"Farber admits to having some memory loss, which would not be unusual for a patient such as he in the early stages of recovery." Henry pushed the statements back across the table to Jo. "Anything he says at this point should be taken with a double grain of salt. Or dismissed altogether."
vvvv
Dr. Phillip Grainge had just finished checking his patient's vital signs. Sitting on a backless chair with a round, cushioned seat, he made some notations in both the file and into a computer screen. He made the last few taps and turned his attention back to the impatient patient.
"I won't lie to you, Dr. Farber," he began.
"Lewis. Please," Farber interjected with a slight smile.
Dr. Grainge smiled back. "Lewis, then." He drew in a deep breath and the serious but detached professional expression returned to his lined and wrinkled face. "I won't lie to you. It won't be an easy road from here on. Although it's nothing short of a miracle that you've gotten this far - because most people don't - we must be realistic about your chances for a full recovery." He stood up and took a couple of steps closer to his patient, his hands in the pockets of his white hospital smock.
"You do have a few things working in your favor, though," he continued. "You're still young and generally, physically healthy. The outlook for you to make as near a full recovery as possible is promising."
"As near," Lewis quietly repeated the doctor's words. "Well ... that's good news, I suppose," he conceded, thoughts darting through his mind. "What is it you're not telling me, though?" His slight smile flattened out as he looked the balding, white-haired doctor in the eyes. Something in the back of his mind told him that he would never see a similar-looking reflection in the mirror. He frowned and closed his eyes, then blinked them back open.
"Another memory flash, as you call them?" Grainge asked, concerned.
"I, uh, I'm not sure," Lewis replied, rubbing his fingers across his forehead. "Please continue, Dr. Grainge."
"It's exactly this, Lewis. These flashes of memory that point to a mild case of amnesia. Or they may not be actual memories but possibly symptoms of brain trauma."
"Brain trauma," Lewis muttered his words again. The words that troubled him most. He looked Grainge in the eyes again and stated, "I may have permanent brain damage, then."
"Your brain scans are clear but it's what the mind accepts and rejects as reality that sometimes works for or against us," Grainge replied in a nearly philosophical tone.
Lewis frowned and lowered his eyes. "You don't believe me." He looked up at Grainge again. "That I was attacked by the man who had frequently visited me for the past eight months."
"Your former therapy client and a trusted colleague of mine?" Grainge asked, skepticism evident in his nearly-mocking tone. He had no regrets over having recommended dismissal of the orderly and nurse who had been present when Lewis had regained consciousness and named Dr. Henry Morgan as his attacker. In his opinion, they had both over-reacted by contacting the police. And violated the patient's privacy rights. Not to mention causing undue disruption to his respected colleague's life. The orderly's actions did not surprise him but the nurse - he should have known better.
"We simply need more time, Lewis, to determine which of your, uh, memory flashes are true memories rather than ... "
" ... delusions," Lewis finished, nodding and lowering his eyes. He sat taller on the vinyl exam table, bracing himself up with his hands, the protective paper crinkling loudly under him at the slightest movement. "How much more time, Doctor?" he asked with quiet anxiety.
"Another unknown, I'm afraid," Grainge replied. "Just as we had no idea of when or if you'd emerge from your waking coma, we have no idea of how long it will take for your mind to successfully delineate between reality and fantasy." He turned and walked over to the small table that the computer rested on and picked up the medical file. "We'll get you started with physical therapy next week. In the meantime, a psychologist, uh, Dr. Katherine Willoughby," he said, reading from the medical file, "will be in tomorrow afternoon to assess you." The doctor then logged off the computer, shook hands with Lewis, and exited the exam room.
Lewis let the doctor's words sink in and allowed a male nurse to help him back into a wheelchair. But he was thankful for having a robe on, thin as it was, to cover up the drafty gap in the back of his hospital gown. As he was wheeled back to his hospital room, he wondered why a former client of his would have attacked him. The fact that he was a former client of his was news to him, for he could only recall having seen the man identified as Dr. Henry Morgan, a New York City Medical Examiner, visit him periodically over the past eight months. Although certain that the fellow hadn't simply stood at his bedside without speaking about something, Lewis couldn't recall what that might have been.
But suddenly a vision hit him. It appeared to have been during Morgan's very first visit to him. He'd leaned in close and whispered ... something like ... like ... Oh! what was it? Lewis pressed at the foggy memory again and recalled Morgan saying, "Don't worry." Don't worry and ... something more, but what? Lewis released the foggy memory, content to let it rest a bit more in his subconscious, but surprised and encouraged at having recalled even those two meager words.
Hmmm. So, Morgan obviously held friendly regard for him. Don't worry. That's what a concerned individual tells another dealing with a difficult situation such as he was then and certainly is now. His expression clouded over when reminded that he'd accused Morgan of being his attacker. Had the fellow visited him all those months just to make sure that he remained incapacitated and, therefore, no threat to him? If that were so, why would Morgan view him as a threat? The confusion of it all threatened to tire him out again and bring on another throbbing headache.
'Morgan is a former client?' Even though that fell in line with what he'd been told of himself, that he was a Psychotherapist here at Bellevue, for some reason he didn't feel like one. How long had he been one? From which institution had he obtained his degree? Why couldn't he recall the wife and children he was supposed to have? Then, the sudden vision of a dapperly-dressed Morgan seated in a comfortable chair in front of him, sipping tea, loomed before him. It was as if Morgan were in an office - his office? - and conversing with him. If he were a psychotherapist, a husband, and a father, why couldn't he feel those parts of his life?
vvvv
Henry leaned back in his chair in the Interview Room after completing his statement and sighed heavily. For once anyone read it, he would most certainly be looked upon as being either a liar or insane. Concerns about his own fate were secondary to him, though. He only hoped that his son would be released now, as agreed. While he wondered if contemporary straight jackets were as uncomfortable as the ones he'd been forced into back in the 1800's, the door opened and Jo stepped in. He tensed as he watched her close the door and walk over and sit in the chair on the other side of the table again. He tensed more as she placed her hand on the notepad with his written confession three pages deep into it. He placed his hand on top of the notepad to stop her from picking it up.
"Jo ... Detective," he began nervously. "Everything I've written down here is the truth." His troubled eyes beneath a worried brow pleaded with her. "I swear it." When she didn't respond, he removed his hand and she picked the notepad up, turning it around as if she were going to read it. Instead, she lifted up the three pages and tore them off of the pad.
"Your roommate is being released right now," she quietly assured him, her eyes avoiding his intense gaze. If she looked any longer into those troubled brown eyes of his, she was sure that she'd break down. Tearfully. Emotionally.
Henry visibly relaxed and thanked her although it hurt that she refused to look at him and continued to refer to his son, her friend, as his roommate and not by his name. The door to their all-too-brief friendship, he felt, was closing and it hurt.
"We're going to have to hold you, though," Jo told him. He nodded, lowering his eyes. A condemned man resigned to his fate. As a uniformed officer cuffed him and escorted him out of the room, she glanced down at the statement in her hand and read the first line.
Henry got as far as the open doorway when he heard an audible gasp escape from her lips. He looked back at her over his shoulder to see her gawking incredulously at him. Well, if he wondered what anyone's reaction would be after reading his statement, he knew he was about to find out now.
Jo jumped up from her seat and flew to his side, twisting him around to fully face her. Holding up the blue-lined yellow pages in an angry grasp, she shook them in front of him and demanded, "Henry, what's the meaning of this?!"
"The truth, Detective," he quietly replied. "Finally, the truth. But if you'll recall, I warned you that you wouldn't believe me."
Jo stood just inside the doorway watching him being escorted away in handcuffs. The sorrow and shame that had plagued her ever since she'd been tasked with questioning him about Farber's accusations were replaced with anger and confusion. Betrayal, as well, since he'd chosen to lie yet again with this ridiculous so-called confession.
I am Immortal.
First thing he writes and it's one of the most ridiculous claims anyone could ever make! she grumbled to herself. The anger in her made her think of breaking her promise to him about releasing Abe. She released a deep sigh. No, she thought. Release him and - she held up the pages now crumpled in her grasp - talk to him about this craziness that Henry's written down.
vvvv
"Spose I should thank you for giving me a ride back home," Abe told Jo. She pulled her lower lip in slightly at hearing the tinge of resentment in his tone. But remorse came and left her quickly when she reminded herself that Abe was most likely an enabler and had helped Henry permeate his lies to her and others for years. He could give her some answers if Henry remained unwilling to do so.
"You're welcome," she replied.
"Nice to see you again, though," he said with all sincerity, giving her a quick smile. "Just wish it were under more pleasant circumstances."
"Yeah, same here," she replied.
"Did, uh, you get what you wanted?" he asked.
She shot him a confused glance but he stared straight ahead. Turning her eyes back to the road in front of her, she saw him glance at her out of the corner of her eye.
"Out of Henry, that is," he clarified.
Jo stiffened a little but had to laugh to herself about how insightful both men apparently were. Two of a kind, she told herself. "Actually, no," she told him, shaking her head slightly as she pulled in front of the antique shop and parked.
Abe freed himself of his seatbelt but didn't get out of the car. Frowning, he asked, "You mean this little scheme of yours to haul me in and parade me in front of him wasn't enough to shake whatever information you wanted out of him?" He turned his head away from her in an effort to hide his mirth.
Jo rolled her eyes but remained silent while he allowed him a laugh at her expense.
"Look, kiddo, my old m - friend, Henry, is a handful, to say the least." He opened the car door and paused to add, "Good luck in your investigation." He got out of the car chuckling some more. When he turned around to close the car door, his mirth turned into dismay at seeing Jo also get out, frowning at him.
"Funny you should mention the investigation," she began as she closed the car door and walked around to stand in front of him on the sidewalk. "We need to talk, Abe." She sensed his hesitation and added, "I think we both would prefer that we talk here, in private, rather than down at the precinct." He visibly relented, nodding his head, and he let her enter the shop ahead of him.
