Remember Me?

“Anything?” Eric is frozen, rigid in his arms-up position.

“Nothing yet,” I say after sniffing again. “I mean, nothing very strong…”

“You should smell his crotch,” says Amy.

“Sweetheart,” Mum says faintly.

I can’t help glancing down at Eric’s crotch. The crotch I’ve married. It looks pretty generous, although you can never quite tell. I wonder-

No. Not the point right now.

“What you two should do is have sex,” Amy says into the awkward silence, then snaps her gum. “You need the pungent smell of each other’s bodily-”

“Amy!” Mum cuts her off. “Darling! That is quite enough!”

“I’m just saying! It’s nature’s own amnesia cure!”

“So.” Eric drops his arms again. “Not exactly the greatest success.”

“No.”

Maybe Amy’s right. Maybe we should have sex. I glance at Eric-and I’m convinced he’s thinking the same thing.

“Never mind. It’s still early days.” Eric smiles as he closes the wedding album, but I can tell he’s disappointed too.

“What if I never remember?” I look around the room. “What if all those memories are lost for good and I can never get them back? Ever?”

As I look around at the concerned faces I suddenly feel powerless and vulnerable. It’s like that time my computer crashed and I lost all my e-mail, only a million times worse. The techy guy kept telling me I should have backed up my files. But how do you back up your own brain?

In the afternoon I see a neuropsychologist, Neil. He’s a friendly guy, in jeans. I sit at a table with him, taking tests-and I have to say, I’m pretty good! I remember most of twenty words in a list; I remember a short story; I draw a picture from memory.

“You’re functioning extremely well, Lexi,” Neil says after he fills in the last check box. “Your executive skills are there, your short-term memory is pretty good considering, you have no major cognitive problems…but you’re suffering from a severe focal retrograde amnesia. It’s very unusual, you know.”

“But why?”

“Well, it has to do with the way you hit your head.” He leans forward, animated, draws an outline of a head on his pad of paper, and starts to fill in a brain. “You’ve had what we call an acceleration-deceleration injury. When you hit the windshield, your brain was thrown around in your skull, and a small area of your brain was, shall we say, tweaked. It could be you’ve done damage to your warehouse of memories…or it could be that you’ve done damage to your ability to retrieve memories. In that case the warehouse is intact, if you like, but you’re unable to open the door.”

His eyes are shining, as though this is all really fabulous and I should be thrilled with myself.

“Can’t you give me an electric shock?” I say in frustration. “Or hit me over the head or something?”

“I’m afraid not.” He looks amused. “Contrary to popular belief, hitting an amnesiac over the head is not going to bring their memory back. So don’t try that at home.” He pushes his chair back. “Let me walk you to your room.”

We arrive back at my room to find Mum and Amy still watching the home DVD while Eric talks on his cell phone. Immediately he finishes his conversation and claps his phone shut. “How did you get on?”

“What did you remember, darling?” Mum chimes in.

“Nothing,” I admit.

“Once Lexi gets back to familiar surroundings, she’ll probably find her memory returns quite naturally,” says Neil reassuringly. “Although it may take time.”

“Right.” Eric nods earnestly. “So, what next?”

“Well.” Neil flips through my notes. “You’re in good shape physically, Lexi. I would say you’ll probably be discharged tomorrow. I’ll make an appointment for you in a month’s time as an outpatient. Until then, the best place for you is home.” He smiles. “I’m sure that’s where you want to be too.”

“Yes!” I say after a pause. “Home. Great.”

Even as I’m saying the words I realize I don’t know what I mean by home. Home was my Balham flat. And that’s gone.

“What’s your address?” He takes out a pen. “For my notes.”

“I’m…not sure.”

“I’ll write it down,” Eric says helpfully, and takes the pen.

This is crazy. I don’t know where I live. I’m like some confused old lady.

“Well, good luck, Lexi.” Neil looks at Eric and Mum. “You can help by giving Lexi as much information as possible about her life. Write things down. Take her back to places she’s been. Any problems, just call me.”

The door closes behind Neil and there’s silence, apart from the chatter of the telly. Mum and Eric are exchanging looks. If I was a conspiracy theorist I’d say they were hatching a plan.

“What is it?”

“Sweetheart, your mother and I were talking earlier about how we would”-he hesitates-“tackle your release.”

Tackle my release. He sounds like I’m a dangerous, psychotic prisoner.

“We’re in a pretty strange situation here,” he continues. “Obviously I would love it if you wanted to come home and resume your life again. But I appreciate that you may find it uncomfortable. After all…you don’t know me.”

“Well, no.” I chew my lip. “I don’t.”

“I said to Eric, you’re very welcome to come and stay with me for a bit,” puts in Mum. “Obviously it will be a little disruptive, and you’ll have to share with Jake and Florian, but they’re good dogs.”

“That room smells,” says Amy.

“It does not smell, Amy.” Mum seems affronted. “That builder chap said it was simply a question of dry something-or-other.” She makes a vague gesture.

“Rot,” says Amy, without moving her gaze off the television. “And it does smell.”

Mum is blinking hard in a

“Lexi, please don’t think I’ll be offended. I understand how tough this is for you. I’m a stranger to you, for Christ’s sake.” He spreads his arms. “Why on earth would you want to come home with me?”

I know it’s my cue to answer-but I’ve suddenly been distracted by an image on the TV screen. It’s of me and Eric on a speedboat. God knows where we are, but the sun is shining and the sea is blue. We’re both wearing sunglasses and Eric is smiling at me as he drives the boat and we look totally glamorous, like something out of a James Bond movie.

I can’t help staring at it, mesmerized. I want this life rushes through my brain. It belongs to me. I earned it. I’m not going to let it slip through my fingers.

Eric is still talking. “The last thing I want to do is get in the way of your recovery. Whatever you want to do, I will completely understand.”

“Right. Yes.” I take a sip of water, playing for time. “I’ll just…think about it for a few moments.”

Okay, let’s just get my options absolutely clear here:

1. A rotting room in Kent which I have to share with two whippets.

2. A palatial loft in Kensington with Eric, my good-looking husband who can drive a speedboat.

“You know what, Eric?” I say carefully, measuring out my words. “I think I should come and live with you.”

“Are you serious?” His face lights up, but I can tell he’s taken aback.

“You’re my husband,” I say. “I should be with you.”

“But you don’t remember me,” he says uncertainly. “You don’t know me.”

“I’ll get to know you again!” I say with growing enthusiasm. “Surely the best chance I have of remembering my life is to live it. You can tell me about yourself, and me, and our marriage… I can learn it all again! And that doctor said familiar circumstances would help. They’ll trigger my retrieval system or whatever.”

I’m more and more positive about this. So I don’t know anything about my husband or my life. The point is, I’ve married a good-looking multimillionaire who loves me and has a huge penthouse and brought me taupe roses. I’m not going to throw it all away just because of the small detail that I can’t remember him.