Brain Child

CHAPTER NINE

The Monday after Labor Day was the kind of California September morning that belies any hint of a coming change of season. The morning fog had burned off by seven, and as Marsh Lonsdale dropped Alex off in front of the Cochrans’ house, the heat was already building.
“Sure you don’t want me to take you both to school?”
“I want to walk,” Alex replied. “Dr. Torres says I should walk as much as I can.”
“Dr. Torres says a lot about everything,” Marsh commented. “That doesn’t mean you have to do everything he says.”
Alex opened the car door and got out, then put his cane in the back seat. When he looked up, his father was watching him with disapproval. “Did Dr. Torres tell you not to use the cane anymore?”
Alex shook his head. “No. I just think it would be better if I stopped using it, that’s all.”
His father’s hard expression dissolved into a smile. “Good for you,” he said. Then: “You okay with going back to school?”
Alex nodded. “I think so.”
“It’s not too late to change your mind. If you want, we can get a tutor up from Stanford, at least for the first semester …”
“No,” Alex said. “I want to go to school. I might remember a lot, once I’m there.”
“You’re already remembering a lot,” Marsh replied. “I just don’t think you should push yourself too hard. You … well, you don’t have to remember everything that happened before the accident.”
“But I do,” Alex replied. “If I’m going to get really well, I have to remember everything.” He slammed the car door and started toward the Cochrans’ front porch, then turned to wave to his father, who waved back, then pulled away from the curb. Only when the car had disappeared around the corner did Alex start once again toward the house, idly wondering if his father knew he’d lied to him.
Since he’d come home, Alex had learned to lie a lot.
He pressed the doorbell, waited, then pressed it again. Even though the Cochrans had told him over and over again that he should simply let himself into their house as he used to, he hadn’t yet done it.
Nor did he have any memory of ever having let himself into their house.
Their house, like the one next door where he knew he’d spent most of his life, had rung no bells in his head, elicited no memories whatsoever. But he’d been careful not to say so. Instead, when he’d walked into the Cochrans’ house for the first time after leaving the Institute, he’d scanned the rooms carefully, trying to memorize everything in them. Then, when he was sure he had it all firmly fixed in his mind, he’d said that he thought he remembered a picture upstairs—one of himself and Lisa, when they were five or six years old.
Everyone had been pleased. And since then, after he’d relearned something he was sure he’d known before, and discovered as much as he could about its past, he would experiment with “remembering.”
It worked well. Last week, while looking for a pen in his parents’ desk, he had found a repair bill for the car. He’d studied it carefully, then, as they were driving to the Cochrans’ that evening, and passed the shop where the car had been fixed, he’d turned to his father.
“Didn’t they work on the car last year?” he’d asked.
“They sure did,” his father had replied. Then: “Do you remember what they did to it?”
Alex pretended to ponder the question. “Transmission?” he asked.
His father had sighed, then smiled at him in the rearview mirror. “Right. It’s coming back, isn’t it?”
“A little bit,” Alex had said. “Maybe a little bit.”
But, of course, it wasn’t.
The front door opened, and Lisa was smiling at him. He carefully returned the smile. “Ready?”
“Who’s ever ready for the first day of school?” Lisa replied. “Do I look all right?”
Alex took in her jeans and white blouse, and nodded gravely. “Did you always wear clothes like that to school?”
“Everybody does.” She called a good-bye over her shoulder, and a moment later the two of them set out toward La Paloma High.
As they walked through the town, Alex kept asking Lisa an endless series of questions about who lived in which house, the stores they passed, and the people who spoke to them. Lisa patiently answered his questions, then began testing his memory, even though she knew that Alex never seemed to forget anything she told him.
“Who lives in the blue house on Carmel Street?”
“The Jamesons.”
“What about the old house at the corner of Monterey?”
“Miss Thorpe,” Alex replied. Then he added, “She used to be a witch.”
Lisa glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, wondering if he was teasing her, even though she knew he wasn’t. Since he’d come home, Alex never teased anybody. “She wasn’t really a witch,” she said. “We just always thought she was when we were little.”
Alex stopped walking. “If she wasn’t one, why did we think she was?”
Lisa wondered what to tell him. He seemed to have forgotten everything about his childhood, including what it had been like to be a child. How could she explain to him how much fun it used to be to scare themselves half to death with speculations on what old Miss Thorpe might be doing behind her heavily curtained windows, or what she might do to them if she ever caught them in her yard? For Alex never seemed to imagine anything anymore. He always wanted to know what things were, and who was who, but it didn’t seem to matter to him, and he didn’t seem, really, to care. In fact, though she’d told no one of her feelings, Lisa was glad that school was finally starting and she could legitimately spend less time with Alex.
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “We just thought she was a witch, that’s all. Now, come on, or we’ll be late.”
Alex moved uncertainly around the campus of La Paloma High School. Deep in the recesses of his mind, he had a faint feeling of having been here before, but nothing seemed to be quite right.
The school was built around a quadrangle, with a fountain at its center, and from the fountain, some of the campus seemed familiar.
And yet, the picture in his mind seemed incomplete. It was as if he could remember only parts of the campus; other areas were totally strange.
Still, it was a memory.
He looked at his program card, and when the first bell sounded, he started toward the building that housed what would be his homeroom that year.
It was in one of the buildings he had no memory of, but he had no problem in locating the room. Just before the second bell rang, he stepped into the classroom, and started toward an empty seat next to Lisa Cochran. Before he could sit down, the teacher, whom he recognized from the picture in the yearbook as Mr. Hamlin, told him that he was to report to the dean of boys. He looked questioningly at Lisa, but she only shook her head and shrugged. Silently he left the classroom and went to the Administration Building.
As soon as he was inside, he knew that he was in familiar territory. As he glanced around, the walnut wainscoting seemed to strike a chord in him, and he stopped for a moment to take in the details of the lobby.
To the left, where it felt as though it should be, was a large glass-fronted office. Through the glass, he could see a long counter, and beyond it, several secretaries sitting at desks, typing.
Straight ahead, and off to the right, two corridors ran at right angles to each other, and without thinking, Alex turned right and went into the second office on the left.
A nurse looked up at him. “May I help you?”
Alex stopped short. “I’m looking for Mr. Eisenberg’s office. But this isn’t it, is it?”
The nurse smiled and shook her head. “It’s in the other wing. First door on the right.”
“Thank you,” Alex said. He left the nurse’s office and started back toward the main foyer.
Something, though, was wrong. When he had come into the building, he had recognized everything, and known exactly where the dean’s office was. Yet it wasn’t there.
Apparently he hadn’t remembered after all.
Still, as he made his way into what really was the dean’s office, he had the distinct feeling that he had remembered, and when the dean’s secretary glanced up and smiled at him, he decided he knew what had happened.
“How do you like the new office?” he asked.
The smile faded from the secretary’s face. “New office?” she asked. “What are you talking about, Alex?”
Alex swallowed. “Wasn’t Mr. Eisenberg’s office where the nurse is this year?”
The secretary hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s been right here for as long as I’ve been here,” she said. Then she smiled again. “You can go right in, and don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble.”
He passed the desk and knocked at the inner door, as he had always knocked at Dr. Torres’s door before going inside.
“Come in,” a voice called from within. He opened the door and stepped through. As with everyone else who had been pictured in the yearbook in his bedroom, he recognized the face and knew the man’s name, but had no memory of ever having met him before. Whatever his flash of remembrance had been about, it was over now.
Dan Eisenberg unfolded his large frame from the chair behind his desk to offer Alex his hand. “Alex! It’s great to see you again.”
“It’s nice to see you, too, sir,” Alex replied, hesitating only a second before grasping Eisenberg’s hand in a firm shake. A moment later, the dean indicated the chair next to his desk.
“Sorry to have to call you in on the first day of school,” he said, “but I’m afraid a little problem has come up.”
Alex’s face remained impassive. “Miss Jennings said I wasn’t in trouble—”
“And you aren’t,” Eisenberg reassured him. “But I did take the liberty of talking to Dr. Torres last week, and he suggested that perhaps we might want to give you a couple of tests.” He looked for a reaction from Alex, but saw none. “Do you have any idea what the tests might be for?”
“To see how much I’ve forgotten,” Alex said, and Eisenberg had the distinct feeling that Alex wasn’t making a guess, but already knew about the tests.
“Right. I take it Dr. Torres told you about them.”
“No. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, you don’t know which class I should be in if you don’t know how much I remember.”
“Exactly.” Eisenberg picked up a packet of standard form tests. “Do you remember these?” Alex shook his head. “They’re the same tests you took at the beginning of last year, and would have taken again in the spring, except …” His voice trailed off, and he looked uncomfortable.
“Except for the accident,” Alex finished for him. “I don’t mind talking about it, but I don’t remember it too well, either. Just that it happened.”
Eisenberg nodded. “Dr. Torres tells us there are still a lot of gaps in your memory—”
“I’ve been studying all summer,” Alex broke in. “My dad wants me to be in the accelerated class this year.”
Which is certainly not going to happen, Eisenberg thought. From what Torres had told him of Alex’s case, he knew it was far more likely that Alex would have to start all over again with the school’s most basic courses. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” he asked, trying to keep his pessimism out of his voice. “Anyway, if you feel up to it, I’d like you to take the tests today.”
“All right.”
Ten minutes later Alex sat in an empty classroom while Eisenberg’s secretary explained the testing system and the time limits. “And don’t worry if you don’t finish them,” she said as she set the time clock for the first of the battery of eight tests. “You’re not expected to finish all of them. Ready?” Alex nodded. “Begin.”
Alex opened the first of the booklets and began marking down his answers.
Dan Eisenberg looked up from the report he was working on, his smile fading when he saw the look of disappointment in his secretary’s eyes. A glance at his watch told him Alex had begun the tests only an hour and a half ago. “What’s happened, Marge? Couldn’t he do it?”
The young woman shook her head sorrowfully. “I don’t think he even tried,” she said. “He just … well, he just started marking answers randomly.”
“But you told him how they’re scored, didn’t you? Right minus wrong?”
Marge nodded. “And I asked him again each time he handed me one of his answer sheets. He said he understood how it was scored, and that he was finished.”
“How many did he do?”
Marge hesitated; then: “All of them.”
The dean’s brows arched skeptically. “All of them?” he repeated. Then, after Marge had nodded once more: “But that’s impossible. Those tests are supposed to take all day, and even then, no one’s supposed to finish them.”
“I know. So he must have simply gone down the sheets, marking in his answers. I’m not really sure there’s any point in scoring it.” Still, she handed the stack of answer sheets to Dan, and he slid the first one under the template.
Behind each tiny slot in the template, there was a neat black mark. Dan frowned, then shook his head. Wordlessly he matched the rest of the answer sheets to their templates. Finally he leaned back, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
“Cute,” he said. “Real cute.” The smile spread into a grin. “He’s still working on them, isn’t he?”
Now it was Marge Jennings who frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you,” Dan said, chuckling. “You came in early and dummied up this set of answer sheets, didn’t you? Well, you went too far. Did you really expect me to buy this?”
“Buy what?” Marge asked. She stepped around the desk and repeated the process of checking the answer sheets. “My God,” she breathed.
Dan looked up at her, fully expecting to see her eyes twinkling as she still tried to get him to fall for her joke. And then, slowly, he began to realize it was not a joke at all.
Alex Lonsdale had completed the tests, and his scores were perfect.
“Get Torres on the phone,” Dan told his secretary.
Marge Jennings returned to her office, where Alex sat quietly on a sofa, leafing through a magazine. He looked up at her for a moment, then returned to his reading.
“Alex?”
“Yes?” Alex laid the magazine aside.
“Did you … well, did anyone show you a copy of those tests? I mean, since you took them last year?”
Alex thought a moment, then shook his head. “No. At least not since the accident.”
“I see,” Marge said softly.
But, of course, she didn’t see at all.
Ellen glanced nervously at the clock, and once more regretted having allowed Cynthia Evans to set up an appointment for her to interview María Torres. Not, of course, that she didn’t need a housekeeper; she did. A few months ago, before the accident, she would have felt no hesitation about hiring María Torres. But now things were different, and despite all of Cynthia’s arguments, she still felt strange about asking the mother of Alex’s doctor to vacuum her floors and do her laundry. Still, it would only be two days a week, and she knew María was going to need the work: starting next month, Cynthia herself was going to have full-time, live-in help.
But right now, María was late, and Ellen herself was due for what Marsh always referred to, with a hint of what Ellen considered to be slightly sexist overtones, as “lunch with the girls.” Of course, part of it was her own fault, for try as she would, she still hadn’t been able to train herself to think of her friends as “women”: they had known each other since childhood, and they would be, forever, “girls,” at least in Ellen’s mind.
Except Marty Lewis, who had long since stopped being a girl in any sense of the word. Ellen often wondered if Alan Lewis’s alcoholism had anything to do with the changes that had come over Marty in the last few years.
Of course it had. If Alan hadn’t turned into a drunk, Marty would have been just like the rest of them—staying home, raising her kids, and taking care of her husband. But for Marty, things had been different. Alan couldn’t hold a job, so Marty had taken over the support of the family, and made a success of it, too, while Alan drifted from treatment program to treatment program, sobering up and working for a while, but only a while. Sooner or later, he would begin drinking again, and the spiral would start over again. And Marty, finally, had accepted it. She’d talked of divorce a few years ago, but in the end had simply taken over the burdens of the family. At the fairly regular lunches the four of them—Carol Cochran and Valerie Benson were the other two—enjoyed, Marty’s main conversation was about her job, and how much she liked it.
“Working’s fun!” she would insist. “In fact, it’s a lot better this way. I never was much good at the domestic scene, and now that Kate’s growing up, I don’t even feel I’m robbing her of anything. And I don’t have to get terrified every time Alan starts drinking anymore. Do you know what it was like? He’d start drinking, and I’d start saving, because I always knew that it would only be a matter of months before he was going to be out of a job again.” Then she’d smile ruefully. “I suppose I should have left him years ago, but I still love him. So I put up with him, and hope that every binge will be the last one.”
And, of course, there was Valerie Benson, who, three years ago, actually had divorced her husband. “Dumbest thing I ever did,” was now Val’s characteristically blunt summation of the divorce. “I can’t even remember what he used to do that made me think I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had this idea that if I only got rid of George, life would be wonderful. So I got rid of him, and you know what? Nothing changed. Not one damn thing. Except now I don’t have George to blame things on, so, in a way, I suppose I’m a better person.” Then she’d roll her eyes: “Lord, how I loathe those words. I’m sick of being a better person. I’d rather be married and miserable.”
Ellen glanced at the clock once more, and realized that if María didn’t arrive within the next five minutes, she was going to have to choose between waiting for María and going to lunch. Not that the interview would take long—María had been a fixture in La Paloma all of Ellen’s life, and all Ellen really had to do was explain to the old woman what she wanted done, then leave the house in María’s hands.
Lunch, however, was something else. This would be the group’s first lunch since Alex’s accident, and she was sure that Alex would be the main topic of conversation.
Alex, and Raymond Torres.
And, she readily admitted to herself, she was looking forward to the lunch, looking forward to spending even a few hours relaxing with her friends.
It had been a long summer. Once the decision had finally been made that Alex could go back to school, Ellen had begun looking forward to this day. This morning, after Alex and Marsh had left, she had treated herself to a leisurely hour of pure relaxation, and then spent two full hours getting herself ready for today’s lunch. She was determined that Alex wasn’t going to be the only topic of conversation that day, nor was Raymond Torres. Instead, she was going to encourage the others to talk about themselves rather than the Lonsdales’ problems. It would be wonderful to laugh and chat with old friends as if nothing had changed.
The doorbell and the telephone rang simultaneously, and Ellen called out to María to let herself in as she picked up the receiver. Then, when the voice at the other end of the wire identified itself as Dan Eisenberg, her heart sank, and she waved María Torres into the living room as she focused her attention on the telephone.
“What’s happened?” she asked, wearily setting her purse back on the table.
“I’m not sure,” Eisenberg replied. “But I’d like you to come down to the school this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?” Ellen asked, relief flooding through her. “Then it isn’t an emergency?”
There was a momentary silence. When Eisenberg spoke again, his voice was apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have told you right away that Alex is all right. It’s just that we gave him some tests this morning, and I’d like to go over the results with you. Both you and Dr. Lonsdale, actually. Would two o’clock be all right?”
“Fine with me,” Ellen told him. “I’ll have to call my husband, but I imagine it will be fine with him too.” She paused; then: “Where Alex is concerned, he tends to make time, even if he hasn’t got it.”
“Then I’ll see you both at two,” Eisenberg replied. He was about to hang up when Ellen stopped him.
“Mr. Eisenberg? The tests. Did Alex do all right on them?”
There was a slight hesitation before Eisenberg spoke. “He did very well, Mrs. Lonsdale,” he said. “Very well indeed.”
A moment later, as Ellen turned her attention to María Torres, she decided to put Dan Eisenberg’s words, and the tone in which he’d spoken them, out of her mind. If she didn’t, the feeling she had of something amiss would ruin the lunch for her, and she was determined that that wouldn’t happen.
María, dressed as always in black, her skirt reaching almost to the floor, still hovered near the door, a worn shawl wrapped around her stooped shoulders, despite the heat of the summerlike day. Her eyes were fixed on the floor. “I am sorry, se?ora,” she said softly. “I am very late.”
The abject sorrow evident in the old woman’s entire being dissolved Ellen’s impatience. “It’s all right,” she said gently. “I don’t really need to interview you anyway, do I?” Without waiting for a reply, she began giving María hurried instructions. “All the cleaning things are in the laundry room behind the kitchen, but if you’ll just try to get some vacuuming done today, that’s all I really need. Then we can go over the rest of it on Saturday. All right?”
“Sí, se?ora,” María muttered, and as she started toward the kitchen, Ellen hurriedly threw on a coat, picked up her purse, and left the house.
The moment she was gone, María’s back straightened and her glittering old eyes began taking in every detail of the Lonsdales’ house. She prowled the rooms slowly, examining every possession of the gringo family whose son had been saved by Ramón.
Better if Ramón had let him die, as all the gringos should die. And it would happen someday, María was sure. It was all she thought about now, as she spent her days wandering through La Paloma, cleaning the old houses for the ladrones.
The thieves.
That’s what they all were, and even if Ramón didn’t understand it, she did.
But she would go on cleaning for them, go on looking after the houses that rightfully belonged to her people, until Alejandro returned to avenge the death of his parents and sisters, and all his descendants could finally return to their rightful homes.
And the time of vengeance was coming. She could feel it, deep in her old bones.
At last she came into the boy’s room, and suddenly she knew. Alejandro was here. Soon, la venganza would begin.
For Ellen, the lunch she had so looked forward to had been a disaster. As she’d expected, the conversation had revolved around Raymond Torres and Alex, but she had found herself totally distracted with worry over what the dean might have to tell her after lunch. And now, though she’d listened carefully, it still didn’t make sense. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I still don’t understand exactly what it all means.”
She and Marsh had been in Dan Eisenberg’s office for nearly an hour, and thirty minutes ago Raymond Torres, too, had arrived. But Ellen still felt as confused as ever—it all seemed quite impossible.
“It means Alex is finally using his brain,” Marsh told her. “It’s not so difficult. We’ve seen the results of the tests. His scores were perfect!”
“But how can that be?” Ellen argued. “I know he’s been studying all summer, and I know he has a good memory, but this”—she picked up the math-testing booklet—“how could he have even done the calculations? He simply didn’t have the time, did he?” She dropped the test back on Eisenberg’s desk and turned to Torres. If anyone could make her understand, he could. “Explain it to me again,” she said, and as his intense eyes met hers, she began to relax, and concentrate.
Torres spread his hands and pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. “It’s very simple,” he said in the slightly patronizing tone that never failed to infuriate Marsh. “Alex’s brain works differently from the way it did before. It’s a matter of compensation. If a person loses one sense, his others become sharper. The same kind of thing has happened to Alex. His brain has compensated for the damage to its emotional centers by sharpening its intellectual centers.”
“I understand that,” Ellen agreed. “At least, I understand the theory. What I don’t understand is what it means. I want to know what it means for Alex.”
“I’m not sure anyone can tell you that, Mrs. Lonsdale,” Dan Eisenberg replied.
“Nor does it matter,” Torres pronounced. “With Alex we are no longer at a point where we can do anything about his abilities, or his responses. I’ve done what can be done. From now on, all I can do is observe Alex—”
“Like a laboratory animal?” Marsh broke in. Torres regarded him with cold eyes.
“If you wish,” he said.
“For God’s sake, Torres, Alex is my son.” Marsh turned to Ellen. “All this means for Alex is that he is a remarkably intelligent young man. In fact,” he went on, his attention now shifting to Dan Eisenberg, “I suspect there probably isn’t much this school can do for him anymore. Is that right?”
Eisenberg reluctantly nodded his agreement.
“Then it seems to me that perhaps we should take him down to Stanford next week and see if we can get him into some sort of special program.”
“I won’t agree to that,” Torres interrupted. “Alex is brilliant, yes. But brilliance isn’t enough. If he were my son—”
“Which he’s not,” Marsh replied, his smile gone.
“Which he’s not,” Torres agreed. “But if he were, I would keep him right here in La Paloma, and let him reestablish all his old friendships and old patterns of behavior. Somewhere, there might be a trigger, and when he stumbles across that trigger, his mind may fully reopen, and the past will come back to him.”
“And what about his intellect?” Marsh demanded. “Suddenly I have a very brilliant son, Dr. Torres—”
“Which, I gather,” Torres interrupted in a voice as cool as Marsh’s own, “is something you have always wanted.”
“Everyone hopes his children will be brilliant,” Marsh countered.
“And Alex is brilliant, Dr. Lonsdale,” Torres replied. “But keeping him here for another year isn’t going to affect that. I should imagine that the school can design a course of study for him that will keep his mind active and challenged. But there is another side to Alex—the emotional side—and if he has any chance to recover in that area, I think we have an obligation to give him that chance.”
“Of course we do,” Ellen agreed. “And Marsh knows it as well as we do.” She turned to her husband. “Don’t you?”
Marsh was silent for a long time. Torres’s words, he knew, made sense. Alex should stay home. But he couldn’t just go on letting Torres run his life, and the lives of his wife and son.
“I think,” he said at last, “that perhaps we ought to talk to Alex about it.”
“I agree,” Torres replied, rising to his feet. “But not for at least a week. I want to think about this for a while, and then I’ll decide what’s best for Alex.” He glanced at his watch, then offered Eisenberg his hand. “I’m afraid I have another meeting. If you need me for anything, you have my number.” With nothing more than a nod to either Marsh or Ellen, he left the dean’s office.
Alex lay on his bed staring at the ceiling.
Something was wrong, but he had no idea what it might be, or what he ought to do about it.
All he knew was that something was wrong with him. He was no longer the same as he had been before the accident, and for some reason his parents were upset about it. At least, his mother was upset. His father seemed pleased.
They had told him about the test results as they drove him home that afternoon, and at first he hadn’t understood what all the fuss was about. He could have told them he’d correctly answered all the questions before they even checked. The questions had been easy, and didn’t really involve anything like thinking. In fact, he’d thought they must be testing his memory rather than his ability to think, because all the tests had involved were a series of facts and calculations, and if you had a good memory and knew the right equations, there wasn’t anything to them.
But now they were saying he was brilliant, and his father wanted him to go into a special program down in Palo Alto. From what he’d heard in the car, though, he didn’t think that was going to happen. Dr. Torres would see to it that he stayed home.
And that, he decided, was fine with him. All day, he’d been trying to figure out what had happened at school that morning—why he had remembered some things so clearly, other things incorrectly, and still others not at all.
He was sure it had something to do with the damage his brain had suffered, and yet that didn’t make sense to him. He could understand how parts of his memory could have been destroyed, but that wouldn’t account for the things he had remembered incorrectly. He should, he was sure, either remember things or not remember them. But memories shouldn’t have simply changed, unless there was a reason.
The thing to do, he decided, was start keeping track of the things he remembered, and how he remembered them, and see if there was a pattern to the things he remembered incorrectly.
If there was, he might be able to figure out what was wrong with him.
And then, there was María Torres.
She had been in his room when he got home that afternoon, and when he had first seen her, he’d thought he recognized her. It had only been a fleeting moment, and a sharp pain had shot through his head, and then it was over. A moment later he realized that what he’d recognized was not her face, but her eyes. She had the same eyes that Dr. Torres had: almost black eyes that seemed to peer right inside you.
She’d smiled at him, and nodded her head, then quickly left him alone in his room.
By now he should have forgotten the incident, except for the pain in his head.
The pain itself was gone now, but the memory of it was still etched sharply in his mind.