“What do you mean by that?”
I shift in the chair, unable to get comfortable, despite the softness of the cushions. “I don’t actually remember the accident.”
“Do you know what happened?” Her brows rise.
“We were diving and we were caught in the current out at Deception Pass and we were kind of . . . thrown around. There were driftwood logs and rocks hurtling through the water . . .”
“How frightening,” she says, her eyes widening.
“I suppose it was, but I don’t remember any of it. Something hit me in the head, probably a rock. I don’t know exactly when, or where I was in the water. But Jacob, my husband, got me to shore and the Coast Guard picked us up.” My words come out feathery and breathless.
“It sounds like there was incredible violence in the accident, a real assault on your physical being,” she says.
“Yes, you’re right,” I say, nodding slowly. “I could have died.”
“You could have,” she says. “People have died in the pass.”
“You know about the pass?”
“Deception Pass? Sure. The waters are violent there.”
“I guess I’m lucky to be alive, but everything feels out of whack. As if I’m someone else and I got dropped here, but I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“How difficult and scary.” I detect no trace of condescension in her tone.
“I wake up scared. I have nightmares. I forget things. The changes to my life in these last few years are subtle and dramatic at the same time, like a fast-forward fifteen minutes in a movie.”
“Not like jumping from the beginning to the end,” she says.
“Exactly. But I can’t remember many experiences and conversations. The days and nights, birthdays, dinners, my thoughts moment by moment. My walks, the city, research, classes. Meeting my husband and getting to know him. If I think too hard about all of it, I can’t breathe. I wonder if it’s even possible . . .”
“If what’s even possible?”
“To fall in love with him again. I can’t tap into my emotions. Except . . .”
“Except?”
“I had a vivid memory of being in the soap shop with him just now. The smells.”
“Smells can evoke memories in powerful ways. The smell goes to the olfactory bulb, which is directly connected to the parts of the brain involved in emotions and memory.”
“I remembered wanting to stay here but knowing I had other obligations. But it’s only a piece of the past. Like I’m looking through a tunnel and seeing a circle of reality.” For a brief moment, I wonder why it’s so easy to spill my thoughts to this sympathetic stranger, when I can hardly speak to my husband. Something about her manner, so calm and open, accepting, makes me trust her. Or maybe I’ve simply longed for a confidante, someone disconnected from my former life.
She leans toward me, her expression kind and caring. “Sounds like you feel disoriented and alone.”
“I do,” I say, blinking away tears. “I feel damaged, dependent on my husband. But I want to remember my own memories and not just what he tells me.”
“We’ll piece it all together as we go along—”
“But how? Other people have suffered from head injuries and lost their memory. How do they go on? I need a map or instructions.”
“There isn’t any map for recovery, except the one you create for yourself. With time, we’ll get a handle on this. You’re not alone.”
“Thank you,” I say. I find myself talking, the words tumbling out in a heap—about the accident, my nightmares, my dizziness and headaches. The years I’ve lost. Everything. I don’t know how long I’ve been talking. She nods and offers encouraging sounds now and then.
“How overwhelming for you,” she says, when I stop to catch my breath. “Of course you’re feeling vulnerable and disoriented. Anyone would.”
“Thank you for saying so.” Somehow, I pictured a therapist as distant, assessing and analyzing me, but Sylvia LaCrosse is not like that at all.
“I’m glad it helps. But you’ve helped yourself by seeking me out. By not trying to carry this burden alone.”
I nod, wondering about her, and about the client who canceled, leaving an appointment open for me. Maybe troubled souls sail in from other islands, drawn by the sign on the building, shining out at them like a lighthouse beacon. Is Sylvia married? She wears a plethora of rings on her fingers, but I can’t tell if the white-gold one on her ring finger is a wedding band or merely decorative. Does she have children? Why did she choose to retire in the middle of nowhere? But I’m not supposed to ask her these questions. I’m supposed to focus inward, so I say, “I do feel really alone. I mean, I have my husband, but he remembers everything. He doesn’t get dizzy or forget entire conversations. The gaps frighten me.”