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“I have some questions about amnesia,” I tell the doctor.
“Amnesia.” She tears open a packet of Splenda and dumps it into her tea. “What kind of questions?”
The server returns with my cup of coffee, and I set it aside, trying to figure out how the fuck I want to word this.
“Let’s say, theoretically, someone claims to have no memory of their life. How would you decide if they were being truthful about that?”
She considers the question as she stirs her tea. “That would depend on a lot of different factors. For starters, I’d need to know what preceded the memory loss. The first thing I’d check is a history of traumatic injury, illnesses, surgeries, things of that nature.”
I recall what Bianca said to Birdie when she didn’t know I was listening. She mentioned the doctors checked her over and ran tests but couldn’t find anything.
“And what if there wasn’t a history of an injury, or any other obvious reasons for the memory loss?” I ask.
The doctor takes a sip and frowns. “You know I can’t diagnose someone based on secondhand information, right?”
“It’s all theoretical,” I remind her.
She hesitates, and I’m half-convinced she’s going to shut this conversation down before I get any answers. But she seems to acknowledge something in my eyes that makes her change her mind.
“As long as it’s theoretical,” she says. “Because it would be unethical for me to make any observations without actually seeing the patient.”
“I’m not looking for a diagnosis,” I tell her. “Just your best-educated guess on this imaginary scenario.”
She smirks like she thinks I’m trying to charm her. Nothing could be further from the truth.
I pull out the wad of cash I stuffed into my leather vest and toss it in front of her. “Just a few minutes of your time and some answers. That’s all I’m looking for.”
She glances at the money and nods. “So tell me, theoretically, does this person have any sense whatsoever of her identity?”
“No,” I admit reluctantly. “She seems… lost. Confused, I guess. She can look right at a photo of herself and deny that it’s her. She says she doesn’t remember anything about her life, but she can do all the things she’s always known how to do. Cook, sing, play guitar. She hasn’t forgotten any of that. But she’s not quite herself either. Her emotions are more volatile and unpredictable.”
“What’s your best guess for how long this has been going on?” Leslie asks.
“Five years.”
Her brows knit together, and she shakes her head. “That would be very unusual without any obvious causes like an illness or injury.”
I dip my head, that same familiar frustration choking me. It feels like she’s about to confirm what I’ve suspected all along, but I’m not sure I want to hear it.
“What about a history of psychiatric disorders?” she asks. “Any treatment or hospitalizations?”
I swallow, thinking back to the conversation I had with her father. “She was in therapy, but I don’t know exactly what her diagnosis was, if she even had any. I was told she had a skewed relationship with the truth, and that was an ongoing behavior.”
“Interesting,” Leslie murmurs into her cup. “Physical injury aside, do you know if there was any emotional trauma that preceded the memory loss?”
Her question triggers a deluge of images of Adam’s death.
“I can’t say for certain,” I admit. “There was a traumatic event, and it’s likely she was present or possibly involved when it happened.”
Leslie nods. “Well, here’s the thing. Without seeing this imaginary person and taking a detailed history, I can’t tell you much. It’s possible, from what you told me she could be lying based on her previous behavior. But it’s also possible the memory loss could be real.”
“Even after five years?” I ask.
She shrugs. “In rare circumstances, trauma can trigger memory loss. There have been documented cases where people have fallen into something called a dissociative fugue. It’s generally a protective mechanism. The best way I can think to describe it is the brain unplugs from their previous reality and starts over with a new one. In those instances, people lose their entire identity and often travel far from home and begin a new life, completely unaware of their past.”
Her observation touches on something else Bianca confessed to Birdie. She told her she woke up in a hospital in New Orleans and didn’t know how she got there. Could that be why? Is it possible she really has been telling the truth this entire time?
Leslie seems to notice the shift in my posture, and she takes it upon herself to clarify.
“It’s an avenue for exploration in unusual cases,” she says. “But I have to tell you, five years would be a long time to be in a fugue state. There’s also the possibility that trauma could trigger a dissociative identity disorder, in which case, the personality fragments. The alter personality can take control, and it can be completely unique from the original identity. They can even perceive their appearance as something entirely different, which would explain an inability to recognize themselves in photos. Both these options would be something to consider and rule out.”
