The Syndrome

“I’m sorry,” Duran told her.

He washed up—not that there was much—while Adrie

The thought of money made Duran frown because it was obviously an issue with Adrie

“There was a bank in the basement of the Towers,” Duran told her. “I just went there when I needed cash.”

Adrie

“I can’t see paying that kind of money just for a place to sleep,” Adrie

“Whatever,” Duran replied and, dropping onto the couch, picked up the remote. Ghosting from one cha

Chapter 25

They left in the dark like thieves in the night, with Duran riding shotgun.

Adrie

Eventually, the Dodge carried them through the Lincoln Tu

“I hate to pay for parking,” she explained.

“I’m not surprised,” Duran replied. “After all the gas you’ve wasted, we probably can’t afford it.”

Shaw’s office was on the twenty-third floor of a smoked glass skyscraper that had probably seemed the height of modernity when it was built, circa 1965. Now, it had a forlorn and grimy look, as if the future had passed it by.

The office itself was more cozy than tidy, its walls hung with paintings, diplomas, and memorabilia, most of which were slightly askew. Books and papers stood in stacks on every horizontal surface but the floor—which lay beneath one of the most exquisite Oriental rugs that Adrie

Shaw had the comfortable look of a Dutch uncle. A heavyset man with watery brown eyes under unruly brows, he wore a soft, almost regretful, smile. Greeting them with a firm handshake, he led the way to an overstuffed sofa and bade them to sit.

He wore a corduroy jacket, khakis, and ru

“Coffee?”

They agreed to some, then got down to business.

“I’m intrigued by what you told me on the phone,” Shaw began. “I suppose you might say, I collect case histories of unusual memory loss. So I think the best way for us to start would be for you to go back over what you said on the telephone. You might start,” he continued, focusing his brown eyes on Adrie

Shaw propped an ankle on one knee and sat back in his chair, fingers interlaced behind his head, elbows out, as if he had all day.

They broke at noon, with Shaw signaling an end to the session by stretching, massively, in his chair.

“Well, it’s a remarkable story,” he told them, “but even psychiatrists have to eat. What I’d suggest is this: I have a luncheon engagement with my daughter, and a 1:30 appointment after that. If you’ll come back at three, I’ll do an intake interview, and we can go on from there.”

“What’s in an ‘intake interview’?” Adrie

“Oh, well—” Shaw rolled his hand through the air.

“It’s a basic medical history” Duran explained. “Operations, dizzy spells, allergies—”

“And a bit of testing,” Shaw added. “Routine stuff: the TAT, the MMSE—”

“Which are what?” Adrie

Shaw shrugged. “Well, the names don’t tell you a lot more than the acronyms. But they’re tools we use to ascertain the patient’s psychopathological status, identify cognitive impairment and thematic perception curves—that sort of thing.”

Adrie

Shaw winked at him. “I’m sure Mr. Duran knows as much about the tests as I do—not so?”

Duran shrugged. “I know what they are,” he said, “but I’ve never really had much use for them in my own practice.”

“Well, I’m a great believer in testing,” Shaw told them, “and if we have time, I think we’ll take a shot at the Beck Depression Inventory.” He saw the wariness in Duran’s eye, and rushed to reassure him. “Just to get a take on things.”

“I understand,” Duran said, “but… what we’re talking about is memory—not my sanity. My memory.”

Shaw rolled his head from side to side, as if the distinction was unimportant. “Well,” he said, “if everything you’ve been telling me is true, there’s clearly a dysfunction of some kind. The tests are just investigative tools. And the first thing we need to find out is whether your amnesia is organic or adaptive, the result of trauma or… something else.” He clapped his hands together. “We need to get some idea of the kind of thing we’re dealing with.”

“Which is what?” Adrie

Shaw turned his palms toward the ceiling. “There’s no way to say, at this point. Amnesia can have any number of causes, from a knock on the head to epilepsy, extreme stress or—I don’t want to frighten you, but—a brain tumor. It could be a form of hysteria.”

“‘Hysteria’?”

Shaw winced. “It’s an outdated term. Basically, we’re talking about adaptive amnesia, the kind of amnesia that results from psychological—as opposed to physiological—causes.” Shaw steepled his hands and peered over his fingertips: “Of course, the lines can be blurred. But, generally speaking, hysterical amnesia is amenable to talk therapies. These days, we tend to classify it as a dissociative disorder.” He glanced at his watch, then bounced to his feet. “In any case, the tests will give us a leg up on things.”

He shook hands, then shepherded them toward the door. “See you at three.”

They checked the car (no ticket), fed the meter, and found a deli a few blocks from Shaw’s office, where they ate pastrami sandwiches with a side of half-sour pickles and cans of Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda. Duran was in a funk, uncomfortable with being someone else’s patient, Shaw’s litany ringing in his head: cognitive impairment, dysfunction, hysteria.