Music in the Night

  I sighed with frustration, rose, took off the shirt and pants, and went into the bathroom. There was a mirror over the small sink. I stared at my face, bringing my fingers to my lips, my nose, even touching my eyes. I was like a blind person trying to identify someone through my fingers, but what I felt, what I found rang no bells. I leaned in to look very closely at my reflection. I was looking at the face of a complete stranger. It was as if I had been dropped into someone else's body.

  "Who are you?" I asked the image in the mirror and waited.

  Suddenly, I heard a roaring in my ears. A memory flashed, the memory of holding a seashell to my ear and listening.

  The ocean is in there, someone was saying. I sensed I was just a little girl.

  Look inside. Do you see it?

  I closed my eyes. There were smiling faces and there was laughter and there was the ocean in the seashell. Everyone who looked at me smiled.

  "Who am I?" I screamed at them, but they just continued to smile, "WHO AM I?"

  I directed my screaming at the image in the mirror and the image just screamed back. I don't know how long that went on before Mrs. Kleckner returned. She spun me around with those strong hands of hers and then she slapped me sharply across the face and I stopped.

  "What are you doing? You frightened some of my other patients."

  "I don't remember my name," I wailed. "I don't know who that is in the mirror. I'm afraid. I feel like I'm dangling in space. It's terrifying!" I cried.

  "Don't be ridiculous. You're safe here. You're not dangling. Now, didn't I tell you to take a shower and get dressed? You'll see the doctor this morning and your therapy will begin. Now, get into the shower," she said and reached over to turn it one "Go on, get in and stop this nonsense now. No one is going to pamper you. You have to cure yourself and help yourself."

  She glared at me.

  "It will go better for you if you cooperate," she said, not cloaking her threats.

  I ground the tears away and stepped into the shower, adjusting the water so it wasn't as scalding hot as she had it. She waited a moment and then left me alone. '

  Despite the shower, I felt deeply exhausted after drying off. It took great effort to dress, get on my socks and shoes. Where did this clothing come from? I wondered. Was it mine? Everything did fit well.

  The door opened again and Mrs. Kleckner stood there inspecting me.

  "Good," she said. "Come along. I'll show you the eating facilities now and tomorrow morning, you'll get yourself up and to breakfast on your own, understand? Do you understand?" she repeated when I didn't answer quickly enough

  "Yes," I said.

  "This way." She turned and I joined her. We walked down the corridor toward the stairway. A tall, dark-haired girl was there ahead of us. She didn't glance our way, but instead bounced happily down the steps, waving her hands as if she were sweeping cobwebs away from her head.

  Mrs. Kleckner sighed deeply and shook her head, but she said nothing. We started down the stairs. The dark-haired girl was already down and away. I was moving too slowly to satisfy Mrs. Kleckner, so when we reached the bottom of the stairs, she seized my hand and jerked me along.

  "It's time to wake up," she declared and forced me to stride step for step alongside her until we reached a large doorway, from which I could hear dishes and silverware clinking and voices in a low but continuous murmur, punctuated by some laughter. When we turned into the doorway and entered the cafeteria, everyone stopped talking and looked at us.

  There were a little more than a dozen people, all looking relatively my age, whatever that exact age was. The dark-haired girl who had been sweeping the air around her as she descended the steps broke into a long, shrill laugh. She was at the counter getting her food from a sweet-looking elderly lady in a white uniform.

  "Quiet," Mrs. Kleckner cried. The dark-haired girl stopped with such abruptness, I couldn't help but be impressed with Mrs. Kleckner's authority. All eyes were on us now. There was a boy close by who didn't look much more than ten or eleven, gazing at me with a small smile on his lips. Sitting at his table was a tall, very thin girl with hair the color of ripe apricots. She had big dark eyes and a mouth with soft, perfect lips. Her cheekbones were clearly visible under her tissuelike skin, which was pale and thin enough to pass for transparent. I saw how thin her arms were, too. Despite her fragile appearance, she sat straight and firm and looked at me with a soft, friendly air.

  Across from her, his eyes down, was a handsome young man with hair as dark and shiny as black pearl. He wore it brushed neatly on the sides and long down the back of his neck. For a moment I thought of someone else. A name almost appeared, but when this boy flashed a quick, timid look at me, I forgot the face in my memory and smiled back at him.

  "We have a new resident," Mrs. Kleckner said.

  "Hooray for her," a chubby boy with blond hair cried. The two boys at his table laughed, but then stopped as if they could turn it on and off like a television set, their faces moving from comedy to tragedy in a split second.

  "That's enough of that, Carlton," Mrs. Kleckner chastised. He laughed silently, his cheeks jiggling, and then he suddenly looked as if he were going to cry. I glanced at Mrs. Kleckner, who didn't seem to notice or care.

  "Her name," she continued, "is Laura?'

  I turned and looked at her, seeing a small smile on her face. All along she knew I had been right. The other nurse had mistakenly called me Lauren and not Laura, but I had been unable to remember. However, even though I sensed Laura was my real name, I couldn't connect it with anything else, especially a surname.

  "I want you all to make her feel at home here," Mrs. Kleckner added.

  "Home sweet home," someone in the back muttered.

  The dark-haired girl by the counter suddenly spun around and then spun around again as if she were dancing a ballet. One of the attendants nearby moved quickly to her side and seized her hand. He spoke to her quietly and she gazed at the floor.

  When I looked to the right, I noticed a female attendant hand-feeding a boy who looked at least twelve or thirteen. She encouraged him to feed himself, but he merely stared ahead, opening his mouth and chewing mechanically as she scooped the food into it and then wiped his lips.

  "Go to the counter and get what you want," Mrs. Kleckner said. "There's juice, cereals, and eggs, if you like. Mrs. Anderson is our cook. She can make some special things for you if your requests are reasonable and she has enough notice. You can sit anywhere you like," she added.

  I crossed the cafeteria, feeling all eyes upon me. The dark-haired girl had been moved along and sat with the attendant at her side. She sipped on a glass of orange juice and stared ahead.

  "Hello, Laura," Mrs. Anderson said. She had a wonderfully happy smile, her eyes bright and cheery. "Would you like some scrambled eggs this morning?"

  "Yes," I said. "Thank you."

  I suddenly realized that I was very hungry. I chose grapefruit juice and plucked a roll from the basket. Mrs. Anderson scooped the eggs onto a plate and put a piece of melon beside them.

  "Enjoy your first breakfast with us," she said.

  "Thank you."

  I took the plate, put it on my tray, and turned. Many of the other residents were still staring at me, but a number had gone back to their own breakfasts and conversations. Some looked absolutely terrified that I would stop at their tables as I made my way through the room.

  "Sit here. You'll be safe," a pretty red-haired girl said. There was another, shorter and youngerlooking girl with her. The younger girl wore a jeans skirt and a frilly white blouse. Her blond hair was tied in two long, thick pigtails.

  "Thank you," I said and took the empty seat at their table.

  "My name's Megan Paxton," the red-haired girl said. She had a button nose and a small mouth. Her eyes darted about as if she expected trouble.

  "I'm Laura," I said, confident of that little bit of information.

  "Laura what?" the younger girl asked. She looked like a doll because
of her tiny features.

  "I can't remember my full name," I said. "I can't remember anything," I admitted, as if that were a crime and this was a jail instead of a clinic.

  "Around here, that's an advantage," Megan said. "You're lucky," she said dryly. "I can't forget anything. When did you arrive?"

  "Some time last night. I think," I said "It all still seems fuzzy in my head.- I drank my juice.

  Megan darted her eyes about again. I began to look in the directions she was surveying to see if there was something I should notice, too.

  "Is something wrong?" I asked.

  "I'm just waiting to see if he's still here. They claim," she said, widening her eyes and hoisting her eyebrows, "that they fired him yesterday."

  "Who?"

  "Garson Taylor, one of the attendants. He tried to rape me," Megan said.

  "Really?"

  "Of course, really," she snapped. "What do you think, I'm making it up? Well, do you?" she drove at me, her face full of fire, her eyes wide.

  "No, I'm . . I'm sorry. I was just surprised by what you said."

  "Well don't be surprised. Be alert. All the men here have one thing on their minds and you don't have to take two guesses to figure out what it is either," she said. "When they look at you, they're looking through your clothes."

  "That's terrible."

  "Tell me about it." She considered me a moment. "Maybe you were raped," she said. "And it was so traumatic, it caused you to forget everything. That's very common." She nodded, firmly convinced in her diagnosis.

  I stopped eating and gazed at her. I started to shake my head.

  "Why are you shaking your head? You said you don't remember anything. I bet that's it. Right, Lulu?" she asked the young girl. The small girl nodded.

  "Yes, Megan," she said obediently. Megan looked satisfied.

  "Her name isn't really Lulu. I named her that," Megan explained with a smile. "That's because she's a real lulu. Right, Lulu?"

  The small girl laughed.

  "My daddy's coming to see me today," she said.

  "Oh, will you stop? She's been saying that for two years.

  Her father doesn't even write her letters," Megan said. "You would think she'd understand, face reality by now."

  "Yes, he does."

  "Okay, Lulu. Believe what you want. Fathers are the biggest liars of all anyway," Megan said. "Can you remember your father?" she asked me.

  "No," I said.

  "He's the one who raped you then," Megan threw back at me.

  I nearly choked on my eggs.

  "I never said I was raped."

  "Of course you didn't, but it's a very logical reason why you can't remember." She leaned over to whisper. "Be very careful after you've gone to bed. They all have keys to our doors," she said, leaning back, "that is how Garson Taylor got into my room. Fortunately, I was able to shout loudly enough to bring others. He claimed he wasn't even in my room. Can you imagine?"

  She looked about nervously again and then turned back to me, her haunted eyes wide and full of alarm.

  "If he's still here we're all in danger, especially a new girl like you. Watch the doctors, too," she added.

  "The doctors? Why?"

  "They like to touch you here all the time," she said, touching her small breasts, "and pretend it's necessary."

  She stared at me and then bit down on her lower lip so hard, I thought she would draw blood.

  "You'll be all right," she said. "We'll all be all right. Someday. Right, Lulu?"

  "What? Yes. My daddy's coming today," she told me. "He's going to take me home."

  "I'm happy for you," I said.

  "Oh, spunks," Megan said. "Let's go to the rec room. We can listen to some music and talk."

  "We can just leave and go there?" I asked.

  "We can do anything we want," she declared. "We're paying the rent. At least you know this much about yourself, Laura: You're rich."

  "I am?"

  "Of course you are, stupid. It costs about forty thousand dollars a year to stay here."

  I sat back, amazed.

  "I didn't realize," I said. "I--"

  "Just don't let any of them take advantage of you. You don't have to put up with any of it." She gazed at the door. "If he's still working here, I'm going to raise holy hell," she said. Then she gazed at my plate. "Finish your breakfast. We've got things to talk about," she ordered. "I've got to make you aware of all the dangers!"

  11

  Return to the Land

  of the Living

  .

  I didn't get the chance to spend time with

  Megan after breakfast because as soon as I was finished and rose from the table, Mrs. Kleckner approached me to tell me Doctor Southerby was Waiting for me.

  Megan seized my wrist as I turned to follow Mrs. Kleckner out of the cafeteria.

  "He's the worst," she whispered, "because he's young and unmarried. Watch yourself."

  I nodded as if to thank her for her warning and she relaxed her grip on me so I could walk after Mrs. Kleckner. We went to the right and down the corridor to an office on the left. A pleasant-looking dark-haired woman of no more than forty looked up from her desk and smiled as we entered. She wore a dark green dress and had pretty pearl earrings that matched a pearl necklace on a gold chain. She looked as perfectly put together as a mannequin in a showcase window. Not a strand of her hair was out of place, but she had a warmth to her smile that made me feel welcome.

  "Mrs. Broadhaven, this is our new patient," Mrs. Kleckner declared.

  "Yes. Doctor Southerby is waiting to see you, Laura," she said to me and rose from her desk.

  Despite Megan's warning, I was eager to meet the doctor, eager to find out what was wrong with me and finally be cured.

  "When you're finished here, maybe Mrs. Broadhaven will show you around the clinic," Mrs. Kleckner said, nodding at Doctor Southerby's secretary. Mrs. Kleckner's tone made it clear it wasn't a request as much as it was an order.

  "I'll be very happy to," Mrs. Broadhaven said, apparently not bothered by the sharpness in Mrs. Kleckner's voice. She went to the door to the inner office, smiling at me as she turned and waited.

  I took a deep breath and followed her. Hopefully, the answers to all my questions and the light to wash away the darkness lay behind that office door.

  "This is our new patient, Doctor Southerby," she announced as soon as she stepped in.

  Even though Megan had warned me, I was rather surprised at how young the doctor looked. He rose immediately from behind his dark cherry wood desk, a desk so large it looked like it was wrapped around him. Everything on it was neatly organized with folders in a neat pile and an open pad before him. On the wall behind him hung his framed diplomas and awards. There were two large windows behind his desk that looked out at the grounds. I saw the weeping willow trees I had seen silhouetted in the dark the night before. Everything looked green and plush today.

  "Good morning," Doctor Southerby said. "Please. Come right in." His voice was deeper than I would have expected and he had a Southern accent. His light brown hair was trimmed short at the sides, but with a small pompadour at the front.

  "Please," he said quickly, nodding at the chair in front of his desk, "make yourself comfortable. Thank you, Mrs. Broadhaven," he told his secretary.

  She gave me a smile of reassurance and left, closing the door softly behind her. Doctor Southerby turned back to me.

  He had turquoise eyes that radiated a warmth and friendliness that immediately put me at ease. His smile brightened them even more.

  Not a very tall man, perhaps only five feet ten, he nevertheless projected a strong, firm demeanor with his shoulders back, his handshake assertive, definite. He had a firm, straight mouth and a taut jawline. In his dark gray suit, light blue shirt and matching tie with a jeweled tie clip, he appeared very distinguished and confident despite his youthful look.

  He returned to his chair behind the desk.

  "Did you get some rest last
night?" he asked. "I always find it hard to sleep well in a new place, myself."

  "I was so exhausted I didn't have time to think about it," I said and he laughed.

  "Most likely, most likely," he said. "Well, let me introduce myself properly." He leaned back in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together. "I am Doctor Henry Southerby and I will be in charge of your case."

  He spoke calmly, relaxed, while I felt like butterflies with their wings on fire were circling madly in my stomach. I could barely sit still,

  "What is my case? Why am I here? What happened to me? Why can't I remember the simplest things about myself?" I blurted out all at once. "I couldn't even remember my real name! I still can't remember my surname."

  The high notes of hysteria in my voice didn't seem to faze him. He simply nodded, gently.

  "I can understand your anxiety," he said, "and I want to put you at ease as quickly as I can. That way, you'll recover faster. It would be best," he continued, "if you remember things on your own. My simply filling up the empty spaces won't be enough. For one, you might reject the information again and then we could be worse off than we are now."

  "Reject the information? I don't understand," I said, shaking my head. The calmer he was, the more anxious I felt. "Why did I reject such important information about myself, my name, my family, where I live? It's terrifying. Am I crazy? Is that why I'm here? What's wrong with me?" I pursued, my voice so shrill it hurt my own ears.

  "I assure you that what's wrong with you at the moment won't last. And once you are cured, there's very little chance this will happen again," he replied in a mellow voice. It didn't satisfy me, however.

  "What will not happen? What do I have, a disease? What?" I asked. He couldn't talk fast enough for me.

  "From what I understand about your situation, I feel safe in a preliminary diagnosis of psychogenic amnesia," he said, although he looked uncomfortable about committing himself so quickly.

  "I know what amnesia is," I said, shaking my head, "but that other word--"

  "Psychogenic simply means your amnesia probably isn't due to any organic mental disorder. There's no physical reason for you to be unable to remember things. You didn't suffer any injury to your brain; physical injury, that is. There are no drugs or alcohol involved. You're not an epileptic, and," he said with a smile, "you're not pretending to be forgetful."