Reaching into her portfolio, she pulled out a yellow legal pad and a pen. She drew two lines down the center of the page. “Memories form new memories, just like water will find water. That’s how it works. Draining water will form small streams, flowing together to a larger water source. A creek. A river. Eventually, the ocean.” She drew small offshoots into the larger original two-lined river. “After a heavy rainfall, smaller, temporary streams can be formed, but without a source, they’ll dry up. Same thing with memory. New offshoots can be formed, but only with sufficient replenishment. With enough water, those tributaries become a permanent part of the landscape, and the earth underneath carved to accommodate the new stream. Rocks will be moved; even trees and vegetation relocate to allow for it. It’s a natural, yet time consuming, effect.”
I understood the concept, but I was just tired of being patient. Of being understanding.
She nonchalantly stored her notepad and pen back inside her portfolio. “The analogy works on a few different levels.”
I studied her with a spark of interest. “What levels?”
“Without a sufficient source of memory, Greg will forget a lot of what he’s learned. That’s you. You have to feed these small creeks of knowledge, both the established ones and the new, baby ones; they’re the most fragile. Feed them by telling the same stories over and over again. The people in Greg’s life have to shift. New canals won’t be formed without this change. You must put aside yourself, your life, your kids, everything. The landscape of your life has to change. Without it, those new memories? The small ones that he keeps forgetting? They’ll be stamped out. Like a dry riverbed.”
“Will he ever just remember anything? I mean, right after I tell him a story, will it ever come back fully, where he retains it?”
“It’s a long process. It’s not the movies, Claire, where someone wakes up from a coma and poof! they remember everything. Remember, Greg is extraordinary. We have rarely seen someone come so far so fast after such a long period of unconsciousness.” For the first time, the cold, steely woman was helpful. I felt better.
When I told her so, she laughed. “Working with the family members has never been my strong point. I frequently find them to be a necessary evil. They are emotional and often negatively impact a patient’s progress with their own way of dealing with their situation. Your situation is unique, to say the least. I have to admit I’m intrigued.”
“You and everyone else it seems,” I said dryly, recalling the throng of reporters on my lawn.
I thanked her and returned to Greg’s room. He was sitting on the couch, staring intently at the journal.
He looked up when I came in. “Who’s Karen?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” Fuck it. “I think you had an affair, Greg. Before the accident. I think Karen was your mistress. I don’t have any proof other than that note.”
He was quiet for a long time, lost in thought, searching for the memory. We were supposed to talk chronologically, and we had gotten up to Hannah’s first year. I had gingerly avoided the subject of Drew. I was delaying the hard parts—the affair, the memorial service, the divorce, my new life. But we couldn’t avoid them forever.
“The year before you disappeared, you were very withdrawn. Very… almost angry with me. I never knew why.” I retold Rochester in detail: the empty hotel room, the Thai restaurant. I told him about San Diego, the Grand Del Mar, the golf tee, and the fake business trips. He stared at the note, Call Karen at Omni S.D, tracing the letters with his finger, over and over again.
“Karen Caughee,” he said finally. “That’s her name.” Then he whispered, “Pronounced like coffee, the drink.”
I hadn’t known I was holding my breath until I expelled it, bursting out of me, relief and regret at once.
When he met my eyes, his were dry, but I’d never seen him look so sad. “She was my lover.”
Chapter 37
When I picked up the Hunterdon County Times on Monday, I wasn’t expecting to see my face on the front page. Then again, there was so little news in Clinton, that I supposed had I thought about it, of course, my story would be front page when it finally ran.