“Greg had a nearly photographic memory,” I replied, tracing a scratch on the table. “He was a corporate trainer, and he never needed notes, never forgot names or faces.”
Dr. Goodman made an ah sound and nodded, as if my comment had made everything magically make sense. “Claire…” She cleared her throat, transitioning her clinical lecture to a more personal tone. “Two weeks ago, Greg was walking down the street, and he was drawn to a real estate office by the name on the shingle. He went into the office and was given a business card.”
She pushed a business card across the table. The thick paper was worn and creased, dog-eared and soft around the edges. A bit of dirt was smudged across the front, as though someone had repeatedly run a soiled finger over the lettering. Claire Barnes, Toronto Realty. Guiding you home! Call us now for a free evaluation!
Dr. Goodman continued, “He became so agitated in the realtor’s office that they had to call the therapist at the group home to come and get him. He didn’t sleep for forty-eight hours, so we had to give him a mild sedative. When he woke up almost a full day later, he remembered his name and you. The nurse on duty found you on the internet and called the police, who called Detective Reynolds. That was three days ago.”
“So where is he now?” I asked again.
“He’s down the hall,” Dr. Goodman said. I must have appeared to jump out of my chair because she up held her hand. “There are a few more things you should know. First, he is not the man you married, most assuredly. We did not know him before, but we have yet to meet a TBI patient who is the same person before and after an accident. Parts of his brain no longer function well, in the same way, or at all. You must understand that. Secondly, he will not look the same. He has essentially been lying down for two years. His muscles atrophied. In addition, patients in PVS can actually become significantly shorter. This is because when you don’t use your back muscles, your bones will weaken, and your spine will irreversibly contract. I know from his medical records here that he was a significantly taller man prior to the accident.”
Greg used to be a large man, tall and broad, seeming to absorb all the empty space in a room. Whenever I thought of Greg, I thought of the breadth of his chest, the solidarity of his body and his voice, which boomed with self-assurance.
“Third, you may hear people call him Glen. When he woke up, he didn’t have a name, and he had no family here to tell him his name. A name is a large part of an identity. Someone, a nurse I think, gave him a baby naming book and asked him to go through it. I suggested he look for a name that jumped out at him. He picked Glen. Knowing his name is actually Greg, that makes a great deal of sense. They’re so similar. I suspect that he will revert to Greg because he identifies with his old life. He remembers you, his mother, his daughter Hannah, and your parents.” She looked questioningly at me to confirm that these people did, in fact, exist.
“Greg’s mother has been dead for almost ten years. And we have another daughter, Leah. She’s younger than Hannah, so she was only two when Greg… disappeared.”
“He knows his mother is not living, but he never mentioned Leah.” I felt my jaw drop in a silent oh, and she continued quickly. “The earliest and latest memories are the last to recover, if they ever do. So the baby memories we have, those quick snatches of time that are snapshots in our mind? For him, those might be long gone. The last year or two of his life before the accident might come back eventually, but it’s not guaranteed. He never mentioned Leah, so I’m guessing he doesn’t remember her.” She sat next to me, with her soft cool hand covering mine, seeming human for the first time, and explained, in detail, all the ways in which I would no longer know my husband, or more accurately, all the ways in which he would no longer know me. The medical jargon flew over my head, but certain phrases sliced through me, sharp and cold, a surgical knife carefully bisecting my life. Learned behavior… impulsive… skewed moral compass… increased anger and irritability…
Finally, to my relief, she seemed to run out of facts. “Claire, are you ready to see Greg?”
I felt lightheaded, but I nodded. She stood and motioned for me to follow. We left the conference room and walked down the hall, where I would see my husband for the first time in over two years.
Chapter 33
I hesitated at the door.
“When you’re ready,” Dr. Goodman said.
When I gathered my nerve and pushed open the door, he stood at the window on the opposite side of the room, his back to me. He was unrecognizably short and very thin, and for a moment, I felt a wilting relief. It’s not him. Thank God. My vision wavered and I grabbed the doorframe for support.