His head throbs deeply.
But there is a look in her eyes and everything he needs to know is in that look. He’s safe for now. That’s as clear to him as the sand, and the cold, and the bright high-vis yellow of the woman’s coat.
And suddenly, for a heartbeat, he understandsexactlywhat is happening to him. That this has happened so many times before, this exact scene, it’s a loop he can’t ever escape. And he briefly understands a tiny part of what he needs to do next. And with that knowledge panic, in a giant wave, crests over him. The bright pinch of pain inside his skull explodes to life and he crumples onto the sand.
2
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 6—LONDON
This is my pager. There are many like it but this one is mine.
Like a song I can’t shake, or an advert jingle, it runs through my head as I jog to Ward 10, the pager vibrating deep in my pocket, in time.
This is my pager. There are many like it but this one is mine.
I know, as mantras go, it’s not original. But to be fair to all concerned, it only started out as a joke at medical school. And the joke became a habit and, weirdly, these days, it does actually calm me down. That’s the thing about habits. They’re comforting. They’re hard to kick. Like smoking. And I don’t do that one these days. I’m not that kind of girl anymore.
I’m not any kind of girl anymore—I’m a thirty-year-old woman. I’m the lead consultant neuropsychiatrist in a busy London hospital. If I ever actually left work, it wouldn’t be “Ms.” on my restaurant reservation, it would be “Dr.” If I ever had time off to go to restaurants, that is.
You have to watch out for habits, when twelve-hour shifts slide effortlessly into twenty-four-hour shifts. But as habits go, there’s nothing wrong with mantras.
God, I need a cigarette.
When I get to Ward 10, Mr. Davidson is yelling at the top of his seventy-eight-year-old lungs. Which has the combined effect of being both disturbing and at the same time strangely sweet. But perhaps the main takeaway is the sheer volume. A visiting couple and a porter stand stock-still in the hallway, heads cocked toward the commotion coming from his room.
Their expressions settle when they clock my doctor ID lanyard; it tends to have that effect. Over the years, I’ve noticed the doctor’s lanyard tends to illicit either relief or apprehension.
I flick off my angry pager and plop it back in its pocket. Doctors are some of the only people left in the world you’re likely to see carrying pagers. We still use them because they’re reliable. Unlike mobile phones, pagers don’t have dead zones; they work everywhere, even on the heavily insulated X-ray wards of a hospital. And they don’t run out of battery after a few hours; pagers can run for over a week between charges. And they’re durable. Throw them as hard as you possibly can against a concrete wall while crying, for example, and they just won’t die.
When I enter the room in question I find a junior doctor, two nurses, and Mr. Davidson’s forty-year-old son standing impotently by as the bedbound Mr. Davidson continues to shout, his voice quavering at the assembled group, tears rolling softly down his tired, crinkly face. All heads turn to me as I enter. The lanyard does its thing.
The junior doctor throws me an imploring look, his expression telling me he’d be more than happy for me to take over. I give him a nod. This is, after all, why they paged me.
Mr. Davidson’s screaming and the general vibe in the room make it clear that an impasse has been reached. Mr. Davidson doesn’t want to be touched or manhandled.
“Good morning, Mr. Davidson,” I say brightly, trying to top his energy.
There’s a slight break in the rhythm of his yells. He looks at me, surprised, and I continue with his full attention. “My name is Dr. Lewis. Do you remember me, Mr. Davidson? I’m your doctor. Emma Lewis.” I give him a reassuring smile as if to say,Of course you remember me, we’re old friends.
He clings to my smile, seduced from his train of thought, and his yelling finally subsides. He gives me a tentative nod. Not fully invested in the idea that we know each other just yet.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong, Mr. Davidson?”
His tearstained face uncrumples as he struggles to unpick my question.
“Are you in pain, Mr. Davidson? Whereabouts do you feel it?” I nudge him on. He looks away from me now, toward the window.
It’s hard to tell to what extent Mr. Davidson recognizes me, if he does at all. Howard Davidson has problems accessing and storing memory; I’ve been treating him for three weeks, ever since he was admitted. Recognition is a complex neurological process and humans are very, very good at masking the absence of it. People adapt around memory losses. They rely on other things—visual cues, social cues—they get good at reading people, situations; they find ways around things until an answer presents itself. But regardless of whether Howard Davidson recognizes me, he trusts me, he’s stopped shouting, and that is definitely progress.
I approach his bed cautiously. He turns to look up at me with his big wet eyes, curious, and exhausted. I gently place a hand on his arm as reassurance.
He peers down at my hand, his chest rising and falling as he fights to get his breath back to normal. He doesn’t pull away from my touch, he doesn’t lash out. Patients with memory disorders can often become uncharacteristically aggressive, physically violent, but when his gaze floats back up to me it isn’t hostile, it’s entreating.
“Where exactly are you feeling the pain, Mr. Davidson?” I ask again, softly.
He takes in air in great heaves, not a huge surprise—he’s been yelling continuously at the top of his voice for quite a while to a confused and frankly deeply concerned audience. As he stares up at me, gulping in snatched breaths, he looks like a man lost in a foreign country.
