Thought I Knew You (27 page)

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“After Detective Ferras came to tell me that Greg was awake, I researched it.”

My mind came alive. Which was when? Where had Greg been for six months? Why did they wait so long to find us? I wished for a pen and paper so I could write down all my questions. “So if Greg woke up six months ago, why are we only hearing about this now?”

“Two weeks ago, Greg started remembering who he is.”

“So he woke up six months ago with no memory of who he is?” I asked, incredulous. That was a movie plot, not someone’s real life.
My real life.

Matt shook his head. “We’ll find out the details from Greg’s doctors. But from what I understand, he didn’t know his name for the first five and a half months.”

“This is all too much. It’s like a soap opera.” I rubbed my forehead, massaging the information into my brain.

I gazed out the window, trying to organize my questions, my thoughts. I had no feelings; I was numb. If Greg was alive, what did I know to be true with certainty? The answer: nothing.

I felt a piercing guilt. I have been living with, loving, and making love to another man while my husband lay in a hospital in another country. Then, I callously divorced him. I motioned for Matt to pull over again, so I could heave my guilt onto the pavement. Once finished, I sat in the gravel and sobbed. Matt rubbed my back gently.

Take me back to New Jersey,
I wanted to beg. But I could never go back, not in the same way. Nothing would ever be the same again.

The rehabilitation facility was a gray brick building in a hospital complex. It looked like every other hospital complex I’d ever seen. Matt led the way across the lobby to an information desk. I hung back, staring at my hands, my feet, or the floor. He spoke softly to the receptionist and then motioned for me to follow. I felt seized by panic. Were we going to see Greg? I bent over at the waist, unable to breathe. Matt started toward me, and I felt a pang of pity for the wonderful, quiet man with the sad eyes who seemed to do nothing but comfort me in times of crisis. I held up my hand and motioned for him to give me a moment. He stopped and waited patiently. After a few minutes, we continued down the hall.

“We’re going to a conference room to meet with Greg’s doctors and therapists,” he whispered.

The conference room held a long table and could have been a corporate room at Advent. A projector stood in the corner, and three people sat around the table in oversized plush rolling chairs. The two men and a woman appeared diminutive, like children. They offered kind words, but behind the kindness lay a quiet curiosity; I was a human-interest story. The men introduced themselves as Greg’s neurologist, Dr. Benedict, and his primary physician, Dr. Ludlow.

The woman opened a file. “My name is Dr. Goodman. I am Greg’s cognitive therapist. Greg has four therapists right now. That number will go down later, but I am the best person to speak to Greg’s current state of mind and his abilities, mental, physical, and emotional. I’m sure you understand. This is a terribly emotional event for him.” She spoke in a clinical tone, her voice devoid of any warmth and humanity.

I disliked her instantly.
Yes, I’m pretty sure I get that. Terrible, check. Emotional, check.
“Can we start at the beginning, please, Dr. Goodman?” I asked, quietly but forcefully.

Dr. Goodman nodded briskly. “Almost two years ago, Greg was robbed at gunpoint on a street in downtown Toronto at ten o’clock at night. Greg fought back, but the man who robbed him pushed him into the street and ran away. He was struck by an oncoming car, and the driver called 911. The driver had seen the altercation before he hit Greg, and he gave a statement to the police. But that’s all we knew of Greg since, with his wallet gone, there was no identification, credit cards, cell phone, or even receipts in his pockets, nothing. He was taken to St. Michael’s Hospital, where he remained in a vegetative state for about nine months. After nine months with virtually no change, he was classified as a permanent vegetative state and transferred here. This is a rehabilitation facility that also acts as a long-term care facility. Eight months ago, Greg started experiencing spontaneous consciousness, sometimes for only minutes or hours, and once for a day. Then about six months ago, he woke fully. At that time, he remembered nothing about himself. Greg’s memory loss was unique in that he retained a semantic memory, which is the ability to perform learned tasks, like reading. However, his episodic memory was gone. That is the portion of memory devoted to life experiences. He remembered nothing—no childhood, no family. He had no idea who the Prime Minister of Canada was or the President of the United States; we asked both, not sure if he was Canadian or American. He can, however, tie his own shoes. This is extraordinary. Most people in PVS for six months or longer must relearn everything. Greg had an astonishing baseline. But he still had no concept of himself. That was our biggest obstacle to progress, as it was very frustrating to him. Frustration hinders progress. Unfortunately, patients with TBI are—”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “What are TBI and PVS?”

“TBI stands for ‘Traumatic Brain Injury.’ That is what caused Greg’s PVS, which is ‘Persistent Vegetative State.’ You might call it a coma. They are essentially the same thing with some minor technical differences.” She shrugged nonchalantly.

Her blasé demeanor unnerved me. So casual, so laid-back. I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her. “So where is he now? Can I see him?” I clutched the arms of the chair, my nails digging into the fabric. Impatient with their explanations and stories, I needed simply to
see
him, to verify with my own eyes that the man they were talking about was, in fact, my husband.

They exchanged glances, secretly communicating with their eyes. I felt like a pariah.

One of the men cleared his throat. “Claire…” I was surprised at his use of my first name, as if we were friends. “We think you should listen to the entire story before you see him. So you understand what to expect at this point.”

“Okay, fine. What should I expect?” I realized that my leg was shaking, bouncing, really, with nervous energy I couldn’t contain. Taking a deep breath, I forced my leg still with my hand and sat back in the chair, willing my body to appear relaxed.

Dr. Goodman turned to a new page in the file. “Greg has been in physical, occupational, and cognitive therapy for six months. A month ago, he moved to a group home, which is a government-funded housing specifically for patients with TBI in various stages of recovery. It’s the first step toward independence and reintroduction back into society. It teaches things like cooperative living, basic sharing skills, and relating and interactive skills. Now, fortunately in Greg’s case, he did pretty well with that. Like I said, his semantic memory is astonishing. It is probably the reason for his quick recovery.”

“Greg had a nearly photographic memory,” I replied, tracing a scratch on the table. “He was a corporate trainer, and he never needed notes, never forgot names or faces.”

Dr. Goodman made an
ah
sound and nodded, as if my comment had made everything magically make sense. “Claire…” She cleared her throat, transitioning her clinical lecture to a more personal tone. “Two weeks ago, Greg was walking down the street, and he was drawn to a real estate office by the name on the shingle. He went into the office and was given a business card.”

She pushed a business card across the table. The thick paper was worn and creased, dog-eared and soft around the edges. A bit of dirt was smudged across the front, as though someone had repeatedly run a soiled finger over the lettering.
Claire Barnes, Toronto Realty. Guiding you home! Call us now for a free evaluation!

Dr. Goodman continued,
“He became so agitated in the realtor’s office that they had to call the therapist at the group home to come and get him. He didn’t sleep for forty-eight hours, so we had to give him a mild sedative. When he woke up almost a full day later, he remembered his name and you. The nurse on duty found you on the internet and called the police, who called Detective Reynolds. That was three days ago.”

“So where is he now?” I asked again.

“He’s down the hall,” Dr. Goodman said. I must have appeared to jump out of my chair because she up held her hand. “There are a few more things you should know. First, he is not the man you married, most assuredly. We did not know him before, but we have yet to meet a TBI patient who is the same person before and after an accident. Parts of his brain no longer function well, in the same way, or at all. You
must
understand that. Secondly, he will not look the same. He has essentially been lying down for two years. His muscles atrophied. In addition, patients in PVS can actually become significantly shorter. This is because when you don’t use your back muscles, your bones will weaken, and your spine will irreversibly contract. I know from his medical records here that he was a significantly taller man prior to the accident.”

Greg used to be a large man, tall and broad, seeming to absorb all the empty space in a room. Whenever I thought of Greg, I thought of the breadth of his chest, the solidarity of his body and his voice, which boomed with self-assurance.

“Third, you may hear people call him Glen. When he woke up, he didn’t have a name, and he had no family here to tell him his name. A name is a large part of an identity. Someone, a nurse I think, gave him a baby naming book and asked him to go through it. I suggested he look for a name that jumped out at him. He picked Glen. Knowing his name is actually Greg, that makes a great deal of sense. They’re so similar. I suspect that he will revert to Greg because he identifies with his old life. He remembers you, his mother, his daughter Hannah, and your parents.” She looked questioningly at me to confirm that these people did, in fact, exist.

“Greg’s mother has been dead for almost ten years. And we have another daughter, Leah. She’s younger than Hannah, so she was only two when Greg… disappeared.”

“He knows his mother is not living, but he never mentioned Leah.” I felt my jaw drop in a silent
oh,
and she continued quickly. “The earliest and latest memories are the last to recover, if they ever do. So the baby memories we have, those quick snatches of time that are snapshots in our mind? For him, those might be long gone. The last year or two of his life before the accident might come back eventually, but it’s not guaranteed. He never mentioned Leah, so I’m guessing he doesn’t remember her.” She sat next to me, with her soft cool hand covering mine, seeming human for the first time, and explained, in detail, all the ways in which I would no longer know my husband, or more accurately, all the ways in which he would no longer know me. The medical jargon flew over my head, but certain phrases sliced through me, sharp and cold, a surgical knife carefully bisecting my life.
Learned behavior… impulsive… skewed moral compass… increased anger and irritability…

Finally, to my relief, she seemed to run out of facts. “Claire, are you ready to see Greg?”

I felt lightheaded, but I nodded. She stood and motioned for me to follow. We left the conference room and walked down the hall, where I would see my husband for the first time in over two years.

Chapter 33

I
hesitated at the door.

“When you’re ready,” Dr. Goodman said.

When I gathered my nerve and pushed open the door, he stood at the window on the opposite side of the room, his back to me. He was unrecognizably short and very thin, and for a moment, I felt a wilting relief.
It’s not him. Thank God.
My vision wavered and I grabbed the doorframe for support.

He turned, and his face was thinner than I remembered, but unmistakable. I knew it as well as my own.
Greg.
I recognized
his deep brown eyes and his easy smile, which he gave me almost immediately. “Claire, I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would.”

He looked like a runner, although judging by what I’d been told, he couldn’t have run down the hall if he wanted to. The relief ebbed away, leaving a tumultuous sick feeling in its wake. The desire to turn and run was overwhelming.

Awkwardly, we approached each other. When he hugged me, his arms felt foreign. He didn’t even smell the same. It was like hugging a stranger. I didn’t realize I was crying until he wiped my cheek.

“This is so weird,” I said.

He shrugged. “In my mind, I could have seen you yesterday.”

“What is your last memory of me?” I had no idea where the timeline in his mind had stopped. I needed a reference.

He looked upward, as if searching his fleeting memory for permanent pictures. “I’m not sure. I remember you finding out you were pregnant. Are you pregnant?” He looked confused.

I shook my head. “We had Leah four years ago.” I started to cry again; I really couldn’t believe he had no memory of Leah. When the girls saw him, he would have to pretend.
Oh God, when would that be?
“Why are you in Toronto?” I asked. He shook his head.

“I don’t know. Did we move here?”

I realized his answers would not be helpful. I was getting no closure from the meeting. It would only bring more questions. But I had to know, had to ask, “Who is Karen?”

He shook his head again. “I have no idea. Who is Karen?” He looked from me to Dr. Goodman.

I put my head in my hands, closed my eyes, and willed myself not to cry.

“Are you happy?” Greg asked. “Did Hannah miss me?” His questions were childlike.

Dr. Goodman had spoken about that, too. The sophistication a person gained with age was gone. The learned deception of hiding emotions, finely honed in most adults, had been stripped away by the injury. He wore them on his sleeve.

“I’m happy you’re alive, Greg.” That, at least, was the truth. My children had a father again. The confusion of that would eventually pass. To have their father back was permanent.

I searched the large room, awkwardly looking for a place for us to sit and talk. In one corner stood a round table with two chairs and in the other, a long corporate-looking couch. In the middle of the room was a hospital bed, and at the foot of the bed was an entertainment console and a television. The bed was stripped bare and uninviting.

I motioned to the couch, and as we sat, I reached over and, out of sheer habit, lightly touched his knee. The gesture was so natural and easy, and I marveled at how it hadn’t faded with years of disuse. He put his arm around me, and we stayed that way for a moment, faintly rocking like the gentle sway of a boat. He seemed unable to sit still, physically moved by some unknown source of energy, like a toddler.

“Are you going to take me home today?” he asked.