Music in the Night (Logan 4)

"What is my case? Why am I here? What happened to me? Why can't I remember the simplest things about myself?" I blurted out all at once. "I couldn't even remember my real name! I still can't remember my surname."

The high notes of hysteria in my voice didn't seem to faze him. He simply nodded, gently.

"I can understand your anxiety," he said, "and I want to put you at ease as quickly as I can. That way, you'll recover faster. It would be best," he continued, "if you remember things on your own. My simply filling up the empty spaces won't be enough. For one, you might reject the information again and then we could be worse off than we are now."

"Reject the information? I don't understand," I said, shaking my head. The calmer he was, the more anxious I felt. "Why did I reject such important information about myself, my name, my family, where I live? It's terrifying. Am I crazy? Is that why I'm here? What's wrong with me?" I pursued, my voice so shrill it hurt my own ears.

"I assure you that what's wrong with you at the moment won't last. And once you are cured, there's very little chance this will happen again," he replied in a mellow voice. It didn't satisfy me, however.

"What will not happen? What do I have, a disease? What?" I asked. He couldn't talk fast enough for me.

"From what I understand about your situation, I feel safe in a preliminary diagnosis of psychogenic amnesia," he said, although he looked uncomfortable about committing himself so quickly.

"I know what amnesia is," I said, shaking my head, "but that other word--"

"Psychogenic simply means your amnesia probably isn't due to any organic mental disorder. There's no physical reason for you to be unable to remember things. You didn't suffer any injury to your brain; physical injury, that is. There are no drugs or alcohol involved. You're not an epileptic, and," he said with a smile, "you're not pretending to be forgetful."

"What happened then? What's caused this?"

"What's happened is you have experienced a very traumatic event, an event of such emotional and psychological magnitude that your brain has shut down its memory chambers to prevent you from suffering," he said softly, leaning over the desk toward me. "It's really a self-defense mechanism the mind employs and is not uncommon in situations such as yours.

"This trauma arose from an event that overwhelmed your coping mechanism. Another term for this today is dissociative amnesia, the inability to recall important personal information."

"What was it?" I asked, my heart pounding. "What was the traumatic event?"

"It's important you remember that on your own, Laura," he said.

"Laura, but Laura what? What's my full name?" I demanded. "Tell me."

He nodded.

"Your full name is Laura Logan," he said. Then he stared at me for a moment. "What does that do for you, hearing your full name? Do you remember any more about yourself? Close your eyes and repeat your name. Go on," he urged.

I did so and then I shook my head.

"I don't remember anything," I wailed. "I can't," I cried more desperately.

"You will," he promised me. "I'll take you back gradually until it all rushes into your consciousness again. If you're just patient and--"

I shook my head.

"I can't stand it!" I cried. "I look in the mirror and feel like I'm looking at someone else. It's horrible. I'm walking around on pins, and needles. My head keeps echoing with questions, over and over and--"

"Easy, Laura. Don't upset yourself," he said, but the tears were already flowing down my cheeks, burning as they traversed my face and dripped off my chin. I shook my head violently, shook it so hard, it revived the ache in my neck.

"No, no, no. I want to be cured now! I want to remember now! Tell me everything. Tell me why I'm like this!" I screamed at him.

He stood up.

"Easy, Laura. Please. You're just upsetting yourself and making it all that much more difficult for us to help you here,"

"I don't want to be here. I want to be. . where do I want to be? I don't even know that!" I shouted. I gazed down at my arms, the black and blue marks still vivid. "Look at me. What happened? Tell me everything! Please, tell me," I begged and then I rose and looked about the office, looked for an avenue of escape. I felt like running and running until I couldn't run anymore.

He was around his desk instantly and at my side. "Laura, relax now. Sit calmly. Come on," he said, putting his hand on my arm gently but firmly.

Megan's terrified face flashed before me.

"He's the worst," she whispered.