Chapter 9: The Clara Scale

A/N: Penultimate Chapter!

"I call it," he paused for dramatic effect. "The Clara Scale!"

Dr Conner was not impressed by his attempt at melodramatics, and simply raised her eyebrows at him to indicate he should explain further. It had been two weeks since his 'holiday', and she had been forced to insist on three sessions a week. His moods were unpredictable, and his memories returning rapidly, but she was struggling to get him to talk about what any of it meant to him.

"Ok, well this is how it works. Whenever I make some snippy comment, or I'm grumpy and not really in the mood to be sociable, or I complain about something a little more than is probably justified, she gives me these horrendously disappointed looks. And when I do agree to come out, or I'm trying to make her laugh, she smiles at me like, like I'm all that matters."

"You still think of yourself as existing in two states, don't you? The 'old' pre-accident Richard and the personality that emerged afterwards, when you were free of memories of your past? That Clara's reactions to you are some kind of indication of which Richard you are today?"

"That's pretty much it, yes."

"Ok, it isn't as easy as that. You aren't two separate people and you should stop thinking that way. You need to find a place where you are comfortable," She explained patiently for what had to be the sixth time. He had a real mental block about his personality, convinced he had a choice between two separate entities. "Do you think Camille would act in an opposing manner to Clara?"

"No, from what I remember she wouldn't be disappointed if I was grumpy. She'd probably tease me about it and try to get me out of my mood, roll her eyes at me if she was unsuccessful. She was just, used to it I guess. I think she found it amusing, sometimes I'd act a little more put-out than I really was because she seemed to find my sarcastic responses funny."

"So you say that you aren't sure you liked who you were before, that you were ill-tempered and grumbled all the time. But you've just told me that you would play up on this sometimes – like a game you and Camille played. Perhaps now you have more memories back, you should reconsider some of the ones that disturbed you initially. Think about them in the context of the way you and Camille would interact."

"You think maybe I've been judging myself a little harshly?"

"Maybe? Oh no you definitely are. I know it doesn't seem like it, but there is a happy median here Richard."

He gave her a look full of hope, and she felt like finally she was getting through. "Have you spoken to Camille since she left?"

"No, I can't, I feel like I have to have decided something next time I speak to her."

"Have you?" she asked.

"Have I what?" he avoided answering, a habit he'd always had even when she first met him at training college. Back then she suspected it had been because he really was unclear on her question - so clueless was he about human emotion. She was younger then, inexperienced, missed the fact he actually used it as a device to gain more time to think of an answer.

"Made a decision about what you intend to do about your relationship with Camille?" She gave him no wriggle room with that.

"Ages ago," he sighed.

"Are you willing to share that decision?"

"I, well, you know that I love her. And there were pretty strong indications that she cared about me as well – 'pre-accident' me as you say. I wanted to be that person for her again. But I knew there was no point forcing it, trying to pretend I'd gone back to 'normal'" Richard had excessively used air quotations in recent sessions. "She has always been so good at reading people and she'd see straight through me."

He paused, gathering his thoughts, and she waited for his continuation feeling rather on edge, "But I could stop trying to force myself away from it. Stop trying to be cheerful when I wasn't in the mood, holding myself back from making comments. Of course this led to the development of the aforementioned Clara scale."

She smiled, she couldn't help herself. When he looked up from his contemplative examination of her rug, he frowned and asked, "What are you so happy about?"

"Richard that is a very healthy attitude to take. To decide to just allow yourself to be yourself. Try not to be one person or the other – it's what I've been trying to get you to do for weeks and you seem to have finally gotten there independently. I know you're still reluctant, because you thought it was one thing or another but it's not. And yes, you may very well disappoint Clara but you can no more pretend to be something you aren't for her than you could for Camille. You don't want to hurt her, but is she ever going to get what she wants from you?"

"No," he said quietly, having returned to scrutinising the rug.

"Well I won't say you are doing her a favour, it's a horrendous phrase, but at the same time you aren't being deliberately cruel to her. Okay?"

"Yeah, I suppose you're right."

"Hang in there Richard. I think we might nearly be there."

Sometimes his memories just reappeared in his brain. He'd reach for a piece of information and find the memory just sitting there like it had never buggered off in the first place. Other times, he'd be overcome by a sense of familiarity, and then the memory would gradually develop. By far the most disturbing were the dreams though, they were always so intense. He woke from such a dream swearing he could smell the perfume Camille had been wearing when she'd walked up to him, almost shyly, in her mother's bar wearing that dress.

Cold water, that's what he needed. He stumbled into the bathroom to wash his face, and found himself momentarily surprised by the bristles. He looked in the mirror and shook himself mentally when he didn't recognise his own reflection, why the hell had he grown a beard? He looked like a man suffering a mid-life crisis, trying to make up for his thinning hair by proving he could at least grow a beard. It had to go.

He didn't get back to sleep. Instead he sat on the end of his bed and stared at a suitcase trying to counteract each negative thought with reason as he'd been taught by his therapist. Which started out fine but then rapidly just degraded into questions he couldn't answer. What if she hadn't called because she had thought about what she wanted and it wasn't him? What if some changes were permanent, and she didn't like them? Wasn't what he was considering exactly what he wouldn't normally do? But if he didn't act now, would he ever have the courage?

His lizard banged his tail against the glass of his tank, gaining Richard's attention. He fetched him a few crickets that he ruthlessly hunted down.

"What do you think?" Richard asked the lizard, whom he never had named. He did seem to be chewing the cricket contemplatively, but then maybe that's how he always looked when he was eating and Richard had never paid attention before. Having gained no useful advice from the lizard, Richard returned to stare at the suitcase.

By dawn, he'd actually packed it. Then taken everything back out again cursing how foolish he was being, before changing his mind again and stuffing it all back in rather untidily. Now it was watching him from the corner of the kitchen. God, he thought the suitcase was watching him, probably a symptom he shouldn't mention to his doctor if he didn't want to get sectioned.

There was a knock at the door and he frowned, trying to remember if he was supposed to go somewhere or meet somebody. He opened the door to find Clara smiling in a summer dress and for a moment he wished he could love her. When she got a good look at him, her expression changed and provided him with a whole new look to put on the Clara scale.

"You shaved off your beard," she said mildly. She wasn't pleased, but it wasn't disappointment per se. It looked more like, resignation? Or maybe even acceptance? "And you've packed a suitcase?"

"I…" he stumbled over his words. "I'm probably not going anyway."

"Sure you are, I'll drive you to the airport. Have you got a ticket?"

"What?" he said, confused by her sudden enthusiasm to get him out of the country. She must realise where he'd go.

"To Saint Marie? You just pack a bag or did you get a plane ticket?"

"I…I just packed."

"Oh how spontaneous. Women love that you know. Come on, I'll look after your lizard," She stood in front of him, feigned cheerfulness breaking his heart just a little.

"Clara, I'm sorry, I never meant to…" he trailed off, lost for words, but she just smiled again – a sad one, but a real one at least.

"You were very clear, Richard. But sometimes when you, when you care about somebody, you just become convinced they'll change their minds and realise how perfect you are for each other. Not you though, you just assume that nobody would feel that way. You did when we were teens, I did everything possible to get your attention but you acted like you were blind to it. You never grew out of it I see. Well here's your proof that isn't true, so let's get you on a plane before either of us can change our minds."

And she was off, down the stairs with his suitcase that he hadn't had a chance to prevent her taking. He gathered every last ounce of courage he had and followed her.