’d rather be in Miami this time of year, but I know what you mean.”

  “Yeah. Listen. I thought, since Elizabeth can’t be here, maybe you could fly over and we can ride into town together.”

  “Like to, Chris, but you know patients get pissed off when you tell ’em their bypass or balloon angioplasty has to be rescheduled, and if they die while they’re waiting on you, everybody and their uncle sues. I’ve been picking up the slack with your patients, and it’s a bitch getting everything done. Besides, knowing how unpredictable the weather is this time of year, it’d be just my luck to get stuck in Toronto in a blizzard.”

  “Yeah, well, can you at least meet me in Boston at the airport?”

  “Sure thing. When?”

  Barnes had the itinerary in front of him. “Two twenty-nine p.m. Air Canada flight eight-o-five. The day after tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there . . . You know, considering what you’ve been through, you sound damn good.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” No point discussing the extent of his damage. “. . . it’s been unpleasant, to say the least. I can’t wait to get the hell out of here. It feels as though I’ve been gone for ages.”

  “Well, you have been. Hey, buddy, I gotta go. I’m backing up the OR.”

  “All right. I’ll see you at the airport.”

  “You betcha.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for calling.”

  “You called me, Chris. Take it easy, buddy.”

  Barnes hung up. Only then did he realize the futility of having anyone meet him at the airport. His car would be parked there, and even though he couldn’t remember where, he wasn’t going to leave it behind. Maybe he and Denny could look for it together. They could have a drink at the airport bar—talk about old times or current events over a beer—and then go driving around the parking lot.

  Denny will help you through this, he assured himself. All you have to do is ask.

  And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he would need at least a little help adjusting to life without Elizabeth and getting through the day without being able to remember anything from one minute to the next. There’s no shame in turning to a friend for a leg up.

  You can count on Denny, he told himself.

  He hoped that was true.

  Chapter 14

  Twenty-two days after his admission to Toronto General, Barnes walked out of the hospital, unassisted. He took a taxi to the airport and boarded Air Canada flight 805 with a mix of relief and uncertainty. Deep down he sensed that everything would be better once he got home, yet he also knew that Elizabeth had been murdered—he’d relearned this from Dr. Vincent in the morning—and he knew from the list in his pocket that two policemen would meet him at Boston’s Logan Airport to question him about her.

  He sat in the business-class section of an Airbus A319, thankful that the seat next to him remained vacant. Once the plane reached its cruising altitude, the flight attendants moved about the cabin, serving beverages and snacks. Barnes felt tempted to order a drink, but he reminded himself that if he started, he would quickly lose count.

  He put down his tray table as a flight attendant came to him with a plate of cheese and crackers. Despite not having an appetite, he ate anyway. Periodically he glanced at his watch to see the time, and when he did, the inscription prompted him to look in his right pocket. Occasionally the inscription alone was sufficient to remind him about the list, but usually he didn’t remember until after pulling it out and looking at it. Written across the top was the date, and across the bottom the words RETURN TO RIGHT POCKET.

  His list currently consisted of ten items:

  1) Elizabeth murdered on 11/26. Rex killed too.

  2) You’re flying from Toronto to Boston—ticket in jacket pocket.

  3) Police will meet you at the airport re Elizabeth.

  4) Denny Houston will be at airport.

  5) You checked one suitcase, blue herringbone.

  6) Dr. Vincent (psych) has arranged follow-up beginning tomorrow at 2:00 at Boston Riverside Hospital Clinic with Dr. Jeremy Parks (617-555-3948).

  7) You’ve lost your short-term memory. Try to remember things as images, but don’t expect to recall them after more than a few minutes.

  8) Get a handicapped parking sticker.

  9) You’ve quit smoking. Don’t start again.

  10) There’s a tape recorder in your inside suit-jacket pocket. Put a check mark here____ if additional messages are there.

  He read the list again, unaware that he’d looked at it only ten minutes earlier but knowing that Elizabeth had been murdered.

  You’re flying to Boston. Elizabeth is dead. Denny will meet you at the airport. Elizabeth is dead. You’ve quit smoking. Elizabeth is dead.

  His other notes said she’d been killed in their house with a firearm, but they didn’t provide any details—where in the house she’d been killed, what she’d been doing, where anatomically she’d been shot. His mind filled in the blanks, forming multiple images of the murder. He pictured her in the foyer, the living room, the kitchen, and the master bedroom, wearing a business suit, scrubs, an oversize T-shirt, and nothing at all. Each time, covered with blood.

  Despite needing to remember, he tried to forget. Yet he couldn’t stop forming mental images. As one left, another took its place, a variation on a theme. Regardless of how much he tried not to envision it, Elizabeth’s death stayed with him.

  He concentrated on the other items in his list. Number ten didn’t have a check mark beside it, so there was no point in taking out his tape recorder to listen for a message, but he did pat his jacket pocket to be sure it was there. It was smaller than a deck of cards.

  He turned his thoughts to his impending arrival home. According to his list, Denny would be meeting him at the airport. The two of them didn’t socialize much—they were both too busy—but they talked frequently in the surgeons’ lounge, and they’d been colleagues for nearly a decade. Denny was the closest thing Barnes had to a best friend.
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br />   He pictured Denny in the surgeons’ lounge, smoking a cigarette between operations. The entire hospital was officially nonsmoking, but the administration had made the surgeons’ lounge an exception after a few heavyweights like Denny and Barnes had pressured them into it. Some of the other surgeons had complained, but they’d been told to live with it.

  Another image suddenly came to mind. It was a small cup, translucent plastic, half-filled with something yellow. Urine. Barnes sensed he’d seen this image before. The surroundings appeared indistinct, yet the cup stood out like a focal point. As the image sharpened, an odor of ammonia filtered through his memory.

  “Coffee, sir?” It was a flight attendant, an older woman with wire-rimmed glasses and streaks of gray in her hair.

  The image of the plastic cup vanished. Barnes folded his list and turned to her. “Yes, thanks. Two creams, no sugar.”

  She poured his coffee on her server and transferred the cup to his tray table. Then she accidentally dropped one of the two small creamer containers into his lap. It hadn’t been opened, but the sight of it falling startled him. Acting on reflex, Barnes grabbed it, jarring his tray table and nearly spilling his coffee.

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” the flight attendant apologized.

  In his left hand, Barnes held his folded list, and, distracted, he thrust it into his inside suit-coat pocket rather than his right pants pocket where it belonged. “No harm done,” he replied, then turned his attention to his coffee.

  The nonstop flight was scheduled to take an hour and a half, but air-traffic control put the plane in a holding pattern over Boston. While they circled, Barnes became increasingly drowsy and eventually, despite the coffee, fell asleep. He awoke only as the tires jolted on the runway. Startled, he looked left and right to get his bearings. Where was he? An airplane, obviously. He leaned over and looked out the window. Nothing but gray runways and, in the distance, a control tower. He could be anywhere.

  The hands on his watch pointed to 2:47. Behind them the words Examinez votre poche droite jumped out at him. The missing original face had no doubt been worth more than $1,000. He must have had a good reason for replacing it. Examinez votre poche droite.