“Well, it was mostly my doing.” Dr. Zadeh grinned sheepishly. “When I saw the first videos of Hemu after he began experiencing memory loss, I called the Indian Psychiatric Society. Explained who I was, emailed copies of my articles, my research on you. They eventually managed to put me all the way through to the team here. I told them about my idea.”
“I know that,” the amnesiac said. “I meant, there must be hundreds of retrograde amnesia cases in India from which they could have chosen. Why fly us out here?”
“Because you forgot so much,” he answered. “Everything, really. Most RA cases aren’t as complete as yours. And it happened at almost the same time as Hemu Joshi’s incident. You’re both still experiencing the effects of your diagnoses on your lives, learning how to cope with the loss. You were the closest match to him that we could find.”
“Do you really think I can help him?”
“I think you have a better shot at understanding him than any of us do,” he said. After a moment, he put his hand on the amnesiac’s shoulder. “Just speak with him. That’s all. Don’t worry about the results, okay?”
The amnesiac nodded.
“Excuse me—we’re ready for you now,” a voice called. They turned from their seats to see an older woman in purple scrubs, perhaps sixty or so, her long silver braid shining against the warm brown of her skin.
“David Zadeh,” Dr. Zadeh said, extending his hand as he went over to her. “This is . . .” He paused, grasping for a way to explain the amnesiac’s aversion to his legal name. “. . . my patient. He prefers to be addressed by description rather than by what he was named prior to the accident. ‘The visitor,’ in this situation, perhaps. Or any relevant equivalent.”
“A method of your rehabilitation?” she asked Dr. Zadeh.
“For him, I suppose yes,” he said thoughtfully.
The woman nodded. “Dr. Zadeh, Visitor, I’m Dr. Avanthikar,” she said. “Lead researcher for Mr. Joshi’s team.”
The amnesiac put out his hand to her as well. Her grip was firm—and excited, he thought.
“We’ve informed him you’re coming,” she continued as the two of them followed her down the hall. “He remembered twenty minutes ago when I checked.” An aide caught the tail end of her sentence as they entered a small control room and shook her head. “Oh.” Dr. Avanthikar sighed. “Never mind.”
“Thank you again for this invitation,” Dr. Zadeh said. “To be able to help with this, even in a small way, it’s an honor.”
“Well, let’s hope it does help,” Dr. Avanthikar replied. “I don’t have to tell you—I mean, I’m sure you’ve been following the news.”
“Nothing’s working,” the amnesiac finished for her.
“I’ve just—” She paused, words failing her. “I’ve just never seen anything like it.”
“Okay, we’re all set. Patient is inside,” another aide interrupted softly.
“Right.” Dr. Avanthikar straightened up. “Okay. Let’s take you in there and introduce you, and then once you’re both comfortable, we’ll hook up the sensors so we can get some data. See if you two can maybe inspire each other into . . . anything, really.”
The amnesiac didn’t know what to expect. He braced as Dr. Avanthikar went to the side door into the observation room and pulled it open.
“Oh.” He blinked, surprised. He walked in. It didn’t look like a hospital or a rehabilitation center or a patient observation room at all. It looked just like a living room, or what he imagined a living room in an Indian house might look like. There were couches and a few chairs in vibrant patterns, a rug, potted plants in full bloom. In the corner hung a wide wooden swing. The walls had been painted a warm color and adorned with framed photographs. In the center, sitting cross-legged on one of the couches, was a young man in a simple white tunic. Hemu Joshi.
This is his living room, the amnesiac realized. They had re-created it here to try to spark something during his therapy.
“I have a visitor for you,” Dr. Avanthikar said from behind the amnesiac. Hemu looked at him blankly, waiting for more information from her. The amnesiac smiled. It was a new, wonderful feeling; to meet someone who didn’t already know more about him than he did—in fact, who didn’t know anything about him at all. “He’s also lost his memory. Everything from the moment he was born until just a few weeks ago.”
Hemu’s eyes slid to the carpet, to where the amnesiac’s shadow stood patiently behind him against the fibers.
“He lost his memory in a car accident,” she clarified. The amnesiac felt her hand on his shoulder. “Please make yourself comfortable.” She pointed to the only giveaway the room was actually a medical facility, a rectangular two-way mirror hanging in the center of the same wall as the door he’d used to enter. “We’ll be just on the other side, if you need anything.”
The amnesiac sat down on the plush chair opposite Hemu’s couch. “Hi,” he said when they were alone.
“Hi,” Hemu said. He was studying the amnesiac’s face intently. “Do I know you?”
“Not in the slightest,” he said. “We’ve never met before.”
Hemu perked up then. Something new. Not a replay. “And you really remember nothing? Even with a shadow?”
“It was due to an injury. My head hit the windshield at a bad angle. So they tell me.”
“What’s a windshield?”