“Can you help him?” Maya said.
Dr. Adler leaned forward, put his fingers in a steeple under his chin. “I’d like to send you to the ER for more thorough testing. They’ll no doubt order an MRI or a CT scan, and blood tests. We need to be thorough. Rule out as many reasons for your memory loss as we can.”
“Dr. Adler,” Maya said quietly. “We’ve no clue if Ash has insurance. Neither of us ever have.”
“I understand,” he said, drumming his fingers. “Let me see what I can do.”
Hours later, after a visit Dr. Adler had arranged at a free clinic, and which involved me being poked, prodded and tested repeatedly, we now sat opposite the ER doctor, a tall, wide-shouldered woman called Gwen Soares. She read over the notes that had been compiled as I’d undergone a CT scan, too many blood tests to count, a psychiatric evaluation and an in-depth discussion about family history. I had to bite my tongue and swallow my frustrations as Maya helped me with almost all of the questions, clarifying there were no strokes, aneurysms or brain tumors on my side of the family. She gave my hand a squeeze as she told them about my mother’s suicide, which she concluded with, “But Ash has never been depressed. Never.”
Dr. Soares nodded once, looked up at us and smiled. “How are you feeling, Ash?”
“One hundred percent arsed off,” I wanted to say, but settled for, “Bushed.”
“I understand,” she said. “Here’s the good news. All your blood work was clear. No signs of drugs, alcohol or any kind of infection in your system. Not only that, but your semantic memory is in good working order.”
“What’s that?” Maya said.
“The part of your brain that understands things such as words, colors, places and so forth,” Dr. Soares said. “Things not necessarily drawn from personal experience but which are common, as well as general knowledge you’ve accumulated throughout your life.”
“And that’s a good thing?” I said.
“Exceedingly. You’re functioning normally: walking, talking. You know how to eat, for example, and what you’re eating. You know how to take care of your personal hygiene. I’d say, along with the other symptoms you’re presenting, it’s possible your memory condition is temporary.”
“It’ll come back?” Maya said, her voice going up. “All of it? When?”
“It could be days, weeks, perhaps more,” Dr. Soares said. “And I’m afraid it’s impossible to say if everything will return. There are signs of concussion, more than likely from the blow to your head, but there’s no bleeding in your brain.”
“But it won’t stay like this,” I said. “Thank Christ.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet, Ash,” Dr. Soares said. “The mind can be a tricky thing, and I need to caution you about false memories caused by confabulation.”
“Confabu...what?” I said.
“It’s a phenomenon where a person with a brain injury constructs false memories,” she said. “They can experience extremely vivid recollections of things that never happened at all or may recall events differently from true reality, yet be a hundred percent convinced they’re accurate. It’s a brain’s way of coping, you see, filling in the blanks.”
“Even if it’s not real?” Maya said.
Dr. Soares nodded. “On a smaller scale, false memories happen to people without amnesia or brain injuries, too. If you think about it, most of us believe our memories are accurate. In general, we see our minds as video recorders, with everything memorized exactly as it happened. However, if you ask the police about eyewitnesses—”
“They’ll say they’re notoriously unreliable,” Maya said.
“Exactly,” Dr. Soares replied. “Even if a person isn’t suffering from amnesia, their memory is prone to fallacy. For example, houses burn to the ground because the owner was certain they’d switched off the stove, and in extreme cases, people create entirely fictitious memories about things they’re certain happened, but never took place.”
I held up a hand. “Wait a sec. You’re saying stuff might come back but I could have made it all up because of...what did you call it again?”
“Confabulation,” Dr. Soares and Maya said at the same time.
“Like the chickens last night?” Maya turned back to the doctor. “Ash was convinced we had chickens in the garden at home, but they were actually on the fabric of the kitchen blinds. We never had real ones.”
“The condition may resolve itself over time as the brain heals,” Dr. Soares said. “But I need you to be patient with yourself, and each other, as you navigate your way through this. Maya, it’ll be a delicate balance of knowing Ash’s recollection is incorrect but not needing to convince him otherwise because that particular memory or detail doesn’t matter when it comes to the big picture of his life. Most of all, Ash, you need to rest as much as you can. Do you work?”
“Not at the moment,” I said, still trying to wrap my head around the false-memory concept, adding it to my ever-growing list of things about my life that were pissing me off. “I’m staying with my sister in the old family home.”
“That’s a good thing. Concussions take time to heal. You need to listen to your body, and don’t overdo it. No sports or vigorous movements, another blow to your head could have dire consequences, and stay off screens as much as possible. Other than that—” she gave a small shrug “—I’m afraid a strong dose of patience is required while you get better.”
“So, was I right?” Maya said. “It’s retrograde amnesia?”
Dr. Soares hesitated. “It’s a strong
