Making History

MEDICAL HISTORY

The rod of Hermes

‘Soon be over, son. I just want you to follow my finger with your eyes. That’s it, don’t move your head now. Just the eyes.’

Doctor Ballinger wrote something down, let his pen drop onto the pad with a plop, folded his arms and beamed across at me like a confiding uncle.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘I don’t think there’s too much to worry about physically. No sign of concussion. Blood pressure fine, pulse fine. You seem to be a very fit young man.’

The balls of my feet were rocking up and down at tremendous speed. ‘But my memory, doctor…why can’t I remember anything?’

‘Well now, I don’t think we need get ourselves in too much of a panic about that. These things happen.’

I nodded glumly, feeling the goose-pimples rise on my legs in the draught of air-conditioning.

‘I want you to do something for me now, Mike. I want you to look at this wallet here.’

A black leather wallet lay on the desk between us. I eyed it uncomfortably. Steve had been sent to bring it back from the strange room in which I had awoken that morning.

‘Go ahead, it’s not gonna bite you. Pick it up! Take a look inside. Tell me what you see.’

I took out an American Express credit card and held it in my fingers. I saw the name ‘Michael D Young’ and ran my thumbnail over the embossed lettering. ‘Member since 1992. Expires 08/98.’

‘Talk to me, Mike.’

‘It’s an American Express card.’

‘Uh huh. Whose?’

‘Well…mine, I suppose. But I’ve never seen it before.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘I’m certain. “Michael D Young” it says. I never use my middle initial like that. Never. So, it can’t be mine.’

‘Okay, okay. What else do you see in the wallet?’

‘There’s some kind of ID card, a driving licence.’

‘You see a driver’s license. Is there a photograph on it?’

‘Me. It’s me, but again I swear to you I’ve never seen this before.’

‘That’s okay. Take your time, have a good look. What is the issuing state?’

I looked at it, puzzled. ‘State of Connecticut, it says. Is that what you mean?’

‘And what do you think of when you say the word Connecticut, Mike? What images come into your mind?’

‘Urn…Paul Revere?’

‘Paul Revere. Good. Tell me what you know about Paul Revere.’

‘The midnight ride?’

‘Midnight ride, excellent. Go on.’

‘He rode from Lexington to Concord. Or Concord to Lexington, was it? He shouted “the British are coming, the British are coming!” I don’t know much else. It’s not really my period, I’m afraid.’

It’s not really my period!

Something stirred inside me, a rustle of memory, but it scrabbled away like a frightened fieldmouse as I approached.

‘Fine. You’re doing fine. Tell me what else you see there.’

‘Well, there’s another card here. Also with my name on it. There’s that Greek symbol on it. The staff with the snakes entwined…oh, what’s it called?’

Ballinger shrugged his shoulders. ‘You tell me, Mike.’

‘Caduceus! It’s a caduceus, the rod of Hermes. There! Why can I remember a word like “caduceus” and not remember who I am?’

‘Well now, one step at a time. What do you think that card might be?’

‘I don’t know. The caduceus is a medical symbol isn’t it? Is this a national health card?’

‘What’s a national health card, Michael?’

I stared at him. I’ve no idea. I’ve no idea at all. It just popped into my head. Don’t you know?’

‘That’s your medical insurance card, Michael.’

‘But I don’t go private.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I…I don’t use health insurance. I’m on the national health, I’m sure of it.’

Ballinger gazed at me blankly. ‘Would you have any cause to be faking a little episode of loopiness here, Michael? That’s what I’m wondering. Some trouble at home? A girl maybe? Your work getting on top of you, fear of failure?’

‘Faking? Faking? Why on earth would I be faking?’

‘I had to ask, Mike. So tell me what you mean by “national health?”’

I spread my hands despairingly. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. It means something, I’m sure of that.’

‘I see. Tell me then who you think the card might belong to?’

I looked at it miserably. ‘It’s mine, I suppose. It must be mine.’ I squeezed my eyes shut. ‘I just can’t remember…’

‘Don’t force yourself now. You can put your wallet down. Maybe it would be a good idea if you could tell me some things you do remember.’

Something in the way he said that told me that he was improvising here. He had never dealt with anything like this before and he was simply winging it, guessing the right questions to ask. He was as confused as I was. I sensed too, that he was annoyed, just faintly annoyed, that his attempts to jog my memory or kick me out of my fantasy or expose my sham were not working.

‘What’s wrong with me, doctor?’

‘Woah, one thing at a time. Answer my question first. What can you tell me that you positively remember?’

‘Well, I remember being sick last night. I banged my head on a wall. I was pissed I suppose…’

‘Why?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Why were you pissed?’

‘Well, because I had been drinking.’

‘And that angered you?’

‘Angered me?’ I repeated, puzzled. ‘Not really…’

‘So why were you pissed?’

‘Oh,’ I said, suddenly twigging. ‘You mean pissed off. I meant pissed as in drunk, not pissed as in pissed off. You see, in England when we say “pissed”…never mind.’ Ballinger’s blank look was beginning to irritate me. ‘Anyway, I remember banging my head. And getting on a bus. And waking up this morning feeling weird.’

‘And before that? What do you remember from before?’

‘I don’t know, almost nothing. Cambridge, of course. I remember Cambridge. That’s where I’m supposed to be.’

‘You have plans to visit friends in school at Harvard maybe?’

‘Harvard? What do you mean?’

‘Harvard is in Cambridge, Massachusetts, maybe you made an appointment to meet some friends there.’

‘No! I mean Cambridge. You know, the Cambridge. St Matthew’s.’

‘Cambridge, England?’

‘Yes, and I should be there. I should be there now! There’s something important. Something I have to do, something that happened. If I could only remember…”

‘Hey now! You sit right down, Michael. Getting yourself all excited is not going to help any. Let’s just stay calm.’

I lowered myself back down into the chair. ‘Why has this happened to me?’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Well now that’s what we’re here to find out. You tell me you remember Cambridge, England.’

‘I think so.’

‘You like English things maybe?’

‘What do you mean?’

He shrugged. ‘What are your politics, for example?’

‘Politics? I don’t have any politics.’

‘No politics, fine. But your parents came from England originally did they not, Mike? Back in the sixties.’

‘My parents?’

‘Your mother and father.’

‘I know what parents are!’ I snapped. Ballinger’s style was beginning to irritate me, much as I could see that my confusion was now openly irritating him.

He didn’t reply, but just wrote something down on his pad, which annoyed me still further. Just trying to mask his distaste.

‘I know this,’ I said. ‘My father is dead, and my mother lives in Hampshire.’

‘You think your Mom lives in New Hampshire?’

‘No, not New Hampshire. Just Hampshire. Old Hampshire. Hampshire, England if you like.’

‘You ever been to England, Michael?’

‘Been there? It’s my home. I grew up there, I live there. I should be there now.’

‘You like to watch English movies?’

‘I like all movies. Not English ones particularly. There aren’t enough of them for a start.’

‘Maybe they’re too political for you.’

‘What do you mean?’

He didn’t reply, but ruled a line on his pad, let the pen drop down onto the pad once more and rested his chin on his hands.

‘Maybe you’d like to be a film actor, is that it? Maybe you see yourself as a big Hollywood star.’

‘Actor? I’ve never acted in my life. Not so much as a nativity play.’

‘See, I’m trying to account for this accent you’re putting on, Michael.’

I’m not putting it on! This is how I talk. This is me.’

Ballinger picked up a thick directory from his desk and rifled through the pages, running the tip of his pen down the columns.

‘Senior year undergraduates,’ he said to himself. ‘Let me see, Wagner…Williams…Wood…Yelling…bingo!’ He drew a circle on the page and pushed the book towards me. ‘I want you to do something for me, Mike. I want you to look at that name and that number and tell me what you see?’

‘Er…Young, Michael D, 303 Henry Hall. 342 122.1

‘Good. Now I want you to watch me as I call that number, okay?’

He pressed a button on his telephone and the sound of a dialling tone emerged from its built-in speaker. ‘Call out that number for me, Michael.’

‘Three-four-two. One two, two one.’

‘Three-four-two,’ repeated Ballinger, dialling, ‘twelve twenty-one.’

Puzzled, I listened to the ringing tone. ‘But if that’s my number, then why…?’

Ballinger held up a hand. ‘Sh! Just listen now.’

The ringing tone stopped and was followed by a click and a cheerful voice. ‘Hi, it’s Mikey. You called, I was out, but hey, it’s not the end of the world. Leave a message after the tone and maybe, if you’re real lucky, I’ll get back to you.’

Ballinger pressed the hands-free button again, folded his arms and looked at me. ‘Wasn’t that you, Mike? Wasn’t that your voice we heard?’

I stared at the telephone. ‘But it can’t have been…’

‘You know that it was.’

‘But that was American!’

‘That’s my point, Mikey. You’re American. I have your medical records. You were born in Hartford, Connecticut, April 20th 1972.’

‘It’s not true! I know you don’t believe me, but I’m telling you, it just is not true. I mean, you’re right about my birthday, but I was born in England, at least, that is, I grew up in England.’

‘And what did you do there?’

‘I don’t know! I was at Cambridge. Doing…something. I can’t remember. God, this is a dream, this must be a dream. Everything is wrong, everything has changed. I mean, Christ, even my teeth are wrong.’

‘Your teeth?’

‘They’re straighter than they should be. Whiter. My hair is shorter. And…‘I broke off, blushing at the memory of the shower.

‘Go on.’

‘My penis,’ I whispered, a hand over my mouth.

Ballinger closed his eyes.

‘Excuse me, did you say your penis?’

Even as I replied I could hear him laughing about this with colleagues, writing up case-notes for publication, shaking his head at the erotic hysteria of the young.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s my foreskin. It’s disappeared. Gone.’

He stared at me wide-eyed as I buried my face in my hands and wept.