Page 41 of So Close

Balding, with a scruffy reddish beard perpetually kept at the three-day-growth length, he’s nondescript. His olive-gray plaid suit is a size too large and couldn’t be more different from Dr. Hamid’s outfit; her red shalwar kameez is vibrant beneath her white lab coat. She’s been responsible for healing my body while Dr. Goldstein picks through my mind.

I don’t like him, not at all. His degrees are more advanced than mine, but he’s only book smart, at best. He eyes me like a bug he wants under a microscope, but he can’t pick my brain. He hasn’t the skill or the strength to face my demons.

“Thank you for joining us, Dr. Goldstein,” Dr. Hamid says, her smile as kind as always, but I respect the censoring glint in her eye. Beneath her caring demeanor and colorful femininity is a doctor who takes her work very seriously and expects no less from others.

As agitated as you were before, you are suddenly deeply still, standing behind me and gripping the back of my chair with both hands.

Dr. Hamid begins, speaking directly to me. “The multitude of scans we performed yielded images that several neurological experts studied, and their conclusions align – your brain is entirely without injury.”

“Physically,” Dr. Goldstein interjects.

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Hamid concurs impatiently. “We’re discussing the brain, not the mind. Further, the reports from the physical therapist were glowing. For a woman with your delicate appearance, he says you’re surprisingly strong even after three weeks of immobility. All in all, you’re a woman in remarkable health.”

“Physically,” Dr. Goldstein qualifies again.

You abruptly pull out the chair beside me and sink into it with elegant physicality. It’s very sexy, the power you wield over yourself.

It’s not until I hear your shaky exhale and watch your body melt into the uncomfortable seat that’s too small for your tall frame that I finally comprehend: it’s not our surroundings that made you so edgy. You reach for my hand and hold on too tightly.

“Ah. You were worried,” Dr. Hamid surmises, her gaze sympathetic. “I’m sorry, I thought I was clear that the prognosis was very good. We were just being cautious, perhaps overly so.”

Your chest lifts and falls, your nostrils flaring with every deeply drawn breath. We all wait for you to say something, and then I realize you can’t.

I smile brightly to fill the gap. “All good news.”

Your fingers flex on mine. “Does she have any physical-activity limitations?”

Remembering your reminder about the home gym and what you were responding to at the time, my smile flattens, and I try to pull my hand free. Your grip tightens to the point where I can only make a scene if I don’t desist.

Dr. Hamid shakes her head. “There are no activity restrictions.”

“To be clear,” you go on, “I’m free to make love to my wife without concern?”

My posture stiffens. Is that what’s held you back? Can it be that simple?

No. That doesn’t explain why you’ve avoided me so thoroughly.

Her smile is kind. “I would say resuming sexual intimacy after such a lengthy and painful separation can only be good for both of you.”

“Sexual dysfunction is one of myriad complications that can arise from dissociative amnesia.” Dr. Goldstein’s fingertips drum into the tabletop. His legs are crossed, his chair tilted back. “I cannot stress enough how vital it is that you begin therapy at once. You’ve been resistant. I understand that guided self-examination can be especially difficult for psychology students, who might believe they can analyze and diagnose themselves without assistance. However, disorders like yours are rare and indicative of severe emotional trauma.”

The fingers of my free hand curl into my palm. “I’m aware of that.”

“I’m not,” you interject. “Can you explain what you’re worried about?”

“The mind isn’t like a VHS tape that can be erased and re-recorded over. You do know what a VHS tape is, Mr. Black?”

“Yes, of course,” you say drily, “I was born in “83.”

“Ah, and now I feel old,” he says with a genuine wry smile. “Your wife’s mind has compartmentalized her trauma; it hasn’t erased it. Her subconscious is very aware of what she’s suffered, and it will react strongly when triggered. We have no idea what her triggers might be. A storm. The sight of a boat. Something as simple as a song she may have been listening to. It will be something her subconscious associates with the trauma.”

Dr. Goldstein focuses on you, but Dr. Hamid studies me.

“Generalized amnesia is most often diagnosed in combat veterans and sexual assault survivors,” he continues, “and we can anticipate certain triggers in those situations. In this instance, we don’t know if the extreme stress of fighting for survival precipitated her memory loss or something else entirely. Perhaps she was traumatized after reaching the shore or during a rescue when she was most vulnerable. We simply don’t know what happened, but we know it was an experience far beyond what her mind could accept.”

You squeeze my hand until the band of my ring feels like a blade. Your dark eyes reflect the horrors of your imagination. I don’t want you to torment yourself, but maybe that’s what you’ve been doing since you found me. Perhaps this conversation is only reinforcing your worst fears.

Dr. Goldstein’s voice rises as he goes on, his eyes alight with avid curiosity. Something rare has wandered into his purview, and he’s greedy to study it exhaustively.

---