Cracked Eggs
Chapter 2
The girl everyone called Tamara did not sleep. Around her were the sounds of slumber - snores, shuffling, murmurs, and occasional cries. Anne, the patient at the end of the row of beds was known to sing Catholic hymns, but not for the past four nights, they had changed her medications.
The beds here weren't right - too thin, too springy, and wrapped in a protective rubber covering that stuck to the sheets and kept Tamara from ever getting comfortable. A real mattress, she had complained to a nurse whose name she'd already forgotten, was soft and fluffy, and when you let your body fall on it, it would make a whooshing sound.
"Do you remember having a bed like that, when you were young?" the nurse asked, and Tamara could detect the hope in her voice.
"Maybe." she lied.
It wasn't some distant childhood memory, but a well known repeated sensation. She knew that the bed should swell up around her body, cool to the touch but firmly protecting her from sneaky coldness the same way she knew water should be wet or ice should be cold. But the knowledge ended there, with no connection to anything beyond the last week.
A week filled with physical therapy, evaluations, skill learning sessions. They promised that these activities would help her remember or at least make sense of the world, but if anything, they just muddled her sense of reality more. Was orange juice supposed to leave a bitter aftertaste? Was sunlight as insubstantial as the stuff that illuminated the gray outside world? Did flowers truly have no smell?
Wasn't night supposed to be dark?
It wasn't here. Not with the constant dull red of the exit signs or the faint yellow glow from night lights mounted at regular intervals around the room or the sharp slice of white light that seeped under the door from the hallway. Every hour, one of the oderlies would enter, their shoe's rubber souls squeaking gently on the linoleum as they passed each patient.
Kevin was on duty tonight. He'd made his rounds through the room a few minutes ago, and on seeing that she was awake, asked her if she needed to use the toilet. No, she had told him, ignoring the tightness in her stomach. When he asked again, speaking slowly and enunciating each word, she'd pretended to be sleepy and he left.
Everyone here was like that. All the nurses acted like mother hens and Burt, her physical therapist, kept calling her kiddo.
Dr. Sanchez was the worst. No one called him Miguel. All the nurses paid attention to him when he spoke, and rushed off eagerly when he requested anything. She'd seen him with another patient when they wheeled her around for a tour yesterday.
He'd been in the hallway with a large bald man wearing pajamas whose hands were in constant motion. They cut through the air like blades, whirling above and around the doctor; once they clipped his ear. He never moved, or even flinched.
"Don't you be worrying about Dr. Sanchez." Her nurse had said, "He's one of the only ones who can handle Roger."
Tamara had been worrying about Roger. The part of her that knew about mattresses and flower smells also knew about snakes. The way they'd lie, still as stone with their eyes pretending to wait forever, and the way they'd strike, lightning fast, deadly precise. Dr. Sanchez was undoubtedly a snake. After he asked a question, he'd remain motionless, waiting for her reply, his eyes pretending he didn't already know the answer.
Like today, on his third visit, she had finally asked her own questions.
"Why am I here?"
He had been writing on his notebook, noting the information written on the clipboard hanging by her bedside. Now he stopped mid-scribble, and carefully placed both pen and notebook on the sideboard, each lined up parallel to its edge.
"You've been asleep for a very long time." He said simply, his eyes never leaving hers, "This is a place where they could look over after you."
"Now that I'm awake, can I leave?"
"Of course," she hated his confident smile, "when you're ready."
"But not yet." Tamara added the unspoken words.
"You're not ready yet," he said.
She felt her face grow warm with embarrassment. She couldn't walk, couldn't cook or take care of herself, couldn't remember who she was, of course she couldn't leave yet. A real snake attack would be less painful.
He went on to tell her how her parents' car had run off the road in the middle of a blizzard, how they had frozen to death, how her body had been found between theirs, barely alive. Dr. Sanchez explained that her father, Thane LaCiel, was a drifter, with no real home. His older sister, her only known relative, had not seen him in years. And there was no way to identify the woman with him, or Tamara for that matter.
They'd found a paper star badge with the words Tamara L. written in an unsteadied hand. The doctors placed her age at six or seven, making her sixteen or seventeen now.
That was her story he was carefully spelling out, the facts of her life that he knew so well that he didn't even need to consult his clipboard. And it meant nothing to her. Dr. Sanchez held out a faded photograph of a little dark haired girl and Tamara tried to imagine looking into a mirror, seeing that face staring back. Tried to remember being small, tried to remember anything before she woke up last week.
"When are your parents coming to visit?" Wanda, the white haired woman in the bed next to her had asked this morning. "Mine are coming tomorrow to get me. Don't tell anyone, but I'm really a princess." And she'd smiled her toothless smile.
So her parents were dead, and there would be no visits. It made sense, a part of her had known that she was alone, and that she'd been alone for a very long time.
"Here," said Dr. Sanchez, passing her two more images. "That one is a high school photograph of your father, and the other is a pencil sketch of your mother. She looks Hindu, from India that is."
Thane's face was defiant, with a smirk twisted into his smile. He was light, with blond hair and freckled face, and only his blue eyes seemed to match her own. The woman didn't look like a real person. Her eyes stared straight out and her mouth neither smiled or frowned. She did, Tamara noted, look like she could be pretty with her long black hair and heart shaped face.
"What happened to me, when I was . . . asleep? " She asked, returning the pictures.
"You grew up, at least physically. They fed you with a tube, kept you hydrated, exercised your limbs every day, bathed you and made sure your catheter didn't leak, When you were about ten, you caught pneumonia and almost died. But you survived; you have a very strong body."
"Why did I wake up now?" Tamara wanted to know.
"No one knows."
He did that on purpose, she was sure. Luring her into awe by his knowledge, his big words, his profound statements, only to shrug his shoulders when he seemed ready to reveal everything.
Dr Sanchez didn't know anything about her, Tamara decided as she lay in her bed. The body he thought was so strong could barely stand without assistance. Everyone told her she must not push herself too hard, that it would take months to walk by herself.
If I stay here, I'm going to wet the bed. A sixteen year old did not wet the bed. She decided then that she would make it to the toilet, and she'd do it without anyone's help.
With new resolve, she swung herself into a sitting position and pushed onto her feet. Pain, a familiar sensation when she made any large movement, shot from her soles through her legs. Ignore it, she commanded her nerves, and, strangely, the pain receded to an annoyance in the back of her mind.
Standing, turning, taking a single step - she'd practiced these thing just this morning fighting for even basic balance. But now she remembered, or her body remembered. She had done this before, and not as an uncoordinated six year old.
There was a full moon out and its light fell onto the now empty bed besides her, illuminating the bars bone white against the red sheet. The pattern wasn't right. It should be rounder, more ornate. She watched it intently as the angles and bends rearranged themselves into the proper alignment.
Satisfied, she advanced to the door and the bright light beyond it. Barely had she touched it when the doors swung open, now she just needed to find the stairs.
They were longer then she remembered, and she had to stop twice to rest against the wall. It didn't matter, someone was waiting at the top. Another landing, another turn, another step and never mind the heavy breathing, the sharp stab as she shifted her weight.
It was a promise that kept Tamara going. That and the person who she'd made it to. They'd meet at the top of the stairs, like always.
For the first time she felt happy, alive, certain of her purpose. An individual stepped in front of her. She nearly cried with delight.
"Tamara? How did you . . ."
The sunlight went dark, the stairs straightened, and it was Dr. Sanchez before her. Tamara's legs began to shake and she grasped for the banister, missed, and twisted. Below her were the linoleum stairs, ugly and utilitarian, and she was going to fall down all of them.
A strong hand caught her around the stomach while a second clasped her shoulder. With no apparent effort Dr. Sanchez steadied her and, sensing that she could no longer support herself, gently eased her weight onto his. The threat of falling now safety avoided, another urgency made itself known.
"I need to use the toilet." she whispered the shameful secret, refusing to cry.
"All right," the doctor replied. In fluid motions, he easily rotated his body to her side, slipped one arm over his shoulder and positioned his second hand under her armpit. He let her lean on him and they started down the hallway.
"There's a washroom next to my office."
For once she appreciated his professional detachment. He maneuvered her into the stall, got her seated, even handed her the toilet paper without looking at any part of her body but her face.
"Would you like to rest in my office?" He offered her afterwards, and she nodded gratefully.
It wasn't a large room, but it easily fitted the desk and couch. There was a bookcase along on wall, and a small window with the curtain drawn. On top of the filing cabinet were the dried remains of a plant. The walls were white, and his desk was clear of everything but a stack of files.
She noted as Dr. Sanchez situated her on the couch, called the nurse station so they wouldn't worry, fetched a blanket and then a glass of water. There was nothing of him, no artwork, no photographs, no care at all to make the place his own.
Except for his undeniable presence. He took the water glass from her hands and sat in a chair pulled close to couch, saying nothing. His eyes were in resting snake mode, but no less alert.
"Thank you." She said, and added, "am I going to get in trouble?"
"I shouldn't think so. Walking that far is very impressive, I think everyone will be quite proud of you." He smiled, and for once it didn't feel patronizing. "Tell me, why did you come all the way up here? Did you get lost?"
"I . . .I don't know. I think I thought I was somewhere . . not here but . . . somewhere else." It sounded silly to her ears, she wondered if the doctor would laugh.
He didn't. But his smile tightened. Even more than at the top of the stair, Dr. Sanchez materialized. His true nature forming before her.
He pretended to ask question casually, but, as in their other sessions, she could hear the clicking of his mind. Tamara imagined him taking her answers, her choice of words, even the pauses and uncertainties and fitting them all together, assembling a mirror of herself within him. And then? When he had her sorted, classified, categorized, what would he do with her then?
"Someplace familiar?"
"I don't know," she lied, remembering the sureness of her feet as they made their way up the stairs, the person waiting.
"Have you had similar experiences in the last week?"
"I don't think so," Once, she suddenly recalled, when a nurse had come to take her dinner tray, the woman's face, her smile had seemed belonged to someone else and Tamara had unexplainably started to cry.
"Is there anything at all your remember thinking when you were walking up the stairs? Or before, was there something that might have triggered the sensation?"
"No." She had been remembering the images of her parents, how their expressions seemed familiar. The man's arrogant smirk, the woman's vacant stare - where had she seen them before?
Dr. Sanchez sighed ever so slightly. He turned away from her in a very unsnakelike fashion.
"What are you doing here so late? Do you live here?" She looked around at the unadorned office.
"No, I have an apartment." Dr. Sanchez said, "I was working late; I'm afraid I lost track of time."
"So sometimes you just don't go home?" It seemed incredulous to Tamara that anyone would choose to stay in the asylum.
"Once in awhile."
"Doesn't that worry your family?"
"My family all live in California."
"What about friends?"
"I . . ." Did his jaw clench, he certainly looked tense, uncomfortable.
Their roles had been reversed, she noted with pleasure. Tamara pressed on.
"You told me I could ask you questions."
"Yes, I did." Dr Sanchez gave quick laugh and his old manner returned. "I shall have to add the condition that you may ask question related at least somewhat to yourself or your situation."
"You don't like answering questions about yourself?" Tamara asked, fighting to keep her advantage.
"My goal is to help you understand yourself, Tamara, to guide you to reaching your potential as an independent adult. Detailing my life to you doesn't further that goal. Do you understand?"
"Let me ask one more question," she begged. No one, not Burt or any of the nurses knew much about Dr. Sanchez. All they'd tell her was that he was a excellent psychiatrist and that she was very lucky to have him for a doctor. There was more, Tamara could tell from the way they pursed their lips and looked away, but they wouldn't tell her.
"And you have to answer it truthfully," she added.
"I have to? And if I do, what do I get in return?"
"I'll . . I'll tell you my dreams." Tamara promised.
"And if I refuse, then you won't? I'm not sure if this is a good precedent." He seemed to give the matter some thought, "Very well, one question."
One question. What should it be? For some reason she wanted to ask him if he wore glasses. There seemed to be something missing from his face.
Tamara peered carefully, there was something she could only describe as a shift, colors muted, lines muddled. Dr. Sanchez was in front of her and nothing was missing from his face. Why had she been so certain he needed glasses?
"Do you have any children?" Her question was just as odd as the one about the glasses. Tamara wasn't sure where it came from, but the effect on Dr. Sanchez was immediate.
His was a hunted expression and Tamara felt gleefully like the mongoose from the cartoon movie shown last night. Either out of honesty, or refusal to flee, Dr. Sanchez would answer her question, Tamara was certain. She waited patiently.
"I had a son," Dr. Sanchez said after a minute. "His name was Manuel. He died several years ago. He would have been seven this May."
"Are you sad about it?"
"I said one question," but Dr. Sanchez didn't mean it because he continued, "I should be. I remember being ecstatically happy when he was born, and I know I loved him very much. That time of my life . . . it was rather bad, quite horrible really."
Dr. Sanchez was young, Tamara realized, probably younger then most of her nurses and certainly younger the other doctors. During the day, in his white coat and scribbling on his clipboard he seemed ageless.
"It's the patient that's supposed to confide their life story to their doctor, you know?" Dr. Sanchez said, seeming uncertain.
"I don't have a life story," she replied, not wanting him to stop, "only what you told me. I don't remember any of it personally."
"I don't remember Manuel's death personally, either." And he began to laugh, a hoarse, breathy laugh. "I have a near eidetic memory," he explained, "It means I remember almost everything that's ever happened to me. I can repeat lessons I learned in first grade, all two months of it. I ended up skipping most of the early grades. I graduated from college when I was fifteen and medical school at nineteen, specializing in urgent care. I worked in the emergency room at a hospital in Los Angeles. And I can tell you the specifics of every case I saw there, except . . . one."
He had a distant look on his face and Tamara was sure he was searching for that lost memory. Dr. Sanchez gave a curt shake of his head and came out of the reverie.
"I shouldn't be telling this. But you're just asking all the correct questions, Tamara. What are you going to say next?"
The smile he gave her was watery, weak. She had bested him. It surprised her to feel shame. Part of her wanted to take back her questions, but she couldn't stop herself from pressing on:
"If you can't remember, how do you know it happened?"
"Brilliant. Just brilliant. You know, Tamara, you've got us all of us at the hospital at a loss. Your vocabulary is that of a well read teenager. Bert is continually amazed by your motor dexterity. And your IQ tests indicate you're either a six year old ultra genius or an above average seventeen year old.
"As for your astute question, I trust the people who told me what happened. My wife was also a doctor. When we were both working a neighbor would watch after Manuel. The woman had a swimming pool and one day she got distracted or something. Manuel fell in, she didn't know CPR. They actually took him to my hospital. Of course I didn't treat him, but supposedly I assisted in some of the prep work. Manuel was without oxygen for nearly fifteen minutes, there must have been extensive brain damage. He had slipped into a coma by the time he arrived, and he died less than month later.
"It was the first time in my life that things hadn't gone the way I wanted them to. Apparently I didn't take it well. My marriage fell apart, my wife and I separated. I know I kept working because I remember treating patients for several months afterward. Then, nothing. You remember Rachel Lynn, the woman who walked into your ward yesterday?"
Tamara remembered the red head. She had been wearing only her underwear and screaming about aliens and FBI agents. It had taken two orderlies to control her.
"Let me talk to Mulder. I demand to talk to Fox Mulder." Tamara had heard her cry from the hallway for several more minutes.
"I was like Rachel Lynn," Said Dr. Sanchez. That was his secret. He didn't look embarrassed or afraid, just sad.
"I had a breakdown," he went on, "a complete schism from reality. At my worst, I was catatonic, unable to interact with anyone. Luckily, I had an exceptional team of doctors and made, what they termed, a miraculous and complete recovery. I'm one of the few people out there to have both published and been written up as a case study in the Lancet, that's a very famous medical magazine. I'm very grateful, but a side effect of the treatment is that I'm missing almost all personal memories from that time."
"Like me." Tamara heard herself whisper.
"Not necessarily. You've only just started to recover, Tamara. It takes time. There's every indication that you will make a full recovery, both physically and mentally and there's every chance that you will regain your memories. Of course, considering that you were at most seven at the time they might not make sense. The doctors at this hospital are going to do their best to help you at every stage of your recovery."
As he spoke his assured demeanor returned somewhat, and she felt relieved. His snake eyes didn't seem so menacing now.
"And you'll be there too, right?" Tamara asked. It seemed impossible to her now that she had despised him.
"I . . .I'm afraid not, Tamara. I suspect that I don't have the objectivity required to handle your case. I'm very sorry, but also glad to have recognized the situation so early. I'm going to talk to Dr. Ito tomorrow. He's an excellent psychiatrist, you'll see."
"But-"
"Tamara," said Dr. Sanchez, his voice once more distant, professional, "it's nearly dawn and I need to get you back to bed. I promised Kevin to return you almost an hour ago."
"But I promised to tell you my dreams," she protested.
"All right," Dr. Sanchez relented, "One dream. But not now, it's too late. I'll come and see you tomorrow when you wake up."
Tamara wanted to argue for more, but found she didn't have the energy. She barely remembered Dr. Sanchez helping her down the stairs and was so sleepy that even her mattress, when Kevin lay her down, felt acceptable.