What have I done?
I squeeze my eyes shut tight and try to remember.
Why is she scared of me? Why is she holding a gun?
I know her, somehow. I take in her features, her faded freckles, her ruddy cheeks, her soft lips. I know her. Yes, she’s a good person. I trust her. But who am I? A feeling of dread wells inside me.
Have I done something?
I try to ask the figure on the step, the young woman, but the words don’t come. I try a second time and they come in a rasped whisper, a voice I don’t recognize. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
The figure is standing now, trembling. “Stop it!” she shouts, color flooding her face. “Stop it! I know what you’re doing, Matthew! Just stop.”
Matthew. My name is Matthew. I try desperately to remember her name. If I can just remember her name, then it will all be okay, I know it will, because I know her. We know each other. We’re close, I feel it: she trusts me and I trust her. I have such strong feeling toward her, toward—
“—Marn?” her name comes back to me through the void, short and clear.
Her expression wavers. She scrutinizes my face, scowling, appraising me, looking for something. Then she takes a sharp breath and shakes her head in disbelief.
“Marn. I’m sorry if I did…I don’t know what I did. I’m so, so sorry,” I tell her in a voice I don’t recognize. “Marn, what’s going on? I’m scared.”
“Oh my God,” she mutters. “Oh my God,” she says again. She gently sits back down on the step and lets her head fall softly into her hands, tears running in streaks down her skin as I watch. “What the hell am I meant to—” She’s sobbing.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help her.
“Marn, I don’t know what I did,” I say, to comfort her. “You have to tell me…what I did.”
She looks up slowly.
“Marn, I’m scared,” I tell her. “I don’t know what’s happening. I’m sorry if I did something. I’m so sorry.”
She smears the tears from her eyes with the back of her shaky hand.
She seems to make a choice, her energy changing. She wipes her hands on her trousers and smiles at me with forgiveness; I’m flooded with relief.
“Yes, I know you’re sorry, Matthew. It’s okay now. Everything is okay. It’s all going to be fine.”
She sets down her gun on the step and slowly makes her way toward me. “Are you in pain, Matthew? Where do you feel it?” she asks softly.
“I can’t feel much, Marn. Is that okay?” I peer up into her face and she nods gently.
“Uh-huh. Yes, that’s okay. Don’t worry about that. Here, let me come around you.”
Sitting on the floor behind me, she pulls me up so that my shoulders and head rest against her chest. She slips her arms around me tight and holds me in a hug, safe and warm.
“Don’t worry about anything, Matthew. I’m right here,” she promises, and slowly, slowly I let myself relax.
49
DR. EMMA LEWIS
FOUR MONTHS LATER
I will attend to my own health, well-being, and abilities in order to provide care of the highest standard.
As new mantras go, it’s not a bad one.
I watch her drum her tastefully manicured fingers on her Givenchy midi skirt as warm sunlight streams in through the window behind her, her long dark hair shining in the light, pulled back today in a low sleek ponytail. She taps the stiletto heel of her thousand-pound boots against the thick cream carpet of the consultation room and sighs.
