Her Thirties Part 55 The Man Behind the Curtain

Abe warned me that Marilyn’s psychiatrist was creepy, but I didn’t figure he’d be a shape-shifter.

I was literally trembling with fear but did everything I could to disguise my feelings and appear outwardly calm so as not to tip off the doctor.

“I understand you’re seeing Ms. Birnam,” he began.

“Yes. She audits my History lectures on Wealth and Class During the Great Depression.”

“And you’re familiar with her situation?”

“I know she’s suffering from amnesia,” I said bluntly.

He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly—I think he was disarmed by my straightforward answer.

“And what does that mean to you, Professor Lennox?”

“That Marilyn had no memory of who she is beyond the recent past and she has lost her identity.”

He nodded while closely watching my face.

“I know films and TV present amnesia as absence of memory, and certainly that’s true. But research here, at this university, has found people suffering amnesia also suffer from memory clutter—they’re overwhelmed with many irrelevant memories.”

I decided to act impressed as if we’re awed by his knowledge and expertise.

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s a fascinating hypothesis, but in its early stages of testing. The reason I mention it, is to caution you in how you approach Marilyn, especially dealing with gray areas where there’s loss of recognition. We especially don’t want someone inadvertently adding false memories which may only serve to confuse her.”

“Is that why you told the police to not pursue any further interrogation of her?”

“That’s one reason. Also, I suspect there is something traumatic buried deep inside her—this has to be handled carefully, preferably in a clinical setting or with a therapist skilled in handling post traumatic stress disorder and its rehabilitation.”

I couldn’t resist pushing to know why he was going beyond normal caution to protect Marilyn, even after such a long period of recovery.

“But it’s been two years, Doctor Lambert. Marilyn can’t be expected to put her life indefinitely on hold.”

“You’re right. Ideally, from a psychotherapeutic point of view that would be best—but realistically, that isn’t viable.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“The same thing I told Abe Rosen—don’t push her to remember—even gentle prodding is excluded. Just let her recall things at her own pace.”

It was obvious he would not be dissuaded from his position.

“What’s the prognosis?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. If she feels safe with you, it might help her to remember—but at the first sign of trauma and agitation, I want to be informed. This could be very upsetting, not to mention, dangerous for her. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Well then, I wish the two of you all the best and please don’t hesitate to contact me at any hour of the day or night.” He handed me a business card. “That’s my private cell phone number.”

He shook my hand and when I went to go out the door, he gently put his hand on my elbow and guided me to a corner of the room. He pushed a small lever and a hidden door opened. “For privacy’s sake,” he whispered. “Good day, Professor Lennox.”

I walked down a circular metal stairway to a lower level hallway that led out into the parking lot at the back of the building.

I sat in my car and puzzled over what just happened.

I just saw a man transform before my eyes and shape-shift, morphing into another person. What the hell was going on?

In a way it seemed comical like the ending of the film version of the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy got back to Kansas and realized the Tin Man, the Scarecrow and the Lion were all characters from real life.

Is that the cosmic joke here? Were all these people in my life people I’ve known in another time or place?

But this wasn’t the Wizard of Oz and it sure as hell wasn’t Kansas.

To be continued...


© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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