Читать книгу Becoming Amy - Julia Solovieva - Страница 3

I am sitting on the bed, looking through one of the new books, when the cafeteria woman brings in some breakfast. This time I do not torture her with questions, I just say “good morning” and “thank you” and smile at her. After all she has nothing to do with whatever – if anything at all – is going on, and it is not just her – I decided to try and be nice to everyone here. If nothing is the matter, than I will just be nice to nice people, and if they are up to something pretending to be nice and unaware might help me find out something. Honestly, I am not quite sure where these conspiracy theory is coming from – maybe I am going crazy to add up to the amnesia, or maybe my mind is just bored and needs to work on something, even if it is a conspiracy theory.

I take the food tray to the bed and get back to reading, or at least trying to read, one of the books they left me. To be honest, it is not going too well. Every once in a while the lines go blurry and start to swim and dance around – I guess it is one of the consequences of the head trauma. But also the book is boring. Some people I neither know nor care about do stuff, feel feelings and get on each other’s nerves. The other book is some historical novel, but there is very little difference – just that the people used to be real, but have been dead for many years in some other country. How fun. Ok, maybe I am not reading them right – I am hopping from page to page, from chapter to chapter, reading a few pages here and there, but I am not actually interested in reading – I am trying to find something I will remember, something to find some connection with, something to jog my memory.

In an hour or so I give up, and just as I am hesitating, choosing between the folder with photos and the music player, there is a knock on the door and Doctor Smith comes in. There is, as usual, a wide smile on his bearded face and behind them there is a tall skinny ginger guy who looks about my age. He also looks extremely uncomfortable and is trying not to look straight at me. This is a weird echo of the dream I have just had, and it brings me down a little.

Hello, Amy, – Doctor Smith seems to stretch out his words a little bit, almost singing them. – How are you today? Any good news?

Hello, – I reply unenthusiastically, – and if by good news you mean some recovered memories, then I must disappoint you.

I am not disappointed at all. This is just a healing process that seems to be taking just a wee bit longer than I hoped. I see you got Doctor Jones’ package. Found anything you like?

The books are boring, to be honest. And if they are really my favourite ones, I don’t feel it. But I have not gotten to the new photos and music yet.

I see, – he hesitates just for a moment, and I am looking at his smile intently to see if it will fade from the bad news just as Doctor Jones’ did. But he is either a better actor or a more cheerful person than she is. His smile flickers at the cornet for a nanosecond and then it is back to normal. – How about combining that with getting a little fresh air? I don’t think that being cooped up here all the time will do you good.

Well, that is an interesting turn of events. Is it a genuine offer? Are they trying to win me over in such a way? What will I see outside? I try not to seem too enthusiastic when I reply.

Sounds good.

Splendid. Thomas here will show you the way. I am afraid the corridor system here is a little bit too complicated for an outsider.

Thomas does not seem too thrilled with the idea. I wonder why. I feel somewhat inclined to get offended by that, but then I remember that I decided to be nice to everyone here. And this guy is another person from whom I can squeeze out some information. So I flash what I hope is my most pleasant smile at him, grab the photos and the music player and follow the men into the white corridor.

In the corridor Doctor Smith turns left and Thomas barks “Follow me” and turns right. He is much taller than me and his steps are much longer, so it is quite hard to catch up with him.

Could you please slow down a little bit? I am Amy, by the way. – I still do not feel like I am, but if that is what they call me here I will introduce myself by this name.

Yeah, I know, – he says abruptly. He sounds annoyed, but at least he slows down enough for me to catch up with him without having to run.

Thanks, – I say. – Lucky you, with your long legs, you can get to places faster…

Thomas shoots me such a puzzled/annoyed look that it immediately cuts off my babbling. Anyway, I am not sure if babbling is the right technique to make him warm up to me. Also it appears that I am not so good at it. But still, I cannot help but ask:

Where are we going?

You’ll see, – and that is all I hear from him till we get to our destination.

We walk along the white corridor taking turn after turn after turn. I try to count and memorize turns again, but there just seems to be too many. It also seems impossible that a human being can memorize them all and navigate them as easily as Doctor Smith or Thomas do. And all along the endless corridor there is an endless number of closed, and probably locked, white doors. I keep hoping for one of them to open so that I could get a glimpse inside. For some reason it seems to me that something weird must be going on behind these doors, but maybe it is just the “forbidden fruit” effect. Research clinic, they said. What do they research here?

Finally, we arrive at matte glass double doors, and the light behind them is natural light. Thomas lays his hand on one of the handles, but then he stops and turns to me.

You have one hour. In an hour I will return and take you back to your room. And there are cameras watching you there, so no funny stuff.

Cameras watching me there… I immediately begin to wonder if there are cameras in other places: the corridor, my room, the bathroom? Well done, Thomas, you have just succeeded in making me even more paranoiac! And – funny stuff? I wonder what is classified as “funny stuff”, but I decide against asking the already annoyed with me Thomas.

He opens the door and gestures for me to come in. I do, and hear the door slam and footsteps moving away, before I even realize where I am. I look around. And the first thing that the spotlight of my paranoia highlights for me to see is the walls. All around this place. It is not really outside, it is inside this whole facility, a cozy little inner yard. To be honest, I kind of expected something like that, subconsciously, half-consciously. Paranoia aside, it is not wise to let a patient who has recently had a car accident and a head trauma wander around in the streets or some public park or garden. At least not unsupervised. And I would prefer being enclosed in four walls to being supervised by Thomas any day.

Apart from the walls the place looks very nice. There are trees, bushes, flowerbeds, and everything is bright and colorful, succulent. Narrow winding paths are paved between the plants in what seems like a random order with cozy little nooks and inviting benches. At any other circumstances I would fall in love with this place and never want to leave it again, but everything else that is going on spoils the fun.

However, being outside, breathing fresh air and looking at something – finally! – other than the white walls feels really good. I put the folder and the player on the nearest bench and walk around for a while to stretch my legs. I also like that, at least in this small garden, I have some choice concerning where to go: I can turn left or right or even turn around in the middle of a path and go back. Not that I have been cooped up inside for such a long time, but even this illusion of freedom feels… Well, feels liberating. I would spend the whole hour just walking, but then I remember the things I brought with me. It is, after all, in my own interest to have a look at them now and not to put it off. Although I do not really feel like listening to “my favourite” music or looking at pictures of “me”. Although I kind of know what the result will be.

Despite my pessimistic mood, I decide to be done with it now rather than later. I sit down on a bench, put the headphones on, press play, and open up the folder with the photos. This time it is not childhood, but teenage years. The girl in the photos is thin, blond and freckly. There are fewer photos with the father and more with some friends or classmates, a few of the photos are of what seems like some kind of trip with what seems to be some tourist attractions. The girl looks happy. She looks very much like me. But she is not me. First I just think it in line with my paranoia and with “Amy does not feel like my name”. But then, on a bench in a lovely inner garden, in the middle of some cheerful song, looking at a photo of a smiling teenage girl, I realize that it is not me. These are photos of some other girl, also, probably, her favourite books and music, but why they are trying to persuade me that I am her – I have no idea.

I take off the headphones, almost rip them out of my ears. I jump up, drop the photos, drop the player on the ground. I want to run, no matter where, just get away from these place and these people. But then I hear voices. Someone is behind the glass doors, and they are arguing, almost shouting at each other. With some difficulty I suppress my desire to flee – and where would I run, anyway? – and listen.

I can recognize the two people – they are Doctor Smith and Thomas, but I cannot make out any words. I pick up the fallen things and as slowly and quietly as possible walk to the door and sit on the bench nearest to it. Unfortunately they have lowered their voices a bit and I still cannot make anything out – just the intonations. Thomas seems to be very upset with something – if I were not so upset myself I would make a joke about him being upset over his name – who on Earth is named Thomas, anyway – or hair color – and Doctor Smith seems to be trying to calm him down. They exchange a few other sentences I cannot make out, and then I hear Thomas shout:

But it is not her! Not Amy! I can’t see her like that! And you are making me spend time with her, talk to her! This is unbearable!

For the love of God, shut up, boy! – Surprisingly, Doctor Smith manages to shout and hiss this phrase at the same time. Impressive.

But I am not really impressed. I am not even listening anymore. With all my power I am fighting my desire to run. But I cannot run, not that there is anywhere to run. If I could leave I probably would, but then I would never find out who the hell I am, who the hell Amy is and why the hell I am supposed to pretend to be her. While the two men are still talking, I manage to calm down a little bit. I get up, move to a bench slightly farther away from the door, put the headphones on – even turn on the player – and start looking through the photos. I am looking at them, but I do not really see them, my mind can hardly register the images in front of my eyes, but all I need to do is pretend that I was not listening to them, that I did not hear what Thomas cried out, that I was not even aware that they were at the door and the hour was up. I hope I am enough of an actress to be able to do that. Finally, out of the corner of my eye I notice someone enter, but I pretend not to see them. I even start humming to whatever tune is playing and look even more intently at one of the photographs. Suddenly someone grabs one of my headphones, cold fingers brushing my ear, and pulls it out. Thomas is standing above me, his face such a deep shade of red that it seems painted on, his eyes watery. I pretend not to notice that as I look up and smile at him.

Time’s up, – he barks. – Come.

Oh, is it? – I say innocently. – I haven’t noticed. This is such a lovely garden.

Mm, – and this is the last “word” I hear from Thomas for today.

I get up and follow him. This time I do not feel like talking either. And so we go silently along the white corridor until I suddenly realize that we are not going back to my room. My mind seems to have memorized the way just enough to understand that we are going somewhere else. First I want to stop and ask where we are going, but then I change my mind. Judging by the mood Thomas is in, the only response I will get will probably be something in the lines of “none of your business”. But even if he were so kind as to tell me, what would it matter? I do not seem to have any choice whatsoever in what is happening to me here.

After some more walking and even a couple of flights of stairs – well, that is new – we arrive at – drum roll – another white door. Thomas opens the door, gestures for me to come in and as I come in slams it down behind me immediately.

I find myself in a room very much like the examination room where I woke up, but with much more equipment, buzzing, beeping and blinking with various colored lights. I do not like the look of it at all. Doctor Jones is sitting at a table in the corner, writing something, and as I come in she looks up and smiles welcomingly.

I am sorry we have to do it without prior warning, – she says apologetically, – and without lunch. But this should be done as soon as possible.

Wow, her voice is pleasant. She should not have been a doctor, but a teacher, or voice actor or a person who records audio books – something along these lines, someone who speaks a lot. I almost wish I could ask her to read me a bed-time story. But she is going to do something to me, and even her pleasant, warm, honey-like voice cannot distract me from it.

And what exactly should be done as soon as possible?

Some tests, – she says casually, like it is something ordinary, something she does every day. But then maybe she does. – We will start with brain waves first. I will attach some sensors to your head. Then I will ask you some questions, show you some objects and photos, and the machine here will record your brain waves, which we then will be able to analyze.

But why? You already know what is wrong with me, don’t you?

Well, we do and we don’t. We know that you can’t remember, but there is a number of reasons why that might be, so we need to have a closer look at your brain to determine that.

“Have a closer look at my brain” does not sound comforting at all. I cannot help but snigger nervously. With all the tension building up, I would need hundreds of hot showers to wash it away.

I am sorry, – I have to apologize to Doctor Jones. After all, I have decided to be nice to people here. And it is not entirely her fault that her words make me nervous. – It just sounded like… Like you were going to open up my skull and have a look inside.

It’s all right, – she smiles back. I have already heard her say that a few times, but it is never all right, not completely. – We do not have to open up your scull to look at your brain. These, – and she shows me some kind of wire, – can pick up brain waves. They will be recorded, and then we will study them, to see what might be wrong. After this test we’ll do another one, but I will tell you about it later. This will not hurt, and you won’t really have to do anything, just answer my questions.

It takes her a while to attach all the electrodes to my head – there are so many of them. They feel weird there, on my head, in my hair, but not that scary after all. I am repeating to myself that my paranoia might be totally ungrounded, and everyone here might be genuinely trying to help me – it has almost become a mantra, albeit quite a lengthy one. Having finished with the electrodes, Doctor Jones walks up to the machine, clicks a few switches and then asks me:

Ready?

As much as I can be, I guess.

Let’s start then. What is your name?

Amy. Well, at least that’s what you tell me.

And you don’t remember?

No, not really…

How old are you?

I don’t know… I seem to look younger than you… I am sorry, I didn’t mean to say you are old, I just…

No offence taken.

We continue like that for a while, every question of hers leading into a dead end. I wonder if she is getting tired of this. I know I am.

Then come the photographs. Some she has already shown to me, but the only thing I remember about them is that I have already seen them. Some are new, but they are also childhood and teenage photos. They are not showing me any recent photos, but I decide against asking why, at least for now. All the photographs lead into dead ends, too, and so do the objects: Doctor Jones shows me a couple of books, toys, some other personal items, but they stir up no memories, trigger no emotions. By the end of this whole experiment I am disappointed, feeling guilty for disappointing Doctor Jones and terribly hungry. My stomach growls uncontrollably, and she must hear it, too.

I am so sorry for keeping you hungry, Amy. But I am afraid we have to go on with the second test now. I will ask them to give you extra dessert to make up for it.

She smiles, but the smile is weaker than usually, a little frayed at the edges. She must be tired and disappointed too.

For the second test she takes me to another room. Luckily, it is not that far, just a couple doors over – I do not feel like walking endlessly along the white corridor at all. Inside the room there is a machine that looks like a giant white donut with a gurney stuck through the hole. I have a suspicion that they are going to sick me there, too. There is also a window to a smaller room where a man in glasses is sitting in front of several computer screens.

This test is very similar to the first one, actually, – says Doctor Jones trying to sound reassuring. – You are going to lie down there, – well, guess who was right? – and look at some images on a screen, and the machine will scan your brain while you are doing that.

Isn’t it what the first machine did?

It is, but in a slightly different way. This will give us more information. And actual pictures of your brain, too. I think I’ll be allowed to show you some later if you are interested.

And so I lie down on the gurney, my head inside the donut machine. It is much scarier that the first test, mostly because of the machine’s low hum, almost a roar. It reverberates in my head, and I wonder if that is how they are going to get an image of my brain. Right in front of my face there is a screen, and the moment I look at it the screen lights up, and photos start appearing one by one. Mostly these are the photos I saw during the first test, but again some new ones are mixed in.

Suddenly the screen flashes and I see an image that seems to be taken directly from my dream. There is a crowded sidewalk on a gray and cold day, and on the sidewalk, leaning on the wall, there is a girl. She appears to be homeless. She is thin and dirty, dressed in ragged closes. And she looks like me. No, she does not. The girls in Doctor Jones’ photographs look like me. This girl does not look like me, she is me. I do not know why, but the moment I realize that I start to scream. I scream, and I scream and I cannot stop.

I barely register what happens next. The pictures disappear, the machine stops humming. Somebody pulls me out of it. I am thrashing and tossing about, trying to break free. There is no plan, I have no I idea what I will do if I do break free, but it seems important. Doctor Jones is shouting orders, almost barking at people, and her voice is not pleasant at all now. After she shouts out some orders, I suddenly hear her voice, almost back to normal, right above my ear.

It’s all right, – she is holding my head, stroking my hair lightly with her fingers, – it is all right, Amy, dear, this is just stress. You are going to be fine in just a moment, – her voice is coming as if through a glass wall, or through water, but I can hear what she says and when I hear the name “Amy”, I lose it completely.

My name is not Amy! Let me go! – I thrash again, as hard as I can, and want to shout something else, but then I feel something pinch my throat. Suddenly I lose my words, then I cannot move anymore, and then everything goes blank.

This time it is not even a dream. It does not feel like a dream. It looks dark, pitch-black, and feels sticky, sweaty and hot. Somewhere from the back of my mind surfaces an idea that to wake up I need to get out of this swamp of nothingness, but I have no idea where to move – there is no front, back, left or right, there is no up or down. I am not sure that I even have a body here, wherever I am. I am quite sure that I am dreaming, though, – or is it just a hope? – but I do not remember going to bed. Right. Because I did not go to bed. Gradually, puzzle piece by puzzle piece some memories begin to surface. I hold my breath, hoping that, finally, these are the right memories, that I am about to find out who I am, but these are just the very recent memories: the needle in my throat, Doctor Jones’ voice, the thrashing and tossing, the screaming, the picture. Oh, yes, the picture. I can practically see it against the blackness, as clearly as it was in the donut-like machine, just the edges are swimming a little: the picture of a young girl – of me – sitting in the street, ragged and dirty, leaning against the wall. Why would they show me this picture, if they are trying to persuade me I am someone else? Was it an accident? “Or, – suggests a tiny voice at the back of my head, which I hate immediately, – you just imagined it and threw a fit for no real reason?” It is not true. I saw the picture. I know that these people are lying to me. I want to shake my head, but I cannot. Something is holding it, something is here in this blackness apart from me. My heart starts racing, and I want to scream again, but I cannot, and it scares me, I try to move my head again, and… I wake up. The lights are off, the room is dark and there is a hand clamped on my mouth, warm and sweaty. And then there is a whisper in my ear. It is hot and dry, and invisible lips brush my skin.

Please, do not scream, I will not hurt you, I am not one of them, I just want to talk, – the whisperer suddenly moves slightly away, still keeping their hand on my mouth, – Ugh, sorry for the ear kiss, it is so dark, I cannot really see you. Please, do not scream. Nod, if you won’t.

My first impulse is to fight and scream, after all, this person is not holding me in anyway, just clamping my mouth, but then I change my mind. If it is one of the doctors, then fighting makes no sense – I would probably just get another needle in my neck and go back to the sticky black sleep. If it is not, then it makes no sense either – it maybe someone worth talking to. And they say they also want to talk to me.

Well? – whispers the person. I cannot even make out if it is a guy or a girl. I must be taking too long to react. I nod violently, and the hand goes away.

I sit up and peer through the darkness trying to see the mysterious visitor. These is some light coming into the room from the corridor from under the door, and as my eyes get used to the darkness I can see a figure hunched on my bed, just a silhouette, and nothing else. It is too dark for anything else. The figure seems to be trying to have a look at me too, and for a while we sit like this in silence. My eyes get used to the darkness a little bit more, and I see that the person in front of me is thin and smallish, with shoulder length hair, and probably a girl. It occurs to me that I must look very similar to that in the darkness, too.

Finally, I cannot stand the silence anymore.

Who are you? – I ask.

I am Amy.

I open my mouth and cannot produce a single word. Is she the real Amy? Or is it the continuation of my dream, some kind of hallucination or mental projection, or whatever? I need to know, and I decide that the first of the two questions in my mind is much more innocent to ask.

Are you the real Amy?

Oh, no, – she forgets herself and giggles out lout, but then stops abruptly, putting her hands on her mouth. – No, I am not, – she repeats in the same dry whisper as before.

So, what are you? Are you a dream? A hallucination?

She laughs again, but this time very quietly.

Oh, I am real, – she says, and from her voice I can hear that she is smiling. – Just not the real Amy.

So, who then…

Let me guess, – she interrupts me. – You are here because you were in a car accident? Had some minor head trauma that influenced your memory, so now you have to stay here, wait until your father arrives, undergo tests and with all your effort try to remember poor little Amy’s life, which you can’t possibly do.

To say I am surprised is to say nothing. But then… She probably is one of them, just some other stupid test or ploy to make me reveal something. And I still have not dismissed the idea that it might all be a dream. I decide to play along – I am getting so damn good at this here – and keep the conversation going, at least for now. So, I ask:

How do you know?

I am not one of them, if that is what you are thinking about. I am one of you.

What? – if she is going to talk in riddles this is not going to be easy. My mind feels heavy and groggy, and not ready for riddles at all.

She sighs disappointedly. Apparently she was enjoying the mystery game.

What happened to you happened to me. I woke up here, I think, a few days ago. No memories. They tell me I am this sweet girl named Amy, show me pictures and stuff. And it feels fake as shit. And then, voila, I find out about you. We can’t both be Amy, at least one of us must be fake. So I decided to pay you a visit. And now it seems like we are both fake Amys, who could have thought that.

So, here it is. The proof of my paranoia. I search for words, but I do not really know what to say. What is one supposed to say in such a situation? “Cool, let’s join together and create a club”?

Yeah, kind of leaves you speechless, doesn’t it? – she says, immediately contradicting her own words. – There is such chaos after the fit you threw. I guess that is why I was able to get to your room, nobody’s probably watching the cameras, or at least not so attentively.

So, there are cameras?

Of course there are, don’t be so naïve! – she sounds a little surprised. – In the rooms, in the corridors, in the cozy little garden… Have you been there yet? – she asks suddenly, and I nod. – Everywhere. The big brother is watching and stuff.

Oh… So, what do we do now? – I am desperately hoping that she is not just proof to all my suspicions, but that she also has some kind of plan and solution to this nightmare.

We? Oh, I am not doing anything. I, – she stresses the “I”, – am staying put. I tried running away two times, actually, and, a, it is impossible and, b, will end badly for you. So I am just playing along as long as I can, and we’ll see where it leads… I would advise the same to you.

That does not sound promising and comforting at all. “Play along as long as you can”… And what if I cannot? What if they see right through my pretence? I am not sure I want to “see where it leads” that much. Why is she here, then, I wonder? Is it just curiosity, or maybe she has no one to chat to, apart from the Doctors? After all, I do not. I think this over for a little while and then finally decide to ask:

Why did you come to me, then?

She does not answer, and as I peer more attentively into the darkness I realize that there is no one in front of me, no silhouette, no shadow, no fake Amy number two – or is she number one? – just the darkness. It feels eerie, like I have been imagining her all this time. What if I have? I have not even heard the door open and close when – if? – she left, but then maybe I was too deep in my own thoughts. I realize that I can still catch her, if I move quickly. I jump from the bed, run to the door and throw it open. The white unnatural light of the corridor hits my eyes, hurting them and making them water. I have to squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, and when I open them again…