“That’s understandable,” Dr. Cohen said, really pushing that calm tone of hers. “If you’ve had bad experiences in a hospital, your memories of it might not have come back, but the feelings of being there might have resurfaced. Unconsciously. And that’s clearly what’s making you feel this way. It’s very common to have some post-traumatic stress after hospitalizations. And that can stay with you.”
“Well, I have some good news for you then,” Dr. Maluka said. “Medically, there’s no reason to keep you here. But, obviously, since you still have amnesia, we can’t just discharge you, so . . .” She pulled a brochure out of a file and passed it to me. “Dr. Cohen and I have already discussed it, and this is a great care home that can look after you while the police figure out who you are. It shouldn’t be for very long, but they’ll be able to keep you safe.”
I unfolded the pamphlet. This place looked similar to a hospital, the only difference was the garden and games room, but it still had those long, terrifying, white-lit corridors, machines by the bed, and it gave me that same feeling. “I . . . I don’t want to go to a care home. It looks like a hospital, it’s . . .”
“Deep breaths,” Dr. Cohen urged. “In and out.”
“I’m afraid we can’t let you out of here without a guardian to take custody of you,” Dr. Maluka said.
“A guardian?” I asked.
“It would usually be a relative, a friend, even a colleague. Someone who can take responsibility for your care while you regain your memory.”
“I . . . I don’t have anyone like that. How can I, if I don’t remember anything about myself?”
“And that’s why we can’t just discharge you,” Dr. Cohen said.
“But there’s no one. I don’t know . . . there’s no one.” I sat down on the bed, that darkness in the pit of my stomach radiating outwards, engulfing my whole body. “I don’t have a place to go.” My words came out strangled as my throat squeezed them. I gripped onto the bed tightly, trying to steady myself on it. Trying not to fall off it and fall into the abyss I felt inside. I felt an arm around me.
“I will come and visit you, eh!” Ntethelelo said, giving me a nudge. “What you say?”
My shoulders started to shake. I was sobbing again. But this time it was a silent, tearless sob. Everything hurt. My ribs, my stomach, my legs.
“Please, I can’t go to that place. And I can’t stay here. Please . . . please.” I don’t even think I was begging them anymore. I think I was begging that part deep inside myself that felt so sick and desperate at the idea of being in a hospital, or a care home. That part inside me that told me, if they put me there, I would escape again. And second time around, I really would have nowhere to go.
The sound of a throat being cleared filled the room and we all turned. It had come from Noah.
“She could stay with me for a few days.” He said it quickly. “You can sign her over to me. I’ll be her guardian until the police work it out.”
“Noah, you mustn’t feel obliged. There are other options.” Dr. Cohen looked concerned about this proposed arrangement.
But Noah stood up straight. “It’s alright. I’m off work at the moment, anyway, and I’m sure it will only be for a day or two.”
“Seriously?” I stood, but I wasn’t sure if my shocked legs would hold me up. But, miraculously, they did.
“Sure.” He nodded.
I turned to the doctors. “Is that okay? Can he do that?”
“Uh . . . legally, it’s fine. As long as you’re going willingly and are not being coerced, and—”
“I am going willingly!” I gushed. “No coercion.”
“As long as you bring her to her follow-up appointments?” Dr. Maluka added.
“I will,” Noah said.
“Then I have no objection to it. It’s unusual, but it’s not objectionable.” She turned her attention to Dr. Cohen now. “What do you think?”
“I’m fine with that, I would like to see you for a counseling session, though. To check in with you.”
“Okay!” I said quickly, and then looked over at Noah. “I mean, if you can. If that’s alright, if . . .”
“It’s alright,” he said, and then gave me a smile that almost made me believe him.Almost.
“Wait,” Ntethelelo said as I got up to leave. “Take my phone number. Call me if you need something. Or need to talk.” She said it to me in isiZulu and everyone stared at us.
“I don’t have a phone to put it in,” I replied.
