Clean Slate by Harley Crowley
Chapter 23
He still wanted to run. He had to run. He put the cell phone in his jacket pocket. Of course he knew Carrie wouldn't come in and listen to his messages, but he didn't want to leave it behind. It just made him feel better. This time he put his wallet in the other jacket pocket. It wasn't very likely that he would lose his memory again, but now he felt naked without it. If he got hit by a car or something it would come in handy.
He called up the stairs that he was going out, and heard her "Okay, see you," float back down. In the entry porch he stopped to stretch, while he searched up and down the street. She could be out there now. But there were no cars parked on the street on their block.
He stayed to the sidewalk and headed north for a block and then turned up the hill. It was steep, and though he was pleased to realize he wasn't exactly winded, he set a zigzag path, one block up, one block level, one block up and so on. He paid attention to the street names, memorizing them so he wouldn't embarrass himself by getting lost on the way home. Soon the curbs were filled with more parked cars, and he knew he was close to the college. He followed the trickle of students with backpacks as they trudged uphill and entered the campus. He slowed to a walk and wandered through a mixture of old and new buildings, and big old Douglas firs and hemlocks surrounded by lawns and bricked paving and paths. Large outdoor sculptures dotted the open spaces.
The campus bookstore was already open. He wandered in, looking at the shelves for familiar titles. What sort of things did he read? Or did he read at all? Maybe he was all work and no play. Among the shelves of literature classics he recognized Austen and Dickens, Fielding and Joyce. He didn't remember which ones he'd read, if any, but it seemed to confirm his hypothesis that the missing pieces were the personal ones, and his general knowledge was more or less intact. There was a display of books about the Iraq war, and he was aware that it was disastrous. His mind didn't seem to want to go exploring there.
On impulse he made his way to the textbook stacks, and followed the plastic covered cardboard signs strung above them until he reached psychology. Abnormal psychology, that's what he was looking for. The textbook was a formidable size, and even more so the huge paperback entitled DSM-IV, The Diagnostic and Statistics Manual. But he was intrigued. Dr. Richardson had said "fugue state." He didn't see it in table of contents of the paperback manual, although that was full of other horrors. He checked the index and found several listings under "amnesia." There were boxed lists of symptoms under each diagnosis. He laid the book out open on the shelf in front of him and looked through the pages to see what he could find out about himself.
What he found was that he was a fairly rare case. The closest he came was something called dissociative amnesia. It was more common to have only a partial memory loss, for certain events or brief stretches of time. There was such a thing as biographical amnesia, which sounded like him, but those people typically set off on a trip and started a new identity someplace else. He knew he'd heard of lost people found who had established a new life with no memory of the old one. But he had no impulse to leave. He wanted to reconnect with this life, the one with Carrie in it.
There was the fear of what could happen with the unknown Katherine hanging over him. She sounded like a loose cannon. Just knowing that she had been outside in the dark, peering at his house, that he was the center of her attention, made him feel exposed and under threat. He didn't know what she looked like, wouldn't recognize her if she walked up to him right that minute. He looked around the bookstore nervously, but no one was paying him any attention.
He thought about her erratic, emotional messages. After the first ones he had hoped that he could ignore her and she would just give up and go away. Write him off as a lost cause. That she would find out at work what had happened and he wouldn't have to explain. Maybe it could be as if whatever had happened between them was erased. That was unrealistic now. He'd started something that was rolling along of its own dangerous momentum, and he knew from the sinking sensation in his gut that he was going to have to confront it, look it in the face. Look her in the face. It was time to call her. But not quite yet. Think about something else.
He left the bookstore and wandered around the campus. He wondered where Carrie's office was, or if she had one of her own. There was an English department building and he stepped into the hallway and looked at the directory, but her name wasn't listed.
He still wanted to run. He had to run. He put the cell phone in his jacket pocket. Of course he knew Carrie wouldn't come in and listen to his messages, but he didn't want to leave it behind. It just made him feel better. This time he put his wallet in the other jacket pocket. It wasn't very likely that he would lose his memory again, but now he felt naked without it. If he got hit by a car or something it would come in handy.
He called up the stairs that he was going out, and heard her "Okay, see you," float back down. In the entry porch he stopped to stretch, while he searched up and down the street. She could be out there now. But there were no cars parked on the street on their block.
He stayed to the sidewalk and headed north for a block and then turned up the hill. It was steep, and though he was pleased to realize he wasn't exactly winded, he set a zigzag path, one block up, one block level, one block up and so on. He paid attention to the street names, memorizing them so he wouldn't embarrass himself by getting lost on the way home. Soon the curbs were filled with more parked cars, and he knew he was close to the college. He followed the trickle of students with backpacks as they trudged uphill and entered the campus. He slowed to a walk and wandered through a mixture of old and new buildings, and big old Douglas firs and hemlocks surrounded by lawns and bricked paving and paths. Large outdoor sculptures dotted the open spaces.
The campus bookstore was already open. He wandered in, looking at the shelves for familiar titles. What sort of things did he read? Or did he read at all? Maybe he was all work and no play. Among the shelves of literature classics he recognized Austen and Dickens, Fielding and Joyce. He didn't remember which ones he'd read, if any, but it seemed to confirm his hypothesis that the missing pieces were the personal ones, and his general knowledge was more or less intact. There was a display of books about the Iraq war, and he was aware that it was disastrous. His mind didn't seem to want to go exploring there.
On impulse he made his way to the textbook stacks, and followed the plastic covered cardboard signs strung above them until he reached psychology. Abnormal psychology, that's what he was looking for. The textbook was a formidable size, and even more so the huge paperback entitled DSM-IV, The Diagnostic and Statistics Manual. But he was intrigued. Dr. Richardson had said "fugue state." He didn't see it in table of contents of the paperback manual, although that was full of other horrors. He checked the index and found several listings under "amnesia." There were boxed lists of symptoms under each diagnosis. He laid the book out open on the shelf in front of him and looked through the pages to see what he could find out about himself.
What he found was that he was a fairly rare case. The closest he came was something called dissociative amnesia. It was more common to have only a partial memory loss, for certain events or brief stretches of time. There was such a thing as biographical amnesia, which sounded like him, but those people typically set off on a trip and started a new identity someplace else. He knew he'd heard of lost people found who had established a new life with no memory of the old one. But he had no impulse to leave. He wanted to reconnect with this life, the one with Carrie in it.
There was the fear of what could happen with the unknown Katherine hanging over him. She sounded like a loose cannon. Just knowing that she had been outside in the dark, peering at his house, that he was the center of her attention, made him feel exposed and under threat. He didn't know what she looked like, wouldn't recognize her if she walked up to him right that minute. He looked around the bookstore nervously, but no one was paying him any attention.
He thought about her erratic, emotional messages. After the first ones he had hoped that he could ignore her and she would just give up and go away. Write him off as a lost cause. That she would find out at work what had happened and he wouldn't have to explain. Maybe it could be as if whatever had happened between them was erased. That was unrealistic now. He'd started something that was rolling along of its own dangerous momentum, and he knew from the sinking sensation in his gut that he was going to have to confront it, look it in the face. Look her in the face. It was time to call her. But not quite yet. Think about something else.
He left the bookstore and wandered around the campus. He wondered where Carrie's office was, or if she had one of her own. There was an English department building and he stepped into the hallway and looked at the directory, but her name wasn't listed.