I actually offered to help a while ago, and neither of them had wanted to accept it. But perhaps only because they wanted much more?
Erik could be an actor who Ela has hired and instructed. That would also explain why he keeps tearing up when I push him away from me. Technique. Unfortunately, this is precisely the kind of story that would make me sound completely crazy if I told it to a doctor.
Ela parks the Honda. “Everything OK, Jo?”
I nod and try to get out, but the door is still locked. I hit my hand against it with a force that surprises even me. I pound my knuckles against the metal, again and again; it hurts, but I can’t stop.
“What are you doing?” Ela grabs my arms and holds onto them tightly. “Jo! Please!”
The back of my right hand throbs and burns. I feel a strong, almost overwhelming urge to bang my head against the car door as well.
I take a few deep breaths, and it gradually dissipates.
The expression in Ela’s eyes is one of utter perplexity.
“Get me to this doctor,” I say. “Quickly.”
The waiting room is quiet. Just an elderly woman and a young man. And the three of us. Erik sorts out the paperwork with the receptionist; he has my passport and my insurance card. All the documents that I so urgently need.
The elderly woman is called in a short while later. I prepare myself for a long wait. We’ve arrived early, but I’d rather sit here than in Ela’s apartment.
There is a single dark spot on the otherwise immaculate marble-tiled floor. I fixate on it. Count my breaths, in and out. My wrist is hurting more by the minute; it’s probably swollen, and the most inconceivable part is that the pain feels good.
Really good.
I curl my right hand into a fist and feel new barbs of pain shoot through it. If I’m not careful, I’ll start laughing.
I really hope this doctor knows her stuff.
* * *
By my reckoning, Dr. Verena Schattauer is in her late fifties, and right away she forbids Erik or Ela from accompanying me into the examination room. I take an instant liking to her.
Because of this, it’s easy for me to give her a summary of what happened since last night. It’s not even been a day yet, for God’s sake, and my life has been turned completely upside down.
I am as honest as I’m able to be. The only thing I keep quiet about is what happened just now in the car. About the fact that I clearly have an underlying need to injure myself.
“He’s utterly convinced that he’s right, and now even my best friend is taking his side. And yet there’s not a single thing in my house that belongs to him. No books, no clothes, not even a toothbrush. But he’s disregarding that, they both are.”
The doctor looks at me, her expression solemn. She has made a few notes, but mainly she just listens to me, with an attentiveness that’s almost tangible.
“It’s … as though I’m standing in front of a red wall, and everyone’s telling me it’s blue. I can try as hard as I want—but for me it stays red. I don’t see any other color. I know it’s red, but I can’t prove it to anyone. How could I?”
Dr. Schattauer nods compassionately. “Yes, I understand what you mean. Let’s summarize one more time: you can remember everything, you say, short-term memories as well as long-term—everything except this man called Erik.”
“Exactly.” I suddenly become aware of how it must sound. “I know that if it turns out Erik is telling the truth then I must really be sick, there’s no other explanation…” My words are too hasty, each one running into the next, stumbling over one another.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The doctor presses the tips of her fingers together and smiles at me. “We’ll need to give you a thorough examination, of course, but believe me, there are other explanations for the symptoms you’ve described.”
She pauses and looks at me thoughtfully. “Systematic amnesia, for example. In other words, memory loss that is restricted to specific areas. In some circumstances, specific people.” Seeing that I’m about to question her, she raises her hand to stop me. “That doesn’t mean that this diagnosis applies to you. It’s just another possibility. To start with, we need to rule out all physical causes.” She pulls her calendar toward her and flicks through it. “I can fit you in for an EEG appointment here in the practice on Thursday, and I’ll also refer you to the clinic for a CT scan.” Probably noticing that I flinched in response to her words, she quickly continues. “Even though I don’t really believe your problem has a physical cause.”
Systematic amnesia. Memory loss, for no apparent reason? I inquire, and Schattauer shakes her head. “There’s always a cause. A very stressful event, some trauma that is connected to the thing or person in question.”
My mouth is so dry that I need two attempts to form my question. “Meaning that I’ve suppressed my memory of Erik … because he traumatized me? Abused me?”
Dr. Schattauer shakes her head emphatically. “No, it doesn’t mean that. It’s just one of many possibilities that we should consider. I’d really like to help you, if you’d allow me to.”
This thought that my mind has blocked out Erik to protect itself from the memory of something terrible suddenly seems more plausible to me than any other explanation. Then Ela’s behavior would make sense. Erik’s, too, come to think of it. The way he looks at me, then averts his gaze, the way he’s trying to look after me … it could be down to a guilty conscience. And then there are those fleeting moments where it seems he’s struggling to control himself …
“Is the EEG appointment on Thursday OK for you?” asks Dr. Schattauer, interrupting my train of thought.
“Yes. Yes of course.” I shake her hand and leave the office. Only Erik is waiting there, he jumps up when he sees me.
“Ela went home. She was absolutely exhausted, so I told her she could go. She’ll call this afternoon.”
There it is again, that searching, testing gaze. Guilt? It was entirely possible.
“Did your talk with the doctor go well?”
I smile, or at least something close to it. I show my teeth, in any case. “Oh yes. It certainly was.”
Dr. Schattauer has followed me out, and positions herself between Erik and me. She looks him up and down before turning to me. “If you like, I can arrange for you to stay in a private clinic for the next few days. You’d have some peace there, and you’d be looked after. Maybe that could help.”
Half an hour ago I would have seriously considered the offer. But now I shake my head. “No, I want to go home. And you have all my details, my address and everything?”
“Yes, of course.” The doctor’s questioning glance tells me that she hasn’t understood what I’m getting at yet.
“His too?” I gesture toward Erik, whose surprise at my decision is written all over his face.
“Yes. He even provided his ID.”