Chapter

 15

“That’s how I recall it.” I sat up and looked to Dr. Mathews and Sara for some reaction. They both stared at me. “Do you think I imagined this? Another anxiety attack? A black out? Doc... tell me.”

Mathews got up from the edge of the bed and walked to the window overlooking the bungalow’s garden.

Sara took my hand, “Lie back, Charlie. Lie back.”

I waited for his answer, her answer, any answer. They’d already told me how I’d been found in the men’s room of the Hyatt lying passed out on the floor and that my wallet and bungalow key had created an expensive paramedic ride back to my hotel. “Doc, talk to me. What really happened? What happened to Sobel? She’d been sitting right there, across from me... “

Mathews turned back. “Across from whom?  Charles Randall?  Charlie Stevens?” He stepped over to the bedside and in a kindlier voice said, “Look, Charles, I don’t know what really happened. I do know, that every day you walk around not knowing who you are, you’re making yourself tenser, more vulnerable, and yes, more prone to severe anxiety attacks and black outs like this one.

“Tell me something I don’t already know. And I don’t walk into swinging doors every day. What a memory that made.”

“As a patient, you’re giving me plenty to worry about. As somebody named Charlie Stevens or Charles Randall, you’re giving yourself and maybe others more than just worry to deal with.”

I was confused. “What does that mean?”

“All we know so far is that Ivan knows you as Charlie Stevens. The Harley dealer knows you, or thinks he knows you, as Charlie Stevens and from what Sara told me while you were still coming around, Las Vegas, Mr. Orlando, and this guy Benoit know you as Charlie Stevens. Chances are in your favor that you are Charlie Stevens. Maybe all we have to figure out is who Charlie Stevens really is so you don’t pass out in any more men’s rooms.” He leaned down and touched the bump on my forehead. “Is that feeling any better?”

I nodded. I lied. It was throbbing like hell.

Sara responded to the knock at the door and was greeted by one of the bungalow cabin boys. “Sorry to interrupt, but this envelope arrived by messenger several hours ago. We didn’t want to disturb you under the circumstances. Are you feeling better, sir?”

“Yes, he is, thank you. Thank you very much.” Sara closed the door and brought the envelope to me. It was from the Hyatt, a letter from Ms. Sobel. “Dear Mr. Randall - Sorry we missed each other again. I hope this wasn’t my fault. I did arrive a bit late.

Please accept my apologies. I had my usual tight schedule and had to fly to New Orleans. I’ve included the paper work on your accounts and trust they will be found in order. I know this must sound facetious, but we really must connect on my next visit. Kindest regards, Ms. Sobel. P.S. I’ve included my card in case you need to contact me.”

I picked up the card. “Lauren Sobel - Financial Advisor. Her office is not in Zurich as I had presumed. It is in New York. In the Chase Manhattan Bank Building. There in front of me is paper work showing seven and one half million dollars in Charles Randall’s name in Swiss bank accounts. I wonder why she didn’t mention meeting Charlie Stevens?”

No one spoke.  Only expressions from Dr. Mathews and Sara suggesting no less confusion than I was having.

Dr. Pressman paused a moment as the tape finished. It was too late to listen again, but he was frustrated that the “pattern” Dr. Farnsworth had said the two would repeat in the next session hadn’t materialized, at least not that he could hear. What was he talking about? He tapped his pipe and repacked it. Perhaps it would reveal itself to him on replaying the tape tomorrow with the rest of the doctors. It was 11:30. It would be midnight before he was home.

He picked up the phone and dialed. “Hi Marge...I’m leaving in a few minutes...I know it’s late...I’ll take my time. Yes, Marge. I’ve had gallons of it today. I will. Bye, honey.”

He lit up his pipe and fingered the tapes again. He couldn’t take his eyes off the handwriting change between tape ten and eleven. He checked his watch once more and picked up the phone. After dialing and letting it ring nine times, he finally got an answer. “Thelma, how’s the most overworked secretary in my office doing?”

He held the phone away from his ear as Thelma gave him a groggy answer. “About as good as you’d expect the ONLY secretary in your office could be getting awakened at…Jesus, what time is it? My God, Clarence, it’s quarter to twelve. You know the baby’ll have me up in three hours for the rest of the night. What the hell you doing calling me this hour, and don’t tell me Marge kicked you out of the house. That lame duck needs you more than you need her. So, what kind of bee is in your bonnet this time...speak to me before I fall back to sleep.”

“You’re just your usual cheery self, Thelma. I am sorry for the late call, but I really need those handwriting samples tomorrow, the ones I asked you to get on Charles... “

“Randall,” she said. They’re already in an overnight pouch from San Francisco. Is that what you fucked up my night over?

“No, it was the need to hear your Rhodes vocabulary. Go back to sleep, sweet princess and thanks for making an old man feel younger.”

“If that’s all it takes, I gotta speak to Marge. Tomorrow.” Click.

Hot coffee was poured into the same old cup. The inscription on the side read, “It will be a great day when our schools get all the money they need and the air force has to hold a bake sale to buy a bomber.” His daughter had given it to him on his sixty-fourth birthday, just after her first son had started grade school. Pressman was very proud of his family. The cup reminded him every morning that far too many men and women’s lives were short changed and taking up room in the PTSD rehabs of the country because there hadn’t ever been such a bake sale by the air force or any other part of the military.

But, what could we expect, he thought. We need a real “Education President. A man with compassion.”

The next day Pressman was back at the ready.  “Love your cup,” said Dr. Farnsworth as he patted Dr. Pressman on the shoulder

    filled his own mug. “Today should tell us more, don’t you think?”

Dr. Pressman took a sip. “Us, meaning the whole group, or us meaning your group?”

Dr. Farnsworth touched his cup with Dr. Pressman’s. “Touché.”

Over the morning hours and into the early afternoon, the group was held in rapt attention as the tape that Pressman had listened to the night before was played. As they recessed for the lunch break, Dr. Pressman stayed in the conference room and had a sandwich brought in so he could study the handwriting samples Marge had arranged for delivery that morning. He quickly scanned the packet of Xeroxed paperwork to be used as courtroom evidence. He found some paperwork Randall had filled out on the first day he had met Mathews, application type material, all printed. He also uncovered charge slips from the Beverly Hills Hotel Randall had signed in modified print. Most of the remaining papers showed the same modified printing style. As he continued looking over the various samples, his eye was drawn to the paper work involved in the arrest and incarceration process. It was filled out in script. Script just like the writing on tape box “eleven.” Did something significant happen between ten and eleven to motivate the change, or was it just an innocent change? Pressman reminded himself he was a psychiatrist. There were no innocent changes in behavior.

The urge to take tapes ten and eleven home that evening would be an all-consuming temptation the rest of the day. He knew, however, his “by the book” standard of conduct would keep him from doing so.

The afternoon would be long, he thought, as he started the next tape.

As I packed my bag, Sara sat outside on the lawn, slowly sipping the diluted water from her iced tea. She was pensive and distant for the first time. It bothered me. I snapped the suitcase shut and peered out the window at her. Was she angry over my leaving or was this her further way of expressing she’d miss me, a sentiment she had whispered earlier.”

The decision had been abrupt. Mathews, in his no-nonsense way, had suggested the trip to New York almost immediately. I had considered the choices: the continuing of sessions in his office, seeing Sara every night, picking the brains of Ivan, Finch, and Benoit and maybe even meeting Orlando. An even harder bump on the head to rattle some memories up wasn’t beyond my imagination. But no, Mathews made sense. His suggestion seemed the right way to go. “You don’t know New York; I do,” he had said. “I’m not comfortable with the continued taking of your money, even though you can afford to give it, without some results. Ms. Sobel may be trying to avoid you, but she doesn’t know me, right?”

Those final words kept coming at me as I checked my watch and realized I was running late for 3:30 flight to New York.

The phone rang. It was Mathews apologizing for also running late. He had gone back to his office to get in touch with some patients and let them know he’d be gone for the anticipated week in New York. I reminded him of the hour and hung up.

I again looked through the window at Sara and went outside. I didn’t like the feeling that she was angry. “Sara, I need you with me on this one.”

She paused a moment then turned, “I’m just a little concerned. Dr. Mathews is very concerned too. He really cares about you, Charles. He told me you’re suffering from what they call a fugue. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” I replied. “He’s explained it all to me. I could regain my memory tomorrow or...or ten years from now.”

“Did he also tell you that blacking out is common with problems like yours?” “Yes, Sara. He also told me things could get worse.”

“That’s why he’s going with you, Charles. He doesn’t want to let things get worse. And that’s why I’m concerned. Please take care of yourself.” She paused and fixed her eyes on mine. “Stay close to him. Don’t go wandering around by yourself. Promise me.”

I leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Of course,” I said.

Her eyes welled up. “I love whoever you are. Remember that.”

I wiped her cheek. “You know whoever I am, isn’t going to change how I feel about you.”

She stood up and I took her in my arms. She was holding me tight, very tight. As I closed my eyes and allowed the scent of her hair to remind me again of how I felt about her, I was suddenly aware of the plus side of being an amnesiac. In not knowing who I was or where I came from, my feelings were totally honest. There were no memories of an upbringing, of schooling, parents, friends. No conscious, conditioned reflexes dictating how I was supposed to react because I had no memories of how I’d been taught and told to act. I knew what words like bigotry, prejudice, and hate meant, but I truly knew so little of their emotional association to me.

As I brought her lips to mine and reflected on the unique realities of my situation, I felt like the luckiest man in the world. I had all the reasons I could imagine to believe and trust her. She had allowed me into her life up till now as this person with no identity, no perceived purpose, other than finding out who he was. I was taking up part of her life without any promises. What had that created in her? Did this trip make her feel abandoned in more ways than one? I wondered if I had unknowingly generated in her some kind of dependency on me? Was she now fearful I’d get my answers in New York and never return?

We were flying above the weather and half way to New York when I turned from the window and shared these recurring thoughts with Mathews. As he listened and expressed his ideas, I felt grateful that I had been fortunate enough to find him. How many doctors would do what he was doing right now? I wasn’t ready to express it yet, but there was a part of me reaching out to him as a father and he was responding like I imagined a father might. I liked the feeling of trust that this gesture of his had instilled in me. It was with this belief that I asked him, “You think Sara’s good for me?”

He took a sip of the wine we had ordered, thought for a moment, and answered, “I think she’s giving you some calming you otherwise might not have.”

I smiled to myself. He never gave direct answers, so why had I expected one this time. “So she might be good or she might not. okay.” I took a sip from my glass. This definitely wasn’t the vintage Bordeaux I had been shown was my favorite, but it was providing the social atmosphere to ask some analytical questions without paying the high price of his office sessions.  A least, I thought that was the case.

He looked at his watch, pushed in the chronograph timer and said, “You know, if you want me to work, I should be charging the time. You know that, don’t you?” His expression was serious. At that moment, all my father/son thoughts were banished.

Then, he grinned, “But, I won’t. This wine is rather… acceptable. We’ll chalk it up as a barter.”

I heaved a quiet sigh and returned the smile. “Fine. But this wine is terrible. When we get to New York, I’ll treat you to some real Bordeaux.” I took one more sip and asked, “You know what Sara does?”

“Yes.  She told me while we waiting for you to come around.”

“Interesting job.”

“Yes,” he said.

“You think she’s sincere with her feelings toward me?”

“In what way,” he asked. “You mean does she love you?” Is that your question?”

I turned away, somewhat embarrassed and humored at the same time. “You always cut right to the chase, don’t you? But, that’s not what I meant. I’m wondering if I’ve become another client; you know, like the ones in her class.”

“Hardly,” he said. “That wasn’t client concern the way she responded to your accident. Besides, you’re not looking for your parents.”

“Maybe I am. I’m sure as hell feel like a lost kid sometimes. I wonder if I’ve allowed her to get too involved with her maternal ways.”

“That’s a judgment. I’m the analyst, remember?” He turned away, motioning for the flight attendant. “Could I get some water?”

“Right away, Doctor. Ice?”

“No.  Thank you.” He turned back to me. “Your perception of her isn’t bad for a layman. Could be you’re right, but you’ve got plenty of time to find out—after we solve your problems.”

I felt better, letting him in on that side of me. I closed my eyes. Another couple of hours nap would bring me to a grand total of four hours for the past twenty-four. I needed it. I took it.