Page 12 of The Fall
Dr. Lin’s eyes narrow. She’s too professional to call me a liar outright, but we both know that’s what I am.
I look down at my hands. They’re steady, which seems wrong. Shouldn’t they be shaking? Shouldn’t there be some external sign of how thoroughly I’m falling apart inside?
She studies me, and I feel her weighing her options, deciding how hard to push.
“All right.” Dr. Lin picks up her tablet again. “Let’s run through the cognitive tests.”
Numbers backward from 100 by sevens. The months in reverse order. Word associations. I nail them all. She has me balance on one foot, touch my nose with my eyes closed.
“Your motor function looks good,” she says. Then come the questions.
“Now, can you tell me the date?”
I answer correctly.
“The current president?”
No problem.
“Can you tell me the name of the team you play for?”
“The Mutineers.” So far, so good, but I can’t tell if these answers are from memories, from luck, or from what I googled overnight.
She continues with questions about the team, teammates, set plays, line combinations, penalty kill units, and I answer them all, easy peasy. For the first time since she said hello, Dr. Lin smiles.
“Okay, last one: who is the captain of the team?”
“Blair Callahan.”
“That’s right. And does Blair do a good job?”
I blink. “Of course.”
“He does. In fact, I’d say he does such a good job that, if, for some reason, someone didn’t feel comfortable speaking to a member of staff, then taking their situation to Blair would be a very smart choice. I’d trust him to make the right call in that situation.” Dr. Lin looks at me, really looks at me.
Oh. Now I get it. I swallow. Nod.
There is no fucking way I am telling Blair that I can’t remember anything about him, or us, or how we came to be him-and-me. That I can’t remember our first kiss or the first time we made love or even meeting him.
“Good,” she says at last. “You passed the neurological exam with flying colors. That’s a good sign.”
How is that possible when there’s a yearlong black hole in my memory? My brain might be broken, but apparently not that badly. Right? Maybe I’m not losing it. Maybe I can get through this, and maybe everything will be okay.
But what if it’s not? What if I forget all of this again?
“Your test results are consistent with someone who’s taken a hit but isn’t showing signs of serious cognitive impairment.” Dr. Lin taps something on her tablet. “Which doesn’t mean you aren’t experiencing symptoms you’re not telling me about.”
I want to confess everything, spill my guts right here on this exam table. I want someone to help me make sense of this nightmare. But… I can’t.
“I want to see you again tomorrow. And if anything changes?—”
“I’ll call,” I cut in, not wanting to hear the rest, not wanting to face the possibility that whatever’s happening to me could take this life away permanently.
She sighs. “Things have been going well for you, Torey. Really well. This has been the best hockey you’ve ever played. You’ve been very happy here.”
I’m so fucking terrified, but I’m going to keep this. I want this life, because if it’s even a tenth as amazing as this tiny, fractional sliver I’ve seen, then this is everything, absolutely everything, I have ever wanted.
What is it they tell you back in juniors when you’re trying to break into the bigger leagues? Fake it till you make it?
