Henry Franks A Novel - By Peter Adam Salomon Page 0,2
blank walls dotted with pushpins around his desk.
He’d put the mirror in the closet after studying his body for hours one night, trying to see all of the scars or count the stitches or remember the accident.
He’d failed at all three and vowed never to try again.
From a pile next to him, he pulled out a scrapbook and flipped to the back; to a picture of him surrounded by boys and girls he didn’t recognize at a birthday party he had no memory of ever attending. He was blowing out the candles and they were all smiling when the flash caught the moment. They were, he thought, friends.
Outside, a branch scraped against the house. Henry gently pushed the scrapbook away, unwilling to further damage the book after so many nights flipping the pages. He walked to the window and scrubbed the dried blood off the glass, then rested his finger on a plastic pushpin. He took a deep breath and counted to ten. The hissing grew louder but there was no wind and the trees were still.
Margaret Saville, PhD
St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Patient: Henry Franks
(DOB: November 19, 1992)
Official record of nine-month therapeutic anniversary: patient presents with retrograde amnesia affecting declarative memory. Medical consultation shows no physical damage to medial temporal lobe or hippocampus; diagnosis of post-traumatic stress from motor vehicle accident (patient spent extended period of time comatose after accident, mother did not survive).
Continued monitoring of occasional blackout phenomenon in addition to twice-weekly therapy to accept the possibility of permanent memory loss.
With his index finger, the skin a shade or two darker than the rest of his hand, Henry scratched at the heavy line crossing his left wrist.
“They itch?” Dr. Saville asked.
“Always,” he said before curling his mismatched fingers into a fist to stop the motion. Sweat beaded on his skin, pooling in the scars.
“Why can’t I remember?” he asked.
“It’s a process, Henry, the act of remembering. The accident, and before—the memories are there. It’s only been a year.” She pointed to the photograph he’d brought, resting on the table between them: Henry and his parents, bright smiles and wind-blown hair. “Have you had the dream again?”
“No.” Henry closed his eyes. His discolored finger came to rest on the scar around his neck and he lowered his head to try to hide the movement and the thin white line. “A new one.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.” He opened his eyes and looked out the window, anywhere but at the doctor. The heat lay heavy on the drooping palm fronds outside the window, a haze shimmering off a white pathway through the trees.
“Henry,” she said.
He took a deep breath, silently counting to ten. “There’s a girl.”
“Someone from school?”
“No,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “No. She’s a child, with pigtails.”
“Do you recognize her?”
He leaned forward; heavy bangs in need of a haircut fell in front of his eyes. Safe behind their barrier, he said, “I can’t remember.” His fingers clutched at the fabric of the couch as he rested his head back into the cushion.
“Deep breaths, Henry, it’s all right. Count to ten, like we’ve been practicing.”
Eyes closed, his lips moved as he collapsed in on himself, tucking his face between his drawn-up knees.
“She called me Daddy. Why can’t I remember her name?” he asked.
“It was just a dream.”
“She felt so alive; real, so much more than just a dream.”
From the desk, the alarm on the clock beeped once, loud in the office. Henry jumped at the sound, and then brushed the hair out of his face.
“Time?”
Dr. Saville nodded. “That all right?”
He shrugged, then stood up, fingers tight on the photograph.
“I talked to your dad, Henry” she said, “about Thursday. We’ll have to meet Friday this week.”
He nodded without looking at her.
“Next week we’ll go back to Tuesday, Thursday. Don’t forget your breathing exercises when you start to panic. They’re important.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s everything else I forget.”
two
His father was sitting at the table when Henry went downstairs for dinner. Two places were set, thick plastic dishes warped, cracked, and better than anything else they owned. Fast food burgers sat, unwrapped, on the plates, with packets of ketchup, mustard, and relish piled in the middle of the table.
Around a mouthful of food, his father smiled. “Dinnertime.”
Henry sat down, dressed his burger and began to eat, keeping an eye on his father as they sat across from each other.
“Have you been taking your meds?” His father’s white consultation jacket had seen better days. A faded