I'm late.
Really fucking late. Mostly it has to do with not knowing where the hell I am in The Tower, but my restless night of research isn't helping my situation. Neither is my lack of coffee, and since I'm two strong cups behind my usual caffeine intake I can already feel the day going from terrible to fiery-train-wreck disaster. It's going to take some kind of miracle to keep that from happening.
The night before, after seeing Barnes through the window, Steve showed me to a small studio apartment that would be my home while I worked there. It was utilitarian, much like a hotel room, and I got the sense that whoever else lived in this place had spaces like the one I was in. It was comfortable enough, with a tiny kitchen and large picture window that looks out on to the city. The apartment is stocked with basics like coffee and a machine that I'm pretty sure you need to work for NASA to understand, and the dresser has some basic clothes inside.
My instinct is to lay down and disappear in the enveloping duvet, but my first order of business for the evening had been to spread out every document I had been given on Barnes. His file was packed with translated notes and observations from several sets of initial experiments, the transcripts of which made my toes curl at some points. There were schematics and performance graphs of a machine that gave me chills, and then finally I ended at the scans of his brain. My eyes lingering on the damage inflicted on this man.
I didn't sleep well that night, so when I missed what must have been an automatic alarm (and the several subsequent snooze alarms) I was off to a late and annoyed start. Which is how I found myself rushing to find my way back to Barnes' door.
It's often said that a doctor's bedside manner is something that comes easy, or it doesn't come at all. I've been witness to this wisdom a fair number of times over the years and while watching others stumble through or connect easily with patients I'd been honing my own skills. There is an art to it and I've come to understand that when it comes to my work dealing with brain trauma and memory loss, it's best to present a calm and collected leader who will see the patient through the confusing and often heartbreaking process of trying to heal a mind. So usually, before I meet a new patient or their family, I picture George Washington crossing the Potomac, and I will square my shoulders and march confidently into the room, ready to lead my charges.
But this morning when I'm finally standing in the hallway outside James Barnes' room, I'm finding it difficult to conjure up my inner Washington. I'm leaning against the wall across from his door, clutching his file, a pad of paper, and a digital recorder in my arms like they're my weapons going into this fight. I shake my head, I have to stop thinking that it's a battle. I'm here to help someone, just like I always do. When I place my fingers on the door handle, I take a deep breath like I would before plunging into deep water, and slowly open the door.
"Hello," I say warmly as I enter and calmly head towards the table. Barnes is sitting on his cot, his back against the wall and his legs drawn up and criss-crossed underneath him. I can feel his eyes on me while I move across the room and I keep myself focused on staying calm and appearing in control. But while I walk the images from the video, the ones of him attacking me, keep rising to the forefront. I sit down at the table and assemble my things, creating order from the chaos is a like a balm to my nerves.
Barnes just watches me. When I'm ready, I sit back in the chair and look back at him. We spend a few minutes in silence just considering one another. He looks relaxed, wearing surgical scrub pants and a long sleeve shirt that covers most of his metal arm. The clothes were probably provided for him, although I see the appeal in such a comfortable outfit. But the thing that sticks out at me is that he's wearing a pair of thick socks and no shoes. Which means no shoelaces to become a danger. I meet his eyes again, and the cool blue of them draws me in.
"Well," I say, pulling myself away from them with some effort and pushing the record button on my little digital recorder. "We have a lot to discuss. You already know who I am, but I'll give you the proper introductions anyways. I'm Dr. Horowitz, and I'm here to help you with what they tell me is some significant memory loss on your part." I direct my attention to my papers and remove his CT scans from his file. I lay them on the table just like Steve did to me. Barnes doesn't move. In response I hold one of them up, the frontal view, and point to the empty areas.
"This area," I explain. "is where your limbic system should be. That's the part of your brain where your memory is stored. From what I gather, you've sustained repeated exposure to targeted electrical shock meant to disrupt and decimate your memories."
"Wiping," Barnes says, his voice low and even. It's the first sign that he's actually taking in what I'm telling him.
"Is that what it was called?" I ask. He nods. I push on.
"There's a chance for recovery, that over time with some work on both our parts, your brain can heal itself and the memories might be partially recovered. But you have to trust me, and I have to trust you." I want to tell him how difficult that's going to be for me, but I hold my tongue. He doesn't need to know that I'm not sure I will ever be able to trust him.
"You know," I say instead. "In my room I didn't have a window." He glances over at the window and looks back at me, a little puzzled.
"The room I woke up in," I continue, "it didn't have a window in it. They probably didn't think I needed a view or something."
"I don't like it," Barnes says.
"Why?" I ask.
"I don't like high places," he answers and there's a hint of what might be a grin, that is if he would ever allow his face to really show it.
"How do you know that?" I push. His forehead crinkles and he considers what I've asked him for a moment.
"When I look outside," he says slowly, considering every word. "When I stand right next to the window, it doesn't feel right."
"That's good," I tell him. Try to reassure him.
"Look," I say, "This isn't usually how this is done. Usually I'd be doing one part and another doctor, a shrink, would be helping you sort through the emotional stuff. But there's a method behind recovering things, things that you think are lost, and I can at least help you with that." I pick up the recorder and hold it out so he can see that it's on.
"Whatever we dig up, I'm going to record. That way you can go back and listen to yourself. It can help to hear yourself saying things that you remember, because you tend to believe your own voice more than you would someone else's. We'll spend part of our time doing stuff like this, just talking, part of our time doing exposures with things that might trigger some kind of memory, and the other part we'll be doing some work in the lab."
Barnes nods at me, and seems to agree with the plan I've laid out, but there's hesitation in his eyes.
"Lab?" he asks, and I understand.
"Just bloodwork, and some scans of your brain," I say, trying to keep my voice calm. I try to picture what he's thinking about from the information I had gleaned from his file, but what I can't feel is the fear that briefly passes over his face but is quickly replaced by a strong resolve. He nods again.
"Let's start with some simple things," I move forward with the conversation. "Just create a baseline for you." I wave my hand to invite him over to the table and to my surprise he actually does unfold himself from his place on his bed to come sit across from me. I should keep my guard up, but I get the sense that he is sincere in his want to get to the truth of who he is.
"What's your full name?" I start with.
"James Buchanan Barnes," he answers.
"How do you know that?"
"It was on the sign at the museum, next to my picture" he says with that same little half-smile. "And on the carrier, the man in the suit, he said that it was my name."
"And you believe that?"
"Yes," he says. "When I say it, I felt it in here." He puts his hand on his sternum, and I know the feeling he's talking about. It's the tug of something that is set deep in memory, something that becomes a part of who you are.
"That's good," I say. "Hold on to that."
We don't get very far after that. I ask him if he knows his birthday, where he was born, or his parent's names. Things that should be settled deep in his memory, but I watch as he tries to dig and gets frustrated at himself for turning over stones in his mind and finding either blurred and distorted fragments or nothing at all. I decide to turn back to something that he does remember.
"The man on the carrier," I say as I push my hair back, trying to settle myself again. "Do you know him?"
"Yes," he says, and he latches on to that truth. "I knew him. From before." What happens next is so fast that I almost miss it. But something clicks behind his eyes and they dart back and forth over the surface of the table and he grips the edge, causing a dent where his metal fingers are twisting in. When he looks up at me, it's a fearful recognition that meets my gaze.
"You have his eyes," he says slowly.
"What?" I say, my body cold.
But before he can elaborate, there's a solid knock on the door and Barnes falls out of where his mind had been and shrinks back into his chair, lost again to me, and taking with him that tantalizing statement.