Remembering That Night. Stephanie Doyle
it matter?” the sheriff wondered.
Greg shook his head. “Nope. Pathological liar or a great actress. None of it will fool me.”
* * *
THE DOOR OPENED AND SHE looked up. Another face. A man, a tall man with a kind face and dark curly hair that was too long and a bit ruffled. He wasn’t wearing a uniform.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Greg Chalmers and I would like to talk to you, if that’s okay.”
No, it wasn’t okay. He was going to ask her questions. Questions she didn’t know the answer to. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. She knew slow deep breathing was supposed to help. It was supposed to calm her.
She didn’t know how she knew it. She just did.
He sat down, or more accurately folded himself into the chair across the table. She could see that his smile, while gentle, was wholly insincere. She didn’t blame him for that. She was as skeptical as he was. This wasn’t happening to her. This wasn’t possible.
She couldn’t even look down at herself because the bloodstains were still there and they were starting to make her nauseous. They’d given her a washcloth to clean her hands and her face, but the smell was still there. Also that hint of metallic flavor on her tongue as if some had gotten in her mouth. No matter how many glasses of water she consumed, it was still here.
Maybe that was what she was. A vampire. A hysterical idea, except it wasn’t any crazier than what she actually was. A woman with no memory.
“Don’t,” she muttered before he could start. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want to ask you some questions.”
“I know. I know this is a police station. I know this is blood on my dress. I know this. I don’t...I can’t...It’s like...I can’t even explain it.”
“What’s the first thing you remember?”
She closed her eyes. “The sound of the siren. I heard a siren and I thought to move out of the way. Then I realized I wasn’t in a car. I was walking. I stopped and the officer got out of his car and approached me.”
“He asked you for identification.”
“I didn’t have my purse.”
“Normally you do, though?”
“Of course. I carry a purse. I can’t ever find my keys in it. It’s big. I have a big purse and the keys are always at the bottom. I know that. I know that’s true.”
She couldn’t see the purse in her head. She could only recall the sensation of digging in it with her hands. The jingling sound of keys. She struggled to latch on to that. Willed herself to see something, any picture in her mind of her purse or her wallet and where they might be. But there was nothing. Just this small room and this man with the eyes that didn’t match his face. They were brown, but they weren’t nice. Not like his smile or his casual attire or the way his body relaxed into the chair. It all suggested he was a laid-back person. A nice guy.
But his eyes weren’t nice. They were...cold.
She started hyperventilating.
“Hey, calm down. Deep breaths.”
She nodded. She felt like that phrase had been her mantra at one point. “Deep breaths,” she repeated. “Deep breaths.” She tried to take one after each time she said it. Her lungs slowed.
“Okay. That’s better. Now can you remember anything else? Any detail. Like your big purse or maybe a favorite place. Any small detail might help us find out who you are.”
She looked at him then. At his eyes that were pinned on her face and then moved to her hands, then back to her eyes.
“You don’t believe me.” She couldn’t say how she knew, but she did. It was as if he didn’t care about the answer she gave, only how she said it. “You think I’m a liar.”
“No. I’m only trying to help you.”
She shook her head. There was no help in this room. The officer wanted to help her. When he found her on the side of the road he was worried she was hurt. Worried she was in pain. She knew what it felt like to have someone want to help her.
“You’re lying.”
He shifted then as his lean body worked to find a more comfortable position in the chair. “Why do you think so?”
“Because your eyes are...mean. I’m sorry if that’s harsh. But you’re sitting there like you’re relaxed, but your eyes don’t match. They’re almost cruel. So I think you’re lying. You think I know who I am. What happened.”
After a moment, he shrugged. “Yeah, I do. I think amnesia is very rare, especially to the extent you’re claiming.”
Amnesia. It was a ridiculous word. A word from daytime TV and silly sitcoms. Bad fiction books.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t really be happening to her. “I agree with you. That isn’t possible.” This was just a temporary lapse. A crazy event that would be reversed in a minute when her life and her name and this morning came back to her.
“Then tell me what your name is.”
He said it so gently. As if he was helping her to say the thing she really wanted to say. And she really did want to say it.
My name is...
My name is... And I’m from...
My name is...
She closed her eyes and pushed her brain to function. She did math in her head. Odd numbers she added together easily. Multiplication tables. Eights. Nines. Twelves. She knew that without effort. She thought of books. She knew who Harry Potter was. He was a wizard. With friends. The books were about magic.
Movies. The Sound of Music. When Maria finally kisses the captain. She knew that was her favorite scene.
My name is...I like The Sound of Music and Harry Potter.
She met the man’s eyes, the scary ones, and shook her head.
“I don’t know it. I don’t know my name. Please help me. Please, please help me.”
* * *
GREG SHUT THE DOOR BEHIND him carefully, silently. The sheriff’s eyebrows were almost off his head waiting for his assessment.
“Well?”
“Yeah, what’s the word, Cruel Eyes? That’s totally your new nickname, by the way.”
Chuck was laughing at his own joke, but Greg didn’t think it was funny. Mean and cruel. He’d never had those words associated with him before. He’d spent his life making people comfortable with him, getting them to open up to him. He’d been a support and comfort to people for years when he’d been a psychologist.
Only he wasn’t a psychologist anymore. Now he was a cynic. A cruel one, apparently.
“I don’t know.”
“What? I thought you were an expert in this stuff,” the sheriff complained.
Chuck snorted. “Come on. You know she’s lying. You said it.”
“No, I only think she’s lying. And that’s based on the statistical improbability of her condition. However, physically she showed no signs of it.”
Chuck let out a whistle. “But that’s almost impossible to do, isn’t it?”
“It is. Unless she’s a sociopath or so completely delusional she doesn’t believe she’s lying. Which is, statistically speaking, also unlikely.”
“Buddy, I don’t care about the damn statistics. Does this girl not know her name or what?”
Greg