Stolen Memories
Architect Pernell Singleton was a truly happy man. Not only did he have a successful and rewarding career, but he was also happily married to a beautiful woman he adored. Unlike many other people, he did not take his good fortune for granted. He knew just how precious life was and how quickly one could lose it. Five years earlier he had been severely injured in a terrible car accident. For weeks, he lay at death's door before taking a turn for the better. According to his doctors, his recovery had been nothing short of miraculous.
That automobile accident proved to be the turning point in Pernell's life. It was while he was on the long, painful road to recovery that he met a physical therapist named Julie Altman; and when he was finally able to walk without using crutches, his first trip was down the aisle. Along with this change in marital status, came a new job and a different address. The newlywed couple decided to move to Julie's hometown of Rockport, Massachusetts, where they lived in an old colonial home that had been passed down from generation to generation of Altmans.
Only one thing was missing from the Singletons' Utopian existence: the sound of tiny footsteps echoing through the old Altman house. The final ingredient to the recipe for total bliss was added to their lives when Julie announced that she was pregnant. In the midst of his great happiness, her husband never imagined that the day would prove to be another turning point in his life. For he was about to learn that human existence was little more than a scale on which joy and grief had to be carefully balanced.
* * *
Pernell left for work late that morning, after insisting on making the mother-to-be a nutritious breakfast. There was no need for him to rush because he knew his boss would understand his tardiness, given the circumstances. It was already after nine when he got into his car, turned on the radio and headed toward the office. As he drove along Mount Pleasant Street, he daydreamed about all the wonderful years that lay ahead of him: the birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese, the visits to the mall to see Santa Claus, family picnics, camping trips and outings at the zoo.
He was so wrapped up in his expectations of fatherhood that he paid no attention to what was playing on the radio.
"Now let's listen to some classic rock here on WOAR where the hits keep coming."
The song broke the driver's pleasant reverie. It was a golden oldie, one he had not heard in years: Benny King's 1962 hit, "Stand by Me." While he was growing up, he had often heard his mother's old 45-rpm records playing on the family's phonograph—the Drifters, Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, Sam Cooke, the Supremes and the Four Seasons. These early rock 'n' roll classics had always brought back happy memories of his childhood. Why then did this particular song now tug at his heartstrings? Why had a sudden melancholy descended upon him?
Pernell arrived at his office where, after he made his announcement, he was greeted by a horde of fellow employees who congratulated him and wished him luck. He gradually made his way through the hand-shakers, the cheek-kissers and the back-slappers to his corner office. Once there, he took off his jacket, loosened his tie and sat back in his swivel chair. His eyes went to the framed wedding portrait on his desk, and he smiled at the photograph of Julie in her white lace gown and tulle veil.
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his forehead, and his vision temporarily blurred. For a moment, the familiar image of his tall, auburn-haired wife was replaced by one of a petite blonde. Then, just as quickly as it had struck, the pain receded, and Julie was once again standing beside him in the photograph.
What the hell was that all about? he wondered as he reached into his desk drawer for the bottle of Motrin he kept there to take whenever his back injury bothered him.
He managed to make it through the rest of the morning without further incident. Just before noon, his boss, Cole Robinson, poked his head in Pernell's office.
"Hey, Daddy, come on," he announced. "I'll take you out to lunch to celebrate."
Although he was not hungry, Pernell longed to escape from his office and the wedding picture on his desk. Cole took his employee to a quaint but pricy seafood restaurant near the water. He was surprised when the expectant father chose to order a simple tuna salad sandwich.
"Have the lobster or the surf and turf," the older man laughed. "I'm treating. You might as well take advantage of it."
"No, thanks. I don't have much of an appetite today. I'm not feeling well."
"Now that you mention it, you do look a little green around the gills."
When a pretty, young waitress stopped at the table to take their order, Pernell looked up from his menu and again experienced the stabbing pain in his head as the tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed waitress temporarily became the petite blonde with blue eyes that he had glimpsed in the wedding photograph on his desk. He put his hand on his forehead and closed his eyes, hoping to ward off the strange hallucination that frightened him.
"Are you all right?" both Cole and the waitress asked in unison.
"Yeah," the architect replied in a shaky voice.
After a few moments, the pain faded and so did the image of the blonde.
"I've got a bad headache that comes and goes," he explained.
Cole noticed the beads of perspiration on his employee's face and suggested, "Why don't you take the afternoon off? You might be coming down with something."
After lunch, the two men drove back to the office where Pernell's car was parked.
"Get your things and go home," Cole instructed.
"I'll be fine."
"Don't argue with me; I'm the boss. I want you to go home and take it easy."
Driving back to his house, Pernell stopped for a traffic signal. While waiting for the red light to turn green, he casually glanced to his left and saw a vintage Ford Mustang pull up beside him. He looked at the driver, a teenage girl with body piercings, tattoos and black and purple spiked hair. As he idly wondered what his own child might be like in seventeen years, the now familiar pain shot through his head once again, and he saw the teenager's punk hairdo turn to soft blond curls.
He closed his eyes as a dozen images of the young blond woman flooded his consciousness. Who was she? What was it about her face that terrified him so? As he racked his brain trying to recall if he had ever seen or known such a woman, a honking horn from the car behind him informed him that the traffic light had turned green. Pernell crossed the busy intersection and then pulled onto the shoulder of the road where he took two more Motrin to rid himself of the lingering headache.
A few minutes later, the pain subsiding, he pulled back onto the road and headed home. Julie heard the front door open and came out of her in-home office to greet her husband.
"You're home early," she said, glancing at the time on the grandfather's clock. "What's wrong? You don't look too well."
"I've had a headache on and off all day," her husband replied. "I took some Motrin, and it's finally going away."
The two walked arm-in-arm into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
After a few minutes of small talk, Pernell asked, "Did you ever see someone that you're sure you've met before, yet you can't remember where or when you met?"
"Yes, but it usually comes to me after a while. Why? Who did you see?"
"It was a woman, a blonde."
Julie raised her eyebrows in feigned jealousy.
"A blonde, huh? Was she young and pretty?"
"Yes to both questions," her husband replied seriously. "It was strange. I thought I saw her three different times today."
"Where?" Julie asked, suddenly dropping her playful banter.
"Once at the restaurant where Cole and I had lunch and again at a traffic light on Mount Pleasant Street."
"What about the third time?"
Pernell laughed nervously.
"It was the first time actually. I was looking at our wedding portrait on my desk, and then the picture seemed to change. For a moment, it looked as though I was standing next to the blonde in the photograph."
Julie got up and walked to the sink, asking over her shoulder, "What exactly did she look like? Maybe I'll remember her."
"She was on the small side—about five foot two. Long blond hair that cascaded down her shoulders in soft curls. Big blue eyes."
His description was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass.
"Are you okay, Julie?"
"Yeah. The cup slipped out of my hand. That's all."
His wife then cleaned up the broken shards of glass and returned to her office.
Pernell went to the bedroom, having decided to take a nap before dinner. As he was about to remove his socks and shoes, he remembered an important appointment he had the following day.
I really out to call my secretary and ask her to have all the necessary paperwork ready.
He picked up the phone receiver, put it to his ear and reached out his hand to dial. There was no dial tone, however. He was about to hang up when he heard his wife's voice on the line.
"I know he was talking about her. He described her to me, and he said that he saw her in a wedding picture."
"Did he know who she was?" an unfamiliar male voice asked.
"No, and I didn't tell him."
"This may be an isolated incident. We won't do anything now, but if these visions continue, it may be necessary to bring him in again. Let's wait and see what happens. You have my home number; call me if you need me."
Perplexed, Pernell sat on the bed with the receiver in his hand. Should he confront his wife and demand to know what that mysterious conversation was all about? But Julie was a very emotional and sensitive person. He did not want to upset her needlessly, especially in her present condition. So he decided to question his wife as a last resort. First, he would try a little covert snooping.
He clicked the flash button on the phone and got a dial tone. Then he pressed *69 to reconnect to the person who had just spoken to Julie.
After two rings, a woman's voice answered, "Dr. Goldberg's office."
"Hello," the architect said, thinking quickly. "I have an appointment with the doctor later this week, and I need directions to your office."
As the receptionist dictated the directions, he wrote them down on the back of the TV Guide that was lying on the night table. He thanked the woman, hung up the phone and went downstairs to use the computer in the den. He connected to the Internet and searched for the doctor's name to find out his specialty. He was not too surprised to learn that Dr. Goldberg was a psychiatrist.
Pernell sat back in his chair, trying to sort the puzzle pieces in his mind and realizing there were a great many missing. There was only one time period in his life when he could have met the mysterious blonde and the unknown psychiatrist. That was five years ago when he was recovering from the car accident. There were days and even whole weeks that had passed by in a haze of painkillers. He had seen so many doctors during his long hospital convalescence; one of them might have been a psychiatrist.
But what about the blonde? She looked so familiar, but ....
A pain, sharper than the other three he had experienced, nearly made him black out. He almost wished he had. A terrifying image of the blonde made him scream.
Julie ran into the den.
"Darling!" she cried, seeing the agony on her husband's handsome face.
"Michelle," he muttered. "The blonde. Her name was Michelle."
Julie hung her head in sorrow.
"Try not to think about it," she sobbed. "You and I have been so happy, and now we're going to have a baby."
"You know who she is, don't you?" he asked gently. "You and Dr. Goldberg."
Julie collapsed in his arms, crying pitifully.
"Who is she?" he asked.
"She's dead. Put her out of your mind, and be thankful for all that we have."
"I can't. I have to know. Who was she?"
"Trust me! You don't want to know. You'll be much happier if you just forget about her."
"Why?" he persisted, his mind conjuring up the most bizarre ideas. "I saw an image of her. She was covered with blood. Did I do that to her? Did I murder her?"
"Stop it! Please! I don't want to talk about her anymore!"
Pernell felt terrible about the effect his strange vision was having on Julie, but he had to get to the bottom of it.
"If you won't tell me," he said, "perhaps Dr. Goldberg will."
* * *
Dr. Myron Goldberg, a pleasant-looking man with sad brown eyes, a balding head and a pointed gray beard, sat opposite Pernell in the psychiatrist's Boston office.
"I've been seeing images of a woman," the troubled young man began.
"Yes, I know. Your wife told me all about it."
"She knows who the blond woman is. I know she does. But she won't tell me. Is it because I hurt that woman in some way? Was I responsible for her death?"
"No."
"You know who she is, too, then. Please tell me, Doctor. I'll go crazy if I don't find out what this is all about."
"Calm yourself, Mr. Singleton. I assure you this isn't some sort of conspiracy. Your wife didn't want to upset you by talking about Michelle. As part of your treatment, everyone—your family, friends, anyone who knew you five years ago—was instructed not to mention Michelle's name or to refer to her in any manner."
"Who was she?"
"Your wife."
"Julie is my wife."
"Julie is your second wife; Michelle was your first."
Pernell shook his head, emphatically denying the doctor's statement.
"That's ridiculous! Don't you think I'd know if I had been married before?"
"No, you wouldn't. You see, it took months of treatment to make sure you would forget all about that marriage."
"Why? What was so bad about it?"
"Nothing. From all accounts, your first marriage was a happy one, so happy that when Michelle died in the car accident, you were devastated. It was the worst grief I'd ever seen. You were so torn up by her death that you tried to end your own life on four different occasions. That's when I was called in. You see, I've had great success dealing with patients who suffer from severe emotional trauma due to the loss of a loved one."
"And just how do you accomplish such miracles?"
"With a combination of drugs and hypnotherapy, I remove all the painful memories from a patient's conscious mind. Those recollections are then buried so deep into the subconscious, that he or she normally loses all memory of the deceased loved one. Of course, the patient's family and friends must be careful not to say or do something that might trigger a release of those memories."
"Is that what has been happening to me these past few days? Has someone or something triggered my memories of Michelle?"
"Yes. Most likely it was learning about Julie's pregnancy. You see, Michelle was pregnant when she died."
"What happens now? Am I to go through life with blinding headaches and vague images of my first wife?"
"No. We'll begin treatment again. Right now, as a matter of fact."
As Pernell lay on the couch in the psychiatrist's office, he felt the drugs start to work, causing his eyes to close and his body to relax.
"Mr. Singleton, can you hear me?" Dr. Goldberg asked softly.
"Yes."
"I want you to think about Michelle. Do you remember her?"
"Vaguely."
"Tell me what you do know. And as you tell me about her, I want you to remember more. Afterward, we will banish those memories from your brain. It will be as though she never existed."
"We met in college," Pernell said, "while she was working as a waitress in the campus coffee house. She was so pretty and smart. She graduated with highest honors."
"Really? Tell me more. I want you to remember everything you can."
The patient spoke for close to an hour, reliving his romance and the all-too-brief marriage with Michelle. His throat constricted, and his voice failed him when he recalled the day of the car accident when he had to again face the devastating pain of losing his beloved wife. Finally, he broke down in heart-rending sobs, unable to continue.
Dr. Goldberg counted to three and clapped his hands, bringing his patient out of the hypnotic state. Pernell continued crying for several minutes, and then, emotionally exhausted, he wiped his eyes and fell asleep. When he woke, he saw Dr. Goldberg sitting at his desk, working on his laptop.
"How long have I been out?" he asked.
The doctor looked at his watch.
"About an hour and a half."
"Don't you ever go home, Doctor?"
"Why? My wife died three years ago. Home is nothing but an empty house now."
"Do you remember your wife?" Pernell asked.
"Yes," the doctor said with a sad smile.
"And now I remember mine. She was wonderful, and I loved her dearly."
Tears brimmed in Pernell's eyes.
Dr. Goldberg shut down his computer and turned his desk lamp off.
"Why don't you go home now and get some sleep, Mr. Singleton? We can continue with your therapy tomorrow."
"No, Doctor. I don't want any more therapy."
"But ...."
"I loved Michelle, so so that, at first, I preferred dying to living without her. If I go through your grief-management therapy, I'll lose her all over again."
"But you'll never be aware of that loss, never have to live with it day after day, year after year."
"And I also won't remember all the good times we had, all the love we shared."
Both men were silent for several moments.
"Memory," the psychiatrist said, "is like a coin with happy recollections on one side, heartbreaking ones on the other."
"I can handle the grief now, Doctor. I know it won't be easy, but I can do it."
Dr. Goldberg nodded.
"I'm sure you will. This time, you have Julie to help see you through your pain."
"Julie and Michelle. Unlike five years ago, I have the love of both my wives to sustain me."
One memory I wish would get stolen was when Salem and I biked across the U.S. We were definitely not Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda.
