Music in the Night (Logan 4)

"I wasn't hysterical. I was excited about my memories," I added firmly.

He did smile, but it wasn't warm.

"You're here because you're having trouble evaluating and controlling your own behavior, Laura. It's best we give consideration to the way the professional staff evaluates your behavior, don't you think? Now, what was it that got you so excited?" he asked, but looked down at the folder again.

"I remembered my little sister's name and I remembered I had a twin brother," I blurted, impatient with the pace of things. If he kept reading something after everything I said, I would be here all day, I thought. And besides, why hadn't he prepared for me better?

"Really?" He fixed his eyes on me. "What else did you recall?"

"Visions of faces, memories of voices I know belong to my parents. I think we have something to do with lobster fishing and we have a boat and we live near the ocean and my little sister is deaf," I said, trying to contain my exuberance so it wouldn't be misinterpreted. However, as I told him these things, they began to reappear in my mind. My heart began to pound again and I closed my eyes.

"Why do you think you had forgotten them and yourself?" he asked.

"I don't know."

He sat back, again lifting the corners of his lips into that arrogant smirk.

"Well, I can see from Doctor Southerby's notes that you have at least come to the understanding it might have something to do with an event that disturbed you greatly. What we call psychological trauma. Is that still true?"

"Yes," I admitted, my lips trembling again.

He leaned forward, once again fixing me under his microscopic gaze.

"You look very tired. You didn't sleep well last night?"

"No," I said. "I kept waking, hearing voices, hearing someone call, someone who sounded like me. And then I felt very cold. It was as if I . ."

"What?"

"I was soaking wet," I said, realizing just at the moment exactly what it was I had felt. "Yes, that's what it was: something to do with water . . . the ocean."

His eyes widened.

"I see. I don't like this," he suddenly added. "Take a deep breath and try to stop yourself from thinking about these things for the moment."

"What? What do you mean? Stop? Why should I stop?" I fired my questions like bullets that seemed to just bounce off his coldly analytical face.

"I don't like what's happening to you physically. It's classic. You're rushing back too quickly, I'm afraid. You're in danger of crashing into your trauma and that could cause irrevocable damage,

psychological damage. There are a number of similar cases in my ward for severely disabled patients. Some have become comatose and live off intravenous feeding, and some have to be led around like lobotomized people, mere shadows of themselves, never smiling, never laughing, blind and deaf, the walking dead. You don't want that to happen to you, do you?"

"No," I said, terrified. "Could something like that really happen to me?"

"Of course it could. I wouldn't tell you otherwise. I read here that you've already lost your ability to speak once. I'm telling you not to frighten you as much as get you to be more cooperative. I like a patient who wants to cooperate with his or her own treatment. It makes it easier for all of us, especially the patient."

He widened that short, tight smile.

"The brain is the most complex part of our bodies. There are layers and layers of conscious and unconscious thoughts. Your memories are like buried treasure right now," he continued, "and the pathways to them have been shut down. If we reach too quickly or too clumsily for them, they could fall deeper and deeper into the abyss. We must be very, very careful how we go forward."

He paused and flipped through the folder again, shaking his head with disapproval.

"I see that Doctor Southerby failed to prescribe any medication for you. From the way you've described your nights, I think it would be wiser at this stage if we did. I want to be very careful with you, Laura. You're very tender, very sensitive, raw at this moment, and we have medication that can cushion you, protect you."

"I don't like taking medications."

"No one likes taking them, except those who become addicted to them, of course," he added. He wrote something on a pad.

"Won't I ever see Doctor Southerby again?" I asked mournfully.