Page 11 of Meet Me at Christmas
Stella took the device, ticked the various boxes, added her signature, and handed it back.
Dr. Astley placed the iPad on her desk. “The session has already started, but let me brief you before you go in.” She went around to her side of the desk and pulled up a screen on her computer. “Our patient is recovering from a traumatic brain injury that he received about two months ago.”
Stella pulled out her laptop, balancing it on her thighs.
The doctor clicked a few keys and an image appeared on the screen. “As part of a government partnership, the medical team from Fort Campbell, Kentucky, is working with us to provide care for the subject. He experienced an injury to the hippocampal formation and is now receiving therapy with us for impairment of intellectual function, after his discharge from the army for irrational behavior.”
“What kind of irrational behavior?”
“Anger, some signs of depression, lack of concern for the consequences of his actions. It’s as if he doesn’t care at all what happens to him, which puts him and his fellow soldiers at risk.” Dr. Astley brought up another screen of test results. “But, apart from that, we’re perplexed by this unusual case because his recall skills don’t fit the usual pattern.”
“What do you mean?” Stella asked.
“Well, as I’m sure you know, memory is more complex than just short-term and long-term, but we can generally categorize memorylossinto one of those two areas. With this patient, the symptoms present almost as if he experienced a particularly distressing event and has blocked it out. He’s unable to access the memory of an entire portion of his life. He remembers some things, like how to drive a car, but we think that’s because he was probably sixteen when he learned. His more recent memory is nearly nonexistent.”
Stella typed madly to get the facts down. “Traumatic brain injury affects short-term memory usually, right?”
“Yes. And we’re hoping it can be improved with treatment, but stress is slowing progress, and the subject has dealt with an incredible amount. As I mentioned, your earlier article interested me because the subject experiences conflicting information about things he has done in his life that directly oppose his values.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to run, so I’ll let you handle that investigation first-hand and then we can chat after you meet the patient.”
“Sure,” Stella said, finishing up her notes.
“Do you have any questions before I take you to meet him?”
Stella shut her laptop. “Not at the moment, thank you.”
Dr. Astley clasped her hands together. “All right. They’re in therapy room 344.”
Stella stood, tucked her laptop under her arm, and turned to leave.
“Miss Fisher.” The doctor stopped her. “The patient is a bit combative during therapy. I wanted to warn you so you aren’t alarmed. He’s aware of it and we’re working with him. He’s also aware that you’re going to be observing today.”
“Okay,” Stella said, preparing herself. She’d been through similar situations before in her line of work, and since she was only there as a writer, she could usually hang back and take notes unnoticed.
They walked down the hallway toward the therapy wing, past rows of stockings labeled with names of staff in silver puff-paint. An elderly man pushed a walker, his belly grazing the handles. He locked eyes with Stella, his cheeks lifting. “What a delight to see your smile today.” He passed them slowly going in the other direction.
“That’s Mr. Ferguson,” Dr. Astley said. “He’s eighty-seven. Can you believe it?”
“He doesn’t look it.” Stella peered over her shoulder to get a second glimpse of the old man. The youthful light in his eyes stayed with her even after he’d gone.
“That’s because, despite all his struggles, he’s the kindest soul you’ll ever meet. Kindness keeps us young.”
“I can tell.”
“Your door will be the third one on the left. They know you’re coming.”
“Thank you.”
They parted, and Stella made her way to the room. As she neared, she could hear the patient’s muffled barking at the therapist.
“This isn’t helpful!” he roared.
Combative, indeed.
“How is this supposed to help me?” the voice boomed once more.
It also sounded familiar. Stella sharpened her hearing to get a better handle on the voice, but she was met with only silence.
When she reached the room, she knocked on the door. The holiday wreath hanging from a plastic hook shimmied as she let herself in. “Hello?”
