Charlotte leaned back on the couch. “Huh,” she said to herself, mystified. “Huh.” The plate of cookies the facility staff had supplied for the visit sat untouched on the coffee table between them. He thought she might be about to cry.
The amnesiac understood then what she wanted. Why her answers were true but incomplete. The answer was no. No, no matter how long she sat there with him, he would not suddenly remember her on his own.
Dr. Zadeh suddenly appeared in a burst of starched cotton and papers. He was the way he was when on the verge of another idea to test on the amnesiac—excited, moving at double speed. He seemed to have forgotten that they were mid-visit, that Charlotte was even there. “Sorry to interrupt,” he managed at last, aiming a remote at the sleeping television in the corner of the room. He looked at the amnesiac as the screen blinked on. It was a festival of some kind, it seemed. At the center of all the colors, there was a man. A man with no shadow beneath him. “You have to see this.”
THE AMNESIAC SAT BACK AND SETTLED HIS ELBOWS ON THE armrests. The chair was uncomfortably small. “Have I ever been on a plane before?” he asked.
“Many times, I’m sure,” Dr. Zadeh said as he fastened his own seat belt.
The amnesiac nodded, considering. The endless, low droning sound that filled the cabin of the plane made him feel like he was back in the hospital, hooked up to something. He wouldn’t notice it after a while, Dr. Zadeh had promised. “Have I ever been to India before?”
“That you have not,” Dr. Zadeh replied. “The consulate didn’t have any record of previous tourist visa applications under your name when I filed for this one.”
The amnesiac nodded. “Good.”
“Good?”
“This will be my first experience that hasn’t actually already happened before.” He smiled. “My first real memory.”
THE FLIGHT WAS VERY LONG. BUT NOT AS LONG AS HE HAD laid locked into his broken body in the hospital. The amnesiac sat comfortably. Any amount of time that was shorter than three weeks, he imagined he’d be able to tolerate quite easily. The plane sailed through the sky. He waited.
They brought a meal around. It looked different from the food at the assisted-living facility. He had never seen anything like it. Or perhaps he had. He took note to ask Charlotte about it at her next visit, to see if she knew.
“Lamb vindaloo.” Dr. Zadeh pointed with his fork. “It’s pretty good.”
“It is,” the amnesiac agreed. “Is this Indian food?”
“Not even close.” Dr. Zadeh grinned. “This is airplane Indian food.”
An hour later, he had finished the tea they gave him. It was strange how it worked, retrograde amnesia. He knew what tea was, what India was. He knew the words for everything, and all their meanings. He knew people spoke English in Pune—among other local dialects—as all schooling was taught in English in India. When he heard that Hemu Joshi played cricket, he realized he knew what cricket was, the rough idea of the game, even what the ball itself looked like. But he couldn’t say for the life of him if he’d ever seen one with his own eyes—eye.
He wondered if it was like this for Hemu Joshi, too. Inside, he thrilled at the knowledge that he would meet him soon. Someone else who would understand what it was to be like himself—or not himself, rather. He hoped it would work. That one of them might somehow teach the other something and unravel this mystery.
He turned to Dr. Zadeh, but the doctor had fallen asleep while looking over the amnesiac’s file again, leaving it open on his foldout tray table. The amnesiac slid it to his own.
He read the police account of the car crash again, and the paramedic’s report. A collection of colorful ovals filled one page. My brain, he thought. They seemed bright enough, he guessed. He didn’t know which part meant that his memories had been knocked loose. His visitation log was also there. Charlotte’s basic information. Name, phone number, relationship to patient. Ex-wife.
Another fact to add to his collection. He had been married once. For a moment, it didn’t mean anything. Then it did.
“Charlotte,” he said. He waited for the name to sound different now, but it didn’t.
Dr. Zadeh stirred. His eyes opened, beholding the man drowsily. They settled on the file open in front of him. His whole face sharpened, coming to life.
The amnesiac pointed at the paper on top. “My ex-wife,” he said again. He swallowed. “That was cruel of you. Cruel.”
Dr. Zadeh looked down. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t the way I wanted you to find out.”
It wasn’t good enough. “Wasn’t the way you wanted me to find out? How could you do that? How could you keep that from me?”
“I had no idea she wouldn’t tell you,” he said back. “When she didn’t, I—I felt wrong betraying her confidence without speaking to her first.”
“Her confidence?” the amnesiac snapped. “What about my confidence? I’m your patient. I’m the one you’re supposed to help. I’m the one who doesn’t know who he is. Even you know more than I do!”
“I—”
“Yes, you do. You knew who she was! You want me to get better? Why tell me some things and withhold others? Are you trying to—to curate me? What else do you know that I don’t?”