Amnesia (19 page)

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Authors: G. H. Ephron

BOOK: Amnesia
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“I guess it is weird,” Maria observed, “considering how much I hate them.”
“Didn't you call your father when you tried to kill yourself.”
Her jaw dropped. “You think I called him for help? I called him because I wanted him to know what he'd done to me.”
“But in fact, he did help you. You would have died.”
Her voice turned strident. “I
wanted
to die. And I wanted him to know it was his fault.”
Not far in the back of my mind I was feeling the pressure of time. With managed care, Maria Whitson's days with us were numbered. Before we released her, we'd have to put in place the support and protection she needed. So I pressed forward with a question I knew she wasn't quite ready to tackle. “Have you thought any more about whether your parents can visit you? We'd like to-”
Maria interrupted with a vehement. “
No!
”
“Ms. Whitson, have you started to consider what you're going to do when you leave here? You'll need money. A place to stay.” She didn't answer. “Are there friends you can stay with?”
She shook her head. “I have no friends.”
“Relatives?”
She shook her head harder.
“Well, we're thinking about those things, too. Meeting with your parents doesn't mean you forgive them. It doesn't mean you accept their help. But it might turn out that they can help you, even indirectly, after you leave here. Or it might turn out that we need to set up an environment that protects you from them. That's why I want to meet with them here, where it's safe.” I pressed, “Perhaps there's someone on the staff you'd like to be with you when you see them?”
Maria seemed to soften. “Maybe I could handle it if Gloria's there. She understands.”
“Gloria, then. Absolutely. I'll make the arrangements.”
I left Maria Whitson feeling as if we'd made progress, but convinced there was much more ground yet to be broken. Later that afternoon, I found Gloria sipping an afternoon cup of coffee and dragging on an unlit cigarette in the little kitchen behind the nurses' station. I pulled up a chair opposite her.
“Why can't they at least tell us when they've got a fire drill scheduled,” I grumbled.
“You know as well as I do that would defeat the whole purpose.”
“I know, I know, but it seems designed to destroy exactly the kind of therapeutic environment we're trying to build.”
“Having a tough day?” she asked.
“Sorry, I'm not criticizing you. You did a great job, as usual. It went off without a hitch.”
“It took five minutes to get everyone herded together. That's the best we've done.”
We sat in companionable silence, looking out the window into the dusk that was descending earlier and earlier each afternoon. I cleared my throat. I was nervous about broaching the subject of Maria Whitson's family meeting.
Gloria finessed me. “Maria Whitson asked me to be there with her when she sees her parents.”
“And?”
“And what? Of course I will.”
I waited. Gloria crossed her arms in front of her, cocked her head, and pursed her lips. I gazed back at her, letting the silence grow. “This one's got you tied up like a pretzel, hasn't it?” I observed.
Gloria stood up, crossed over to the window, and contemplated the twilight. I shuffled through my appointment book, feigning interest. When I looked up again, her reflected image was staring back at me, chin thrust out. I recognized the stance. On the rare occasion when Gloria is convinced that the rest of us are blind to a patient's vulnerability, she turns into this block of granite, challenging one and all to take a poke at her or to back off.
“When it happened to Rachel, there wasn't anyone to protect her,” she said. Rachel was Gloria's partner, the woman with whom she shared her life. “She went through this with her family. Her father abused her — sexually, physically, and emotionally. And no one,
no one
was there to get her through it. She's very damaged. And the only way she's been able to heal is by confronting her family, asserting control, and cutting herself off from them completely.” She stared out the window. “So it's very hard for me to be objective. Of course I realize Maria Whitson is not Rachel. But their situations are so similar.”
I took off my glasses and rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I think your empathy has been very helpful for Maria. It makes her feel safe. But you're right, her situation is not at all clear-cut.”
“Believe me, I see that. Forgetting for twenty years what she now remembers as repeated, violent abuse?”
“And each time she tells me about what happened, she uses virtually the same words, like she's reading a movie script,” I added. “And Dr. Baldridge bringing it back through hypnosis.
We may never know what did or didn't happen to Maria Whitson when she was a little girl.”
Gloria licked her lips. “That's what I keep telling myself. And it's not the point, anyway. She's only here with us for a short time. After that, she hasn't got a whole lot of options.”
“She makes all of us feel like protecting her.”
“Protect her, yes. But she doesn't need to be infantilized. She deserves to work through her own pain and reach her own decisions. And that's what I'd like to help her do.”
Sometimes Gloria made me want to stand up and cheer.
I HAD a quiet weekend at home while the Head of the Charles Regatta turned my river into a big frat party. Six thousand rowers clogging the river and two hundred thousand spectators occupying every bit of the riverbank—not my scene.
Monday morning, I didn't even try to get on the river. With everyone trying to get their boat out of the water at once, it would have been like driving on Beacon Street near Boston University on September 1, National Student Moving Day. Unmitigated chaos. With the start of the trial a week away, I went directly from home to Chip's office for a strategy session. I parked on Mass Ave in Central Square, fed the meter six quarters, and headed down the street.
Chip's office was in one of the only office buildings for miles. A cement tower apparently molded by some immense waffle iron, it had stood alone for decades, a harbinger of someone's urban renewal nightmare that fizzled on the drawing board. With the demise of rent control, the surrounding blue-collar neighborhood was rapidly turning white, property values were skyrocketing, and the long-awaited makeover of Central Square was finally beginning to happen. A Starbucks across the street
was being picketed by a motley array of local characters carrying signs protesting its takeover of the old Harvard Donut Shop.
Purists aside, change has been good for the area. The best ice cream could now be found down the street at Toscanini's. With each wave of immigrants, new ethnic restaurants have taken their place alongside Irish pubs. Cambodian, Thai, and Indian restaurants rub shoulders with sub shops. The Falafel Palace sits enthroned on one corner in an oversize chess piece, a white-tiled honest-to-God castle complete with turret. In bygone days a White Tower hamburger stand (or hamburg as they say around here), it epitomizes Central Square's transition from a white bread to a pita bread neighborhood. The next wave — yuppie coffee and Gap jeans — would be a whole lot less interesting.
A bank and a downscale Buck a Book occupied the first floor of Chip's building. I pushed through the double doors. The lobby had a slightly dilapidated air to it, but it was clean and someone had actually dusted the plastic plants that flanked the building directory.
I took the elevator to the seventh floor. The preservationists would have been delighted at how little had changed here in two years. As I walked the familiar walk to the end of the hall, I felt anxiety tighten my stomach. Breathe, I told myself, and counted steps.
The door to the law office was open and I could hear phones ringing. I looked through the doorway. The central room was crowded with a squadron of steel desks with an assortment of very young men and women at work there or close by. Around the edges were small offices, separated from the center area by glass partitions. I stepped inside. I spotted Chip through one of the partitions. He was on the phone but he saw me. He waved and held up one finger.
I found a chair and perched on the edge of it, shifting my bulging leather briefcase onto my lap. The office teemed with activity. Voices were raised, phones rang. I felt apart, awkwardly
suspended, as if I weren't even in the room but looking at it from the wrong end of a telescope. I opened my briefcase and rummaged through the papers.
The smell of fresh-cut watermelon made me look up. Annie was an alien among the well-dressed young legal types. In her jeans and plaid flannel shirt, her long brown hair curling wildly around her face, Annie felt like a breeze blowing in from an open window.
In spite of myself, I grinned.
“Been awhile since you were here,” she said.
I nodded and went back to rummaging.
“Heard about your car,” she said. “And after losing the boat …” Her voice trailed off. I knew she was watching me but I couldn't meet that look. I could handle loss. It was sympathy that made me want to throw up.
“I talked to Mac.” Now her voice was brisk, all business. “Swears he didn't know Sylvia Jackson until after the murder. Admits he knew of her.”
Now I looked up. “Meaning?”
“Some of his buddies knew her — well. And you were right. They're not on the official list of early suspects. They were questioned. Discreetly.”
“You don't think he's hiding something, do you?” I asked.
“I told you before, I'm not entirely unbiased. If he helped an old lady across the street, I'd suspect ulterior motives.”
“He does seem so” — I searched for the word, rejecting “rabid” and “insane” — “overreactive. It's more than bad chemistry between him and me. Maybe he's protecting his buddies. Or maybe he's protecting himself.”
“Or maybe he's just an asshole,” Annie said.
“Right,” I said. “Except that he's put himself in a good position to shape what she remembers. How do we know her memories didn't develop courtesy of his suggestions?”
“We don't,” Annie said.
“I found something out, too,” I said. “You know the pleated
paper cup that held the meds Syl OD'ed on? They don't use that kind of cup for medication. They use white plastic ones.”
“So, the pills Sylvia Jackson found in her bathroom weren't left there by a nurse.”
“Or doctor. Or any of the hospital staff. At least not in an official capacity. Speaking of which, would you expect a nurse to carry a handgun around in her purse?”
“Well, it's certainly not your typical nurse gear. But you'd be surprised how many .people — women — have guns these days. And nurses aren't so good at doing what you'd expect them to do, either. Ever notice how many of them smoke?” Annie stopped. “Who are we talking about, anyway?”
“The nurse I have to get past every time I go to see Sylvia Jackson. Carolyn Lovely. She was with Syl in the parking garage. A gun fell out of her purse when she jumped to get out of the way. Can you check on something? Find out if she's got a restraining order against an ex-husband.”
“That would explain the gun.”
“It would. And another thing. Angelo Ruggiero, the nephew Syl refers to as her guardian angel —”
“I think the police interviewed a nephew early on. But the name doesn't sound right. Not Ruggiero. Angelo something-else-Italian. I've got it in my notes somewhere.”
“I'd like to know more about him and his name's a good place to start. I wonder if he was involved in any business with his uncle. Stuart mentioned that Tony was waiting for some deal to happen before he'd marry Sylvia Jackson.”
“Typical male excuse.”
“Yeah. But what if there was some big deal that he was about to close? And what if Angelo and he were doing business together? And what if — ?”
Annie held up her hand to ward off my onslaught of whatifs. “I know he had an alibi. I'll see what I can find out.”
Just then, Chip appeared and led me back to his office. Annie
disappeared into a similar office along the opposite wall.
I unloaded documents onto a round table, alongside the files Chip already had stacked there. The phone rang and I waited while Chip disposed of the caller. The windows of the corner office were filmed with dirt and the furniture was gunmetal gray — a desk, file cabinets, and chairs. Only the chair behind the desk — a swivel chair with a dark leather seat cushion and padded armrests — looked like it had been picked out by an actual person.
One wall was floor-to-ceiling law books. Hanging on the wall behind the desk was a series of portraits of a girl, starting with a crude crayon drawing and evolving into an accomplished pencil and watercolor sketch. In a series of photographs, a girl's face matured from infant to prom princess.
“Your daughter's growing up,” I commented.
“She got rid of her braces and now, look out,” Chip said.
A Grateful Dead poster hung on the back of the door — a red, white, and blue skeleton. Fillmore East, 1976. I should have known. That wry sense of humor, the intensity, a social conscience long after it had gone out of fashion. Chip had the soul of a Dead Head.
“New poster?” I asked.
“Got it in on e-Bay. I couldn't resist.”
“Were you there?”
“I was,” he said wistfully.
“That's amazing. I was there, too.”
“If you'd told me then that this is where I'd end up.” Chip laughed and shook his head.
I glanced through the glass, into the busy office. “This place hasn't changed. Not a single one of your colleagues has gotten a day older. How do you do that?”
“We send out for replacements every six months.”
“But you're still here.”
He looked around, as if surprised to find that he was. “It's
definitely not inertia that keeps me here. I still buy into the notion that people who can't afford a private attorney need me. And this place is addictive.”
I noticed a framed photograph on Chip's desk: Chip and four men, all wearing three-piece suits topped off incongruously with baseball caps, grinned back at me. I could make out the inscription on one of the caps: MURDER SQUAD. As if defending killers were part of some perverse game. “When they come to certify you insane, I'll offer this photograph as evidence,” I told him.
“Not a great way to hang on to your family, though. My wife left me last year. I guess she couldn't take the roller-coaster ride and the all-nighters. Never mind the threats in the mail, the nasty phone calls. Can't say that I blame her.” He swallowed. “I think Kate's death was a piece of it. It showed how vulnerable this work makes us all.”
I stared at the patriotic skeleton. None of us at the Grateful Dead concert had any inkling of the evil in the world. Or of how oblivious we'd be if the devil himself were sitting beside us, sharing a toke.
Annie pushed the door open and slid inside carrying another dozen file folders and some small spiral notebooks.
I spent a few minutes explaining Syl's personality tests. I summed up the results: “Naturally, this thing that's happened to her is a very significant event in her life and it's left her feeling incomplete, broken, small and powerless. The tests tell us that she uses denial and distortion to deal with all of these negatives. She sees something frightening or disturbing and she runs the other way — coming up with happily-ever-after flowers and paper butterflies.”
“Paper butterflies?” Annie asked.
I nodded. “For instance, she'll turn an inkblot one way and see severed limbs and hatchets. Then she flips it around, and lo and behold, a paper butterfly. It's called reaction formation. She's using it to deal with the unpleasant images that are originating both inside and outside of her.”
“She gave Stuart Jackson paper butterflies the day before the murder. It was his birthday,” Annie said.
“One thing's for sure. They represent safety for her now.”
“By the way, I checked around,” Annie said as she flipped open a small notebook. “Turns out Sylvia Jackson told a friend at work that story about how Tony walked in on her when she and Stuart were in bed together.”
“Did Syl mention what Tony was wearing?” I asked.
Annie laughed. “She did. This woman remembered because she thought Syl said Tony was dressed in a gorilla suit — like a monkey. Then when Syl described it, she realized she'd meant the other kind of guerrilla.”
Chip said, “I want to bring that earlier incident out at trial without calling Stuart to testify.”
“It's just the kind of thing Sylvia Jackson does — mix old memories up with her more recent past,” I said.
“So we've got that,” Chip said. “We've got the test results. Seems as if they couldn't be more clear. But how to show that to the jury,” Chip slowed down, thinking as he spoke, “without turning them off? They're going to want to believe her. She's appealing, sincere, and very vulnerable. And I have to undermine every single word she says without appearing to be an ogre — not an easy line to walk.” He continued, eyes narrowing as strategies formed in his head. “If I'm solicitous and gain her trust, then we should find that she's just as suggestible on the witness stand as the police who questioned her found her to be in the hospital.”
I shifted in my seat, feeling acutely uncomfortable. I pushed aside a vision of Syl dressed in a hooded red cape and Chip in a sheepskin. I wasn't her protector. I wasn't even her physician. None of the normal doctor-patient responsibilities and restrictions applied. Still, the vision of Red Riding Hood returned, only this time I was the wolf in sheep's clothing.
Chip went on, “And then, after she tells the court what happened, we hit her with the discrepancies between what she's just
said and her earlier statements. She's going to get confused and flustered.”
“Poor thing,” Annie commented, “she's contradicted herself a million times.”
“On the other hand,” I argued, “don't you think everyone's had that experience? You know, you tell a story and then, over time, the details drift. Ever reminisce with a friend about something you did together and find out that your memories are totally at odds with one another? It doesn't mean the event didn't happen.”

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