Community (15 page)

‘He's not here and he won't be here later. He won't be coming back at all.'

‘Really? Where's he gone? I only saw him yesterday and he didn't say anything to
me
about leaving. He's OK, isn't he?'

‘He's gone, and he won't be living here no more. That's all I know.'

‘Any way I can contact him? Did he leave a cellphone number, or an email address? Anything like that?'

Bill Endersby was already starting to close the door. ‘I told you. He's gone, and he won't be living here no more, and that's all I know.'

‘If you see Jack, or hear from him, tell him I called around, will you?' Michael called out, as the door was closed in his face.

And another thing, Bill – what the hell were you and your wife doing in Isobel's back yard yesterday, staring in through the kitchen window
?
And how come you left no footprints
?
What are you – a man, or an optical illusion
?

Michael stood in the porch for a few moments, wondering if he ought to try ringing the doorbell again, and pressing Bill Endersby to tell him more. But he decided it was probably a waste of time, especially since Bill Endersby didn't look at all well. He retraced his steps, out of the loop and back down the slope, with the snow clinging to his coat and catching in his hair. He checked his watch, and saw that it was almost 10:30 – nearly time for him to go to the clinic for his morning therapy session with Catherine.

He trudged up the hill, back past Isobel's house. Because the day was so dark Isobel had raised the blinds, so that he could see her inside the living room, still wearing her silky pink robe. She had her arms raised above her head, and she was pirouetting around and around, as if she were ballet-dancing, although he couldn't hear any music. He stopped and watched her for a while, and then continued on his way. Not a single car passed him as he climbed up toward the clinic, and he saw nobody out walking – not even the girl in the red duffel coat with her sheepdog, or Jemima on her bicycle. The snow was so thick that even Mount Shasta was invisible, although he was sure that he could feel its brooding presence.

Catherine said, ‘Let's go back to names that you might be able to remember from your childhood. Your teachers, your school friends. Your pets.'

But Michael asked her, ‘What's happened to Jack?'

‘Jack? Excuse me? I don't know what you mean.'

‘You know,
Jack
… who was living with the Endersbys.'

‘Oh, Jack Barr, yes.'

‘Well – what's happened to him? I saw him yesterday and he was fine. Then I went around to the Endersbys' house this morning to see him again and Bill Endersby told me he was gone.'

Catherine nodded, and kept on nodding, as if she were playing for time. In the end, she said, ‘Sometimes, Gregory, a companion doesn't quite fit in.'

Michael said, ‘Really? It seemed to me that Jack fitted in with the Endersbys pretty darn good. He seemed to be rubbing along with them OK, and they were certainly fond of him. Bill Endersby said that he was like a son to them.'

‘Yes, I know. But Jack had other problems. Physical, and psychological. We didn't want to jeopardize the Endersbys' well-being. They're quite frail, healthwise, and since they lost their son Bradley, they've both been very vulnerable to any kind of emotional upset. We moved Jack away as a precautionary measure – for all the parties involved.'

‘That tells me absolutely nothing. Where have you moved him to?'

‘He's having intensive treatment here at the clinic. Then he's going to go back into the community until he's fully recovered.'

‘But not to the Endersbys?'

‘No. That won't be possible. We're urgently trying to find them a replacement.'

‘So where will Jack go?'

‘We have two gentlemen living on Siskiyou Drive. We're planning on moving him in with them. You met one of them at the community meeting – Walter Kruger.'

‘Walter Kruger's an accountant. Jack's a biker. Do you seriously think that the two of
them
are going to get along together?'

‘Getting along together isn't always the point, Greg. It can help, for sure, but it isn't everything. People have other needs which are far more important than simple compatibility.'

‘Like?'

Catherine gave him the slightest of shrugs. ‘Like symbiosis. Like needing each other, whether they like each other or not.'

‘You've lost me again. Why would somebody like Walter Kruger need somebody like Jack, or vice versa?'

‘We're getting way off the subject, Greg. Tell me if you can remember the name of your first math teacher.'

‘I have absolutely no idea. Even if I didn't have amnesia, I don't think I would have been able to remember something like that.'

‘Ms Truman, that was her name. Your sister told me that.'

‘Ms Truman? Doesn't ring a bell at all. But if that's what her name was, OK, that's what her name was. Ms Truman. Can I see Jack, since he's here?'

‘Not at the moment, no. He's still undergoing treatment.'

‘So what exactly is wrong with him?'

‘You know I can't tell you that, Gregory. Patient confidentiality. But he should be up and about in two or three days. What was the name of your best friend at school?'

‘Natasha.'

Catherine checked her clipboard. Then she said, ‘No, that's not correct, I'm afraid. Your sister said it was Bradford Mitchell.'

‘Unh-hunh, no way. It was Natasha Kerwin, I'm sure of it.'

Catherine stared at him narrowly. ‘Where did you hear that name? Natasha Kerwin?'

‘In my head. In my memory. Natasha Kerwin.'

‘What you
think
is a memory is more than likely something that you've picked up since you regained consciousness. You probably heard somebody say that name soon after you came out of your coma, and it lodged in your auditory cortex.'

‘What makes you so sure? It's perfectly possible that I had a best friend at school called Natasha Kerwin, isn't it?'

Catherine said nothing, but turned over another page on her clipboard. ‘How about place names?' she suggested.

It was then that Michael thought:
She doesn't want me to believe that I can remember Natasha Kerwin. She's deliberately trying to make me think that my mind is playing tricks on me. But I
do
remember her, and I would very much like to find out why Catherine doesn't want me to think that I do.

‘Sure,' he said. ‘Place names.'

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember houses, and streets, and parks, and shopping centers. In his mind, he could see a dull suburban road, with houses and trees slowly passing him by, as if he were sitting in the back seat of a car. For some reason, he was feeling desperately unhappy, close to tears. At first he had no idea what this road was called, but then he heard a man's voice saying, ‘Here we are, folks! Home again! Fonderlack Trail!'

He opened his eyes. ‘I think I can remember a name,' he told Catherine.

‘You can?'

‘I think we must have lived there. It was a road called Fonderlack Trail. I can remember lawns. And houses. And some of the houses were gray. And I can remember feeling really sad there, although I don't know why.'

Catherine laid her clipboard down on her desk. ‘I think you might need some alternative medication, Greg. It seems to me like your mind is trying to compensate for your amnesia by inventing memories that never happened to you. I'm going to try you on propranolol. It's a beta-blocker. It may help you to distinguish between real memories and made-up memories.'

‘But I
can
remember it,' Michael insisted. ‘I can see it in my mind's eye. Fonderlack Trail. I was sitting in the back of a car and I was almost crying.'

‘That's the effect of your accident,' said Catherine. ‘Your amygdala is creating an emotional experience to explain how you feel. Propranolol will help your brain to erase it.'

‘But what if it
is
real? And what if I don't
want
it erased, whether it's real or not?'

‘If you allow it to stay stored in your subconscious, Gregory, you may never find your way back to knowing who you really are. And I mean, like,
ever
.'

Isobel was dressed by the time he returned to the house. She was wearing a tight charcoal-gray sweater and even tighter black jeans. She was laying out side-plates and glasses on the coffee table in the middle of the living room, but when Michael entered she immediately put down the plates she was holding and came over to wrap her arms around him.

‘I
missed
you,' she said. ‘I think you should realize that making love is just as therapeutic as walking. Even Doctor Hamid will tell you that.'

‘OK. I'll ask him next time I see him, just to make sure. What time are your guests arriving?'

‘Any minute now. It's not still snowing, is it?'

‘Not as much as it was.'

Isobel frowned and said, ‘Something's still worrying you, isn't it? It's not
me
, I hope. I'm not coming on too strong for you? I think that's always been my trouble. When I like a man, I can't hide my feelings. I simply can't.'

Michael shook his head. ‘No, it's not that. But I think that I'm being lied to. In fact, I'm beginning to wonder if anybody in Trinity ever tells the truth about anything.'

‘What makes you think
that
,
for heaven's sakes? Everybody here is so friendly. And all the doctors and nurses at the clinic … they're all so open, and all so helpful.'

‘OK,' said Michael. ‘Where did you get those groceries yesterday?'

Isobel lowered her arms, her forehead furrowed in a frown. ‘I told you. Ray's Food Place, in Weed.'

‘You never went to Weed. I saw your tire tracks in the snow when I walked up to the clinic. As a matter of fact,
nobody
had been to Weed, not since the snow started.'

‘Well, of course I didn't actually
go
to Weed. Why would I? We all place our orders with Ray's Food Place online and then they deliver to the clinic, because it's so central.'

‘Why don't they deliver to your door?'

‘They do, when it isn't so icy. It's for safety, that's all. There are too many kids and seniors walking in the roads, because the sidewalks are so slippery.'

‘I'm sure you told me that I should come along with you, next time you go there. Which kind of implied that you'd actually been there, wouldn't you say?'

‘Well, you should come with me. You must. But not for a week or two. Not until it thaws.'

She paused, and then she took hold of his hands. ‘Why would I lie to you, Greg? What would be the point? Why would
anybody
in Trinity lie to you?'

‘I don't know,' said Michael. ‘Maybe I'm being paranoid. I feel like something's badly wrong but I can't work out what it is. Half the time I don't even believe that I'm real.'

‘Of course you're real. I can vouch for that. You can't give a man head, can you, if he isn't real?'

‘Yes – but supposing
you're
not real? Supposing none of this is real?'

At that moment the doorbell jangled. Isobel kissed Michael on the cheek and said, ‘I'll prove it to you later, when all of our guests have gone. Meanwhile, how about being sociable?'

They all arrived at once, nine of them, and crowded into the hallway, taking off their hats and coats and stamping their snowy boots on the doormat. Isobel went out to help them, but Michael stayed in the living room, staring at himself in the mirror.

You're real
, he told himself, as he waited for Isobel's guests to come in. The strange thing was that none of them was talking. The only sound from the hallway was shuffling and stamping and two or three coughs.

After a short while the first of them came in, a short middle-aged man with gingery hair that was beginning to turn gray. He reminded Michael of Mickey Rooney. He held out his hand and said, ‘George Kelly, my friend. Pleased to know you. Glad that our Isobel has found herself another companion. What would we do without her, eh?'

It was only when Michael saw that George Kelly's bright blue eyes were not focused on him at all, but somewhere behind his right shoulder, that he realized that he was totally blind. He stepped forward and took George Kelly's hand, and shook it. It was, like Isobel's hands, stunningly cold.

‘Pretty darn chilly outside,' he remarked. ‘When do you get spring in these parts?'

‘End of March, if we're lucky, beginning of April. Can't say that I notice the seasons much. Spend most of my time indoors, and when I do go out I don't feel the cold. Don't feel the heat, neither.'

‘Where are you from, George?' Michael asked him. ‘I mean, like, originally, before you came here to Trinity?'

‘We don't talk about the past,' said a large woman in a crimson corduroy dress, flooding into the living room like a tsunami and clamping her podgy hand on George Kelly's shoulder. ‘All we care about is the present, here in this community, and the future, too, of course. Some of us have been through experiences that we prefer not to dwell on.'

‘Sure, yes, sorry,' said Michael. ‘I guess I'd be the same, if I could remember what happened to me, but the plain fact is that I can't. Post-traumatic amnesia.'

‘You're a lucky man,' said George Kelly. ‘I'd give anything, if I could forget. Anything.'

Now the rest of Isobel's guests entered the living room. They varied in ages from a pretty girl with a ponytail who looked only about fifteen or sixteen, to a bulky man with a black bandanna tied around his head who was probably forty-something. Then in came an elderly woman whose back was hunched and who walked with two sticks, her long amethyst earrings swinging from side to side as she made her way across the room.