Push Your Limits: Don't Trust Anyone

Chapter 1 Chapter 1 My "first" waking up

Something didn't feel right, the bedroom looked foreign.I don't know where I am, or how I got here.I don't know how to get home.

But I must have spent the night here.I was woken up by a woman's voice, at first I thought she was in the same bed as me, and then I realized she was reading the news from the clock radio.When I opened my eyes, I found myself lying here, in a completely strange room.

My eyes gradually adapted to the environment, I looked around, and the surroundings were dark.A dressing gown hung behind the wardrobe door—lady's, yes, but the style would have suited a man much older than me.A few pairs of navy blue trousers were neatly folded on a chair next to the dressing table, and everything else was hazy in sight.The structure of the alarm clock seems complicated, but I found a button that most resembles a switch.Fortunately it works.

At this moment, I heard a burst of intermittent breathing from behind me, and I realized that there were other people in the room.I turned my head, only to see a large expanse of bare skin, with splotches of white in my black hair.It was a man.His left arm was exposed from the quilt, and he wore a gold ring on his ring finger.I groaned inwardly.So this man here is not only old and graying, but also married—not only have I hooked up with a married man, but he looks like he's lying in the same bed he usually sleeps with his wife.I leaned back and tried to concentrate.I should be ashamed of myself.

But I still couldn't help wondering: where did his wife go?Worried that she might come back anytime?I can picture her standing across the room yelling at me for anything: a slut, a Medusa, a femme fatale.I wondered how I would defend myself if she did show up, and wondered if I would be able to speak up then.The man on the bed didn't seem worried, though, rolling over and snoring.

I lay as still as possible.If this happens to me, I usually remember what happened, but today I really have no memory at all.I must have been at a party, maybe back in a bar or a nightclub.Anyway, I must have been so drunk and passed out that I came home with a man with a wedding ring and body hair on his back.

I lifted the quilt as lightly as possible and sat on the edge of the bed.First things first, I need to go to the bathroom.I ignored the slippers at my feet. After all, messing around with someone else's husband is the same thing, but wearing other women's shoes is absolutely unacceptable.I tiptoed barefoot to the landing.I knew I was completely naked, so I was afraid that I would go through the wrong door and bump into other residents in the room or the owner's adolescent son.To my relief, I saw the bathroom door was ajar and went in and locked it.

I sat down to settle my internal urgency, flushed the toilet, turned around and washed my hands.I reached out for the soap and suddenly realized that something was wrong.I couldn't figure out what was going on at first, but I figured it out right away.The hands holding the soap didn't look like mine, they looked wrinkled and the fingers were round and thick.The nails were unmanaged and gnawed bare, like the man on the bed I just left, and he also wore a gold wedding ring on this hand.

I stared wide-eyed for a moment, then moved my fingers.The hand holding the soap also moved its fingers.I gasped, and the soap fell into the sink with a snap.I looked up at the mirror.

The face looking back at me in the mirror is not my own.The hair is thin and much shorter than I usually wear, the skin on the cheeks and chin is sunken, the lips are thin and drooping at the corners of the mouth.I cried out inwardly, panting silently—if I had suppressed my voice, it would have been a terrified scream.Then I noticed the eyes of the man in the mirror.There are wrinkles around the eye sockets, yes, even if everything has changed beyond recognition, I can still recognize it: these are my eyes.The person in the mirror is me, but I am 20 years older. 25 years old.or more.

This is impossible.Shaking all over, I reached out and grabbed the sink.There was another scream in my throat, and this time it came out gasping, as if it had been strangled.I took a step back and forth from the mirror, and that's when I spotted them: those pictures posted on the wall, on the mirror.There were scattered pieces of yellow tape, and some frayed-edged strips, curled and wet.

I picked one at random.Chrissy, it said, arrowed to my photo - the new me, the older one - of me sitting on a dockside bench with a guy next to me .The name seemed familiar, but the memory was vague, as if I had to work hard to believe it was mine.Both of them are smiling at the camera, fingers clasped together.The man was handsome and attractive, and upon closer inspection I realized that it was the same man who had spent the night with me and was now lying in bed.Under the photo was written a name - "Ben", with a few words next to it: "Your husband".

I took a breath and tore the photo off the wall.No, I thought, no!How could this be... I quickly scanned the other photos.Zhang Zhang is me and him.One shows me opening a present in an ugly dress, and the other shows the two of us in couples' waterproof jackets standing in front of a waterfall with a puppy sniffing at our feet.The next one shows me sitting next to him sipping a glass of orange juice, wearing the same dressing gown I've just seen in the next bedroom.

I backed up a few more steps, until the cold tiles stuck to my back.At this time, memory seemed to reveal a ray of shadow from the deep water surface. When I tried to catch this ray of light, it flew away lightly, like ashes scattered in the wind, and I realized that my There was a past in my life—even though I knew nothing about what happened in that time; I also had a present—and it was this present that brought me here, to him, to this house.But between my past and my present there is only a long, silent gap.

*****
I went back to the bedroom with a photo in my hand — of me and the man I woke up with next to me this morning — and I held it up in front of my face.

"What's going on?" I screamed, tears rolling down my cheeks.The man sat up from the bed, half-closed his eyes. "Who are you?" I demanded.

"I am your husband," he said.He also had a drowsy expression on his face, showing no sign of anger.He didn't look directly at my naked body. "We've been married for many years."

"What do you mean?" I wanted to run away, but there was nowhere to go, "Married for many years? What does that mean?"

He stood up. "Here you are," he said, handing over the dressing gown, which he had been waiting for while I was getting dressed.He was wearing too baggy pajama bottoms and a white tank top that reminded me of my dad.

"We were married in 1985," he said, "22 years ago. You—"

I cut him off. "What?" I felt the color drain from my face, and the whole room started to spin.Somewhere in the room a clock ticked, which sounded to me like thunder. "But—" He took a step towards me, I muttered, "Why—"

"Chris, you're 47 now," he said.I looked at him, and the stranger was smiling at me.I didn't want to believe him, didn't even want to hear what he was saying, but he kept going anyway. "You've been in an accident," he said. "A bad accident with a head injury. You can't remember anything."

"Can't remember anything?" I said.What I want to say is, you won't forget everything in 25 years, right? "What's up?"

He took a few more steps toward me, approaching me cautiously as if I were a frightened animal. "Everything," he said, "sometimes the period of forgetting starts in your early 20s, sometimes even earlier."

My mind was racing with dates and ages flashing by.I don't want to ask, but clearly I have to. "When... When did I have an accident?"

He looked at me with a look of pity and terror on his face.

"When you were 29 years old..."

I closed my eyes.As much as I tried to resist the news, I knew - deep down - that it was true.I heard myself cry, and that's when the man named "Ben" came to the door and came to me.I felt him next to me, and I didn't move when he put his arms around my waist; I didn't resist when he pulled me into his arms.He holds me.We rocked gently together, and I realized the movement was somehow familiar, and it made me feel better.

"I love you, Chrissy," he said.Even though I knew I should say I loved him too, I didn't.I didn't say a word.How can I love him?He is a stranger.Everything is messed up.There are so many things I want to know: How did I get here?How did I struggle to survive?But I don't know how to speak.

"I'm scared," I said.

"I know," he replied, "I know. But don't worry, Chrissy. I'll take care of you, and I'll always take care of you. You'll be fine. Trust me."

*****
He said he would show me around the house.I feel a little relieved.I've put on a pair of underpants he handed me, an old T-shirt, and a robe.We went to the landing. "You've already seen the bathroom." He said as he opened the door next to him, "This is the study room."

There was a glass desk in the room, and on it was something that I assumed must be a computer, even though it looked ridiculously small, like a toy.Next to it is a copper-gray filing cabinet with a wall-mounted schedule above it.Everything is neat and tidy and well organized. "I work there now and then," he said, closing the door.We crossed the landing and he opened another door.A bed, a dresser, several wardrobes.It's pretty much the same room I saw when I woke up. "Sometimes you sleep here," he said, "when you want to. But usually you don't like waking up alone. You'll freak out if you can't figure out where you are." I nodded .I feel like a renter looking around at a new apartment and potential roommates. "Let's go downstairs," he said.

*****
I followed him downstairs.He showed me the living room—with a brown sofa and matching chairs, a flat-screen screen built into the wall that he told me was a television—and the dining room, kitchen.None of the rooms left me with the slightest impression that I felt anything, not even after seeing a framed photo of the two of us on a cabinet. "There's a garden behind the house," he said, and I looked behind the glass door into the kitchen.It was twilight, and the sky was gradually brightening to dark blue, and I could make out the outline of a big tree, and a small shed at the far end of the small garden, but that was all.I found myself not even knowing where in the world we were.

"Where are we?" I said.

He stood behind me and I could see the two of us reflected in the glass.me, my husband.Two middle-aged people.

"North London," he replied, "Cross End."[1]
I took a step back.Panic returned. "God," I said, "I don't even know where the hell I live..."

He took one of my hands. "Don't worry. You'll be fine." I turned to face him and waited for him to tell me what to do, but he didn't. "Shall I get you a cup of coffee?"

I kind of hated him for a moment, but then I said, "Okay, thanks." He filled a jug of water. "Black coffee, if you can," I said, "without sugar."

"I know," he said, smiling at me. "Want some bread?"

I said yes.He must know a lot about me, but it still looked like a morning after a dewy affair: having breakfast at his house with a stranger, thinking to himself how to get away decently so he could go home.

But that's the difference.He said this is my home.

"I think I need to sit down for a while," I said.He looked up at me.

"Go and sit in the living room," he said, "I'll bring you something right away."

I leave the kitchen.

After a while Ben followed into the living room.He handed me a book. "It's a scrapbook," he said. "Maybe it will be of some help to you." I took the booklet.It is bound with a plastic side, and maybe it was tried to look like old leather, but unfortunately it didn't work out.The booklet was tied with a red ribbon and a crooked bow. "I'll be right back." He said and left the room.

I sit down on the sofa.The scrapbook on my lap is heavy, and it feels like I'm spying on someone's privacy when I open it.I remind myself that whatever is in it, it is about me and my husband showed it to me.

I untied the bow and opened a page at will.In front of me was a photo of me and Ben, both of whom looked very young.

I snapped the scrapbook shut, felt the cover, and turned the pages.I definitely have to do this every day.

I can't imagine.I'm sure something is terribly wrong somewhere, but it's impossible.The evidence is unmistakable—in the mirror upstairs, in the wrinkles of hands caressing the scrapbook before my eyes—that I am not who I thought I was when I woke up this morning.

But who is that?I think.When have I ever been the one waking up in a stranger's bed with only thought of getting out?I closed my eyes and felt as if I were floating, rootless and in danger of being lost.

I need to reassure myself.I close my eyes and try to focus on something, anything, as long as it's something tangible.None were found.So many years of life, gone, I thought.

This book will tell me everything about me, but I don't want to open it.At least not yet.I want to sit here for a while, with that blank past, just wandering in the blank wilderness, looking for a balance between possibility and reality.I was afraid to explore my past: afraid to know what I had accomplished and what remained to be accomplished.

Ben came again, setting down a plate in front of me with some slices of bread, two cups of coffee, and a jug of milk. "Are you all right?" he asked.I nodded.

He sat down beside me.He had shaved and put on trousers, a shirt and a tie, and he didn't look like my father anymore.Now he looked as if he worked in a bank, or in an office.Pretty good though, I thought, and pushed the thought out of my head.

"Do I do this every day?" I asked.He put a slice of bread on a plate and buttered it.

"Almost," he said, "would you like some?" I shook my head, and he took a bite of the bread. "You seem to remember information when you're awake," he said, "but when you fall asleep, most memories are gone. Is your coffee okay?"

I told him the coffee was ok and he took the book out of my hand. "It's sort of a scrapbook," he said, opening it. "We had a fire a few years ago and burned a lot of old photos, but there are still some things here." He pointed to the first page. "Here's your degree certificate," he said. "This is the day you graduated." I looked at his finger: I was smiling, squinting in the sun, in a black robe , wearing a felt hat with gold tassels; immediately behind me stood a man in a suit and tie, looking away from the camera.

"Is this you?" I said.

He smiled: "No. I didn't graduate at the same time as you. I was still studying chemistry at that time."

I looked up at him: "When did we get married?"

He turned to face me and took my hand in both of his.His rough skin surprised me a little, maybe he was too used to delicate young skin in the past. "It was the first year after your Ph.D. We'd been dating for a few years, but you—it was we—we both wanted to wait until you were finished."

Quite reasonable, I think, and my behavior sounds sane.But I'm still a little curious about whether I'd like to marry him after all.

As if he understood my thoughts, he said, "We used to love each other very much." Then he added, "We still are like this now."

I couldn't think of anything to say, so I smiled.He took a long gulp of coffee, looked back at the book in his lap, and flipped through a few more pages.

"You studied English," he said. "After you graduated, you changed jobs. They were temporary jobs. Secretarial, sales. I'm not sure you really know what you want. I got a bachelor's degree Just graduated and then went into teacher training. It was really tough for a couple of years, but then I got promoted so we moved here."

I looked around the living room.The living room was sleek and comfortable, in a bland, bourgeois style.A framed woodland scene hung on the wall above the fireplace, and Chinese figurines stood by the mantel clock.I wonder if I helped decorate the rooms here at the time.

Ben went on. "I teach at a nearby middle school, and I'm head of department now." There was no hint of pride in his tone.

"What about me?" I asked.Although—seriously—I guessed the only possible answer.Ben squeezed my hand.

"You had to quit your job, after the accident. You didn't do anything." He must have sensed my disappointment, "But you don't need to do anything. I make a decent salary, and we get on with it, no problem .”

I closed my eyes and put my hand on my forehead.It all feels overwhelming and I want him to keep his mouth shut.I feel like I can only digest so much, and if he keeps feeding me I'm going to break down eventually.

So what do I do all day?I wanted to ask, but I was also afraid to hear the answer.I didn't say a word.

He finished his slice of bread and took the plate to the kitchen.He was putting on his coat when he returned to the living room.

"I'm going to work," he said.I feel myself tense up.

"Don't worry," he said. "You'll be fine. I'll call you, I promise. Don't forget that today is like any other day. You'll be fine."

"But—" I began.

"I have to go," he said. "I'm sorry. Before I go, I'll show you some things that might come in handy."

In the kitchen, he told me what was in which cabinets, showed me leftovers in the fridge that he said could be eaten for lunch, and a white board screwed to the wall next to a spring cord black marker pen on. "Sometimes I'll leave you a message on this," he said.I saw "Friday" written in neat capital letters, and below it was a line of words: "Laundry? Take a walk? (Take your phone with you!) Watch TV?" Under "Lunch," he wrote There's some salmon in the fridge, plus the word "salad?".In the end he wrote that he should be home by 6 o'clock. "You still have a diary," he said, "in your bag. Important phone numbers are on the back of the diary, and our address is written on the back of the diary, you can use it if you get lost. There is also a mobile phone—"

"A what?" I said.

"Phone," he said, "wireless. You can use it anywhere. Outdoors, anywhere. It's in your handbag. Take it with you if you go out."

"I will." I said.

"Okay," he said.We walked down the corridor and he picked up a worn leather bag by the door. "I'm leaving."

"Okay." I didn't know what else to say.I felt like a kid who didn't go to school, my parents went to work and I was left home alone.Don't touch anything, I imagine him saying, don't forget to take your medicine.

He came up to me and kissed me, on the cheek.I didn't stop him, but I didn't kiss back either.He walked towards the gate, was about to open it, but stopped.

"Oh!" He looked back at me. "I almost forgot!" His voice suddenly became contrived, with feigned enthusiasm.He's trying to look natural, but he's acting a little too hard; he's clearly warming up for what he's going to say next.

What he said was not as bad as I feared. "We're going out tonight," he said, "and we'll be back after the weekend. The weekend is our anniversary, so I figured we'd better make arrangements, no problem?"

I nodded: "Sounds good."

He smiled, looking relieved. "It's worth looking forward to, isn't it? A sea breeze? It'll do us good." He turned and opened the door. "I'll call you later," he said, "to see how you're doing."

"Okay," I said, "don't forget. Please."

"I love you, Chrissy," he said, "never forget that."

He left and closed the door, and I turned around and walked into the house.

Midway through the morning, I sat down in an armchair.The dishes had been washed and neatly arranged on the dish rack, and the laundry was in the washing machine.I never let myself rest.

But now I feel empty.What Ben said was true, I have no memory, not a bit.There is not a single thing in this house that I can recall.None of the photos—not the ones plastered all over the mirrors, or the ones in the scrapbook in front of me—remind me when they were taken; everything that happened.My mind was completely empty.

I close my eyes and try to focus on something.Anything is fine.yesterday?Christmas last year?Any Christmas?My wedding?Can't think of anything.

I got up and walked around the house, from room to room, walking very slowly, wandering like a ghost, brushing my hands over the walls, the backs of the tables, the backs of the pieces of furniture, without Really close to any of them.How did I end up in this situation?I think.I looked at the rugs, the patterned rugs, the Chinese figurines on the mantel, and the elaborate panels on the display racks in the dining room.I try to convince myself these are mine.These are all mine.My home, my husband, my life.But these things do not belong to me.They have nothing to do with me.In the bedroom, I opened the closet door and saw a row of unimpressive clothes, neatly arranged, like a woman I had never seen before, whose face and figure had been erased, leaving only empty hangers.I wandered around this woman's house, used her soap and shampoo, threw away her dressing gown, and wore her slippers.She was hiding somewhere like a ghost, without a trace.I felt guilty picking out my underwear this morning, rummaging through my panties—the panties lumped together with leggings and socks—as if afraid of being caught red-handed.I held my breath when I found silk lace panties deep in a drawer that were as beautiful as they were functional.I picked out a light blue pair and arranged the rest of the panties exactly as they were.The cutie seemed to have a matching bra, and I put both on, plus a pair of thick leggings, pants and a coat.

I sat down next to the dressing table and carefully moved towards the mirror to see my face clearly in the mirror.I gaze at the wrinkles on my brow, the folds of skin under my eyes.I made a smile, looked at my teeth, and the crow's feet at the corners of my mouth.I noticed some blotches on the skin, a blotch on my forehead that looked like a bruise that hadn't quite faded.I found some makeup, put on a light makeup, lightly powdered it, and brushed it on.I'm reminded of a woman - now I realize she's my mom - doing the same thing, she called it "combat makeup" this morning when I wiped off excess lipstick with a tissue and brushed my lashes When anointed, that word seems apt.I feel like I'm stepping into a battlefield, or that the war is already upon me.

Send me to school.make up.I try to remember what else my mother did, whatever.Still nothing.All I saw was a vast, empty chasm—a gap of years—between tiny, scattered islands of memory.

In the kitchen I opened the cabinet: there were bags of pasta, bags of "Arborio" rice, cans of kidney beans.I am not familiar with any of these things.I remember eating cheese spreads, heated fish in bags, corned beef sandwiches.I pulled out a can labeled "Chickpeas," and a small bag of something called "Couscous."I had no idea what it was, let alone how to cook it.How can I survive as a housewife?

I looked up at the whiteboard that Ben had shown me before I left.The whiteboard was a dirty gray color, and a lot of words had been scribbled on it, then wiped clean and replaced with new words, and changed again and again, leaving faint marks each time.I am curious if time can be turned back and the handwriting on the whiteboard can be reproduced layer by layer. If I go deep into my past in this way, what can I find?But I understand that even if everything can come true, the result will be in vain.I'm pretty sure all I found were comments or lists of things to buy and jobs to do.

Is this really my life?I think.This is all I have?I took a marker and added a line to the whiteboard. "Pack your bags for tonight's trip?" Not really a tip, but written by me.

I heard a sound.A bell came from my bag.I opened the bag and dumped the contents on the sofa.Wallet, packs of tissues, some pens, a lipstick, a compact, a receipt for two cups of coffee.A small diary with a flower decoration on the cover and a pencil attached to the spine.

I found the phone Ben had mentioned—small, plastic, with a keypad that looked like a toy.It's ringing and the screen is blinking.I pressed a button and hoped I didn't press the wrong one.

"Hello?" I said.It was not Ben's voice that answered.

"Hey," said the phone, "Chris? Is this Chris Lucas?"

I do not want to answer.My last name sounds as foreign as it did when I first heard my own.I felt my newly strengthened faith dissipate again, like a quicksand.

"Chris? Are you there?"

Who is the one?Who else will know that I am here and who I am?I realized it could be anyone.I feel panic welling up in my heart, and my fingers hover over the button that would end the call.

"Chris? It's me, Dr. Nash. Please answer the phone."

That name meant nothing to me, but I said, "Who?"

The other party changed his tone.Relieved? "I'm Dr. Nash," he said. "Your doctor."

Another wave of panic. "My doctor?" I repeated.I'd like to add that I'm not sick, but now I'm not even sure of that.My mind was in turmoil.

"Yes," he said, "but don't worry, we've just been trying to fix your memory. No problem."

I noticed the tense he used when he said it - "always" - so this is also someone I can't remember?

"What way?" I said.

"I've been trying to help you improve the situation," he said, "to find out what's wrong with your memory and what we can do about it."

Sounds reasonable, but I have another question.Why wasn't this doctor mentioned before Ben left this morning?

"In what way?" I said, "in what way to treat me?"

"We've been seeing each other for months. A few times a week, more or less."

Sounds unlikely.Another person I see often, but I don't remember at all.

But I never met you.I want to say.You could be anyone.

But I didn't say a word.The same assumption holds true for the man who woke up and slept next to me this morning, only to find out he was my husband.

"I don't remember," I said at last.

His tone softened. "Don't worry. I know." If what he said was true, it could have been anyone who knew.He explained that today was our appointment.

"Today?" I said.I recalled everything Ben mentioned this morning, recalled all the items written on the whiteboard in the kitchen. "But my husband didn't mention it at all." I realized it was the first time I'd called that to the man who woke up next to me.

There was silence on the phone, and then Dr. Nash said, "I'm not sure Ben knew we were meeting."

I noticed that he knew my husband's name, but I responded, "That's funny! How could he not know? He'll tell me!"

A sigh came over the phone: "You've got to trust me," he said. "I'll explain everything when we meet. We're really making some progress."

When meeting.How can we do this?The thought of going out and not having Ben around, not even knowing where I was or who I was with, freaked me out.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I can't do that."

"Chris," he said, "this is important. If you look at your diary, you'll know I'm telling the truth. Can you see the diary? It should be in your bag."

I picked up the flower diary on the sofa, and I was shocked by the year printed in gold letters on the cover. 2007 years later than it should have been.

"I can see."

"Look at the column for today," he said. "November 11. You should see our appointment?"

I don't understand how it could be November—tomorrow it will be December—but I scramble to turn the pages (the diary is as thin as Kleenex) until I get to today's date.Between the two diary pages was a piece of paper that said "November 11th—Meeting with Dr. Nash" in handwriting that I couldn't make out; underneath it was a line that said, "Don't tell Ben." I don't know if Ben was Already read it, will he check my stuff?
I don't think he must have read it.The rest of the dates are blank, no birthdays, no nightlife, no parties.Is this really a picture of my life?

"Okay." I said.He explained that he would pick me up and that he knew where I lived and would be there in an hour.

"But my husband—" I said.

"It's okay. We'll be back early when he leaves, I promise. Trust me."

The clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour, and I glanced at it.It was an old-fashioned clock in a wooden box with Roman numerals engraved around the side.The time display is 11:[-].Beside the clock is a silver key for winding the wind, which I think Ben must have done every morning as a rule.The big clock seemed old enough to be called an antique, and I was a little curious as to how such a clock came to be.Maybe it's not legendary, at least not about us, maybe we saw it in a store or a market sometime, and one of us just happened to like it.Maybe it was Ben, I thought.I don't think I like it.

I'm only going to meet him once, I think.And then when Ben comes home tonight, I'll confess to him.I can't believe I'm keeping such a thing from him.I can't do that when I'm totally dependent on him.

But Dr. Nash's voice was strangely familiar.Unlike Ben, he didn't seem like a complete stranger, and I found it almost easier to believe I knew him before than I did my husband.

Treatment has progressed, he said.I need to know what kind of progress he is talking about.

"Okay." I said, "Come here."

[1] According to legend, there are many supernatural events in London's Fuwei District. ——Translator's Note
*****
When Dr. Nash arrived, he suggested that we go for a cup of coffee. "Are you thirsty?" he asked. "I don't think it's fun to drive all the way to the clinic. Anyway, today I mainly want to talk to you."

I nodded in agreement.I was in the bedroom when he arrived, watching the visitor park and lock his car, straighten his hair, straighten his coat, and pick up his briefcase.Not him, I thought—the visitor was nodding to a technician unloading a truck.But the man walked up the steps leading to my house.He looked young—too young for a doctor—and, though I didn't know what I expected him to be wearing, at least it wasn't the blazer and gray corduroy trousers he was wearing.

"There's a park at the end of the street," he said. "I think there's a café there. Can we go there?"

So we went out together.It was bitterly cold outside, and I wrapped my scarf tightly around my neck.I'm glad I have Ben's mobile phone in my bag, and I'm glad Dr. Nash didn't insist on driving somewhere.I kind of trusted this guy in my heart, but another voice - this one much louder than the previous one - reminded me that he could be anyone.a stranger.

I am an adult, but also a traumatized woman.This man could easily lead me somewhere, though I don't know what he's trying to do with it.I am as helpless as a child.

We went out to the street and waited to cross the road.No one spoke, and the silence felt oppressive.I was going to wait until I was seated to ask him, but found that I had already opened my mouth. "What kind of doctor are you?" I asked. "What do you do? How did you find me?"

He looked back at me. "I'm a neuropsychiatrist," he said.He is smiling.I wonder if I ask him the same question every time we meet. "I specialize in patients with disorders of brain activity and am particularly interested in some emerging functional neuroimaging techniques. I have been studying the process and function of memory for a long time. Your case is mentioned in some of the literature on this subject, Then I tracked you down. Not too difficult."

A car turned the corner onto the street and came toward us. "Documents?" I was a little puzzled.

"Yes, there are several case studies on you. I contacted the place where you were treated before you went home to live."

"Why? Why are you looking for me?"

He smiles: "Because I thought I could help. I've been working with patients with similar problems for a while now and I believe they can improve, but more than is usually done - which is an hour a week." Therapy - put in more time. I have some ideas on how to really improve the situation and would love to try some." He paused, "Plus I've been working on a thesis on you. An authoritative Writings, you can call it that." He laughed, but cut it off as soon as he realized I wasn't echoing him.He cleared his throat. "Your situation is very unusual. I believe I can discover a lot more about you than I know about the way memory works."

We crossed the road surrounded by constant traffic.I feel increasingly anxious and tense.Brain disorders.Research.tracked you down.I tried to breathe, to relax, but found I couldn't.Now there are two of me in the same shell; one is a 47-year-old woman, calm and polite, who knows what to do and what not to do, and the other is only in her 20s, screaming loudly.I couldn't tell which was me, but the only sounds I heard were cars in the distance and children playing in the park, so I figured it must be the former.

When I got to the other side of the street, I stopped. "What's going on? I woke up this morning in a place I've never seen, but apparently I live there; lying in a place I've never seen before." Next to the man, it turned out that he said that we have been married for many years. Moreover, you seem to know me better than myself."

He nodded, slowly: "You have amnesia," he said, putting his hand on my arm. "You've had amnesia for a long time. New memories don't hold on to you, so you don't remember much of what happened throughout your adult life. Every day you wake up like a young woman, and sometimes You wake up like a child."

For some reason, it sounded worse when the words came out of his mouth.A doctor's word. "So it's true?" I looked at him.

"I'm afraid that's the truth," he said. "The man in your family is your husband. Ben. You've been married to him for years, long before you got amnesia." I nodded. "Shall we keep going?"

I said yes, and we walked into the park.A path runs around the outside of the park, and there's a children's playground nearby, next to a hut, and I see people pouring out of it with plates of snacks.We made our way to the cabin, Dr. Nash ordered drinks, and I sat at a notched Formica table.

He returned with two plastic cups full of espresso, black for me and milk for his.He took some sugar from the table and added it to himself without asking if I wanted it.It was this gesture—more convincing than anything else—that convinced me we had met.He looked up and asked me how I hurt my forehead.

"What?—" I didn't know what to say at first, but then I remembered the bruise I'd seen this morning.The makeup on the face obviously didn't cover it. "That?" I said, "I don't know. It's no big deal, really. It doesn't hurt."

He didn't answer, just stirred his coffee.

"You said I just got better and Ben took over to take care of me?" I said.

He looked up. "Yes. At first you were very ill and needed round-the-clock care. Ben was able to look after you alone after things started to improve, but that was almost like a full-time job."

So what I feel and think at the moment is already the situation after improvement.I'm glad I can't remember when things were worse.

"He must love me very much." I said it to myself rather than to Nash.

He nodded, and there was a silence.We all sipped our drinks. "Yes. I think he must be," he said.

I smiled and looked down at my hand holding the mug of hot drink, at the gold wedding ring, at the short nails, at my politely folded legs.I don't recognize my own body.

"Why doesn't my husband know about my meeting with you?" I said.

He sighed and closed his eyes. "I'm telling the truth." He said, shaking his hands and leaning forward, "At first I told you not to tell Ben about our meeting."

A wave of panic went through me immediately, but he didn't look like an untrustworthy person.

"Go on," I said.I want to believe that he can help me.

"You and Ben have been contacted by a few people in the past—doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists, whatever—who want to treat you. But he's been very reluctant to let you see these professionals. He said It's clear that you've been through long periods of therapy before, and in his opinion it's not helpful, it just makes you sad. He's certainly not going to put you -- or himself -- through any more distressing Sad treatment.

Of course, he didn't want to inspire me to have false hopes. "So you convinced me to let you heal without telling him?" I asked.

"Yes, I did reach out to Ben first. We talked on the phone. I even offered to meet him to explain how I could help, but he declined, so I got in touch with you directly."

There was another burst of panic, but I didn't know why. "How did you get in touch with me?" I asked.

He looked down at his drink: "I went to find you and waited until you came out of the house and introduced myself."

"So I agreed to accept your treatment? Is it that simple?"

"No, you didn't say yes at first. I had to convince you to trust me. I suggested that we should meet and have a therapy session. If necessary, don't let Ben know. I said I would explain to you why you came See me and how I can help."

"And then I agreed..."

He looked up. "Yes," he said, "I told you it's up to you to tell Ben after the first meeting, but if you decide not to tell him, I'll call you again to make sure you remember the date we made , and other things."

"I chose not to tell him."

"Yes, that's right. You've said that you want to wait until the treatment progresses to tell him, and you think it's better that way."

"Then do we have it?"

"what?"

"how's the progress?"

He took another sip before putting the coffee cup back on the table. "Yes. I'm sure we've made some improvements. Although it's difficult to quantify progress accurately, you seem to have regained quite a few memories over the past few weeks - as far as we can tell, there are many fragments of memories It's the first time you remember it, and some facts are remembered more often than you used to. Like a few times you wake up and remember you're married. And—"

He stopped. "And what?" I asked.

"And, um, I think, you're becoming more and more independent."

"independent?"

"Yes. You no longer depend on Ben, or on me, as you used to."

That's it, I think.That's the progress he was talking about.independent.Maybe he meant that I could go to the store or the library by myself without company, though I don't know if that's actually possible right now.Anyway, the treatment hasn't progressed far enough to make me proudly jubilate in front of my husband - and usually I don't even wake up remembering that I still have a husband.

"No more progress?"

"It's important," he said. "Don't underestimate it, Chrissy."

Without saying a word, I took a sip of my drink and looked around the cafe.The cafe was empty.Someone was talking in the small kitchen at the back, a pot of water was boiling, rattling from time to time, and children playing in the distance were making noise.It's hard to believe that this place is so close to my home and I can't remember ever being there.

"You said we've been in therapy for weeks." I continued to ask Dr. Nash, "What have we been doing?
"Do you remember the situation we used to treat? Anything?"

"No," I said, "I don't remember anything. For me, today is the first time I've seen you."

"Sorry for the question," he said. "As I said, sometimes you have flashbacks, and it seems like you remember more on certain days than on others."

"I don't understand," I said. "I don't remember seeing you at all. I don't remember what happened yesterday, or the day before yesterday, or last year. But I remember something from many years ago. My childhood. My mother. I remember I was still in college. I don't understand why these old memories remain when everything else is wiped clean?"

He kept nodding when I asked questions.I'm sure he's heard the same question before.Maybe I ask the same question every week, maybe we have to repeat the same conversation every time.

"Memory is complex," he said. "Humans have a short-term memory, where we can store facts and information for a minute or so, and a long-term memory, where we can store huge amounts of information and keep it for a seemingly infinite period of time." Now we know that these two functions seem to be divided by different parts of the brain, connected by certain nerves in between. There is also a part of the brain that seems to be responsible for recording short-term, transient memories and converting them into long-term memories. Remember later."

He spoke quickly and smoothly, as if he had a plan in mind.I guess I used to be like that too: self-confident.

“There are two main types of amnesia,” he said. “The most common is that the patient cannot remember events that happened, and the more recent the event, the more affected. For example, if the patient is in a car accident, they May not remember the accident, or the days or weeks leading up to the accident, but -- let's say -- have a good memory of everything that happened up to six months before the accident."

I nodded: "What about the other situation?"

"The other one is rarer," he said. "Sometimes short-term stored memories don't make it into long-term stored memories, and people who have this happen can only live in the present moment, and can only recall what happened just now. for a short period of time.”

He stopped talking, as if he was waiting for me to say something, as if we each had our own lines and rehearsed this conversation often.

"I have both?" I said. "Loss of past memories plus inability to create new ones?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes, unfortunately. It's not common, but it's entirely possible. What's unusual about your case, though, is the pattern of your memory loss. In general, you don't have much memory for later periods of toddlerhood." Any sequential memory, but the way you process new memories I never seem to encounter. If I leave this room now and come back 2 minutes later, most people with recent event amnesia[2] will not remember me at all met, at least certainly not today. But you seem to remember for a long period of time - up to 24 hours - and then you forget the entire memory. This is rare. Honestly if you consider Your situation doesn't make sense at all given how we think memory works. It shows that you're perfectly capable of converting short-term storage into long-term storage, and I don't see why you can't store them."

Maybe I've lived a fragmented life, but at least the fragments are big enough for me to maintain a semblance of independence.I guess that means I'm lucky.

"Why?" I asked, "Why is this happening?"

He didn't say a word.The room became very quiet.The air seemed to freeze, sticky and sticky.When he spoke, the sound seemed to bounce off the walls. "There are many things that can cause memory impairment," he said, "whether it's long-term or short-term. Illness, trauma, drugs, it's all possible. The exact nature of the impairment seems to vary depending on where in the brain is affected."

"That's right," I said, "so which one is my case?"

He stared at me for a while: "What did Ben tell you?"

I think back to our conversation in the bedroom.An accident, he said.A serious accident.

"He didn't tell me exactly why," I said. "Anyway, he didn't say anything specific, just that I had an accident."

"Yes," he said, reaching for the bag under the table. "Your amnesia was caused by trauma. It's true, at least in part." He opened the bag and pulled out a booklet. .At first I wondered if he wanted to consult his notes, but he handed me the booklet off the table. "I think you should take it," he said. "It explains everything better than I can—especially what caused you to be where you are, that—but it also mentions other things."

I took the booklet.The booklet was brown, bound in leather, and fastened tightly with a rubber band.I took off the rubber band and opened a page at will.The paper is thick, with faint dark lines and red borders, and the paper is covered with dense handwriting. "What is this?" I asked.

"It's a journal," he said, "which you've been keeping notes on for the past few weeks."

I was shocked: "A diary?" I wondered why it was there.

"Yes, it's a record of what we've been up to lately. I want you to keep it. We've done a lot of work trying to figure out how your memory It may be helpful to record the activity."

I looked at the brochure in front of me: "So I wrote this?"

"Yes. I'm telling you to write whatever you like. Lots of amnesiacs have tried similar things, but it's usually not as useful as one might think, because patients have very short memory windows. You can remember some things, though. Lives all day, so I think you should definitely keep a random journal every night. I think it helps you connect your memories from day to day. Also, I think memory is maybe like a muscle that can be strengthened with exercise.”

"So you've been reading my journal during therapy?"

"No," he said, "you wrote the diary in private."

"But how is that possible—" I paused, then continued, "is it Ben who keeps reminding me to keep a journal?"

He shook his head. "I suggest you keep it a secret from him," he said. "You've been hiding the journal, hiding it at home. I'll call and tell you where it's hidden."

"every day?"

"Yes. Almost."

"Not Ben?"

He was silent for a moment, then said, "No, I haven't read it."

I wondered why he hadn't read it, and what was in the journal that I didn't want my husband to see.What secret will I have?A secret that even I don't know?
"But you've seen it?"

"You gave it to me a few days ago," he said. "You said you wanted me to read it. It's about time."

I stare at that thing.I am excited.a journal.A link to a lost past, though only a recent past.

"Have you read them all?"

"Yes," he said, "read most of it. Anyway, I think I've read all the important parts." He paused, looked away, and scratched the back of his neck.He's embarrassed, I think.I wondered if what he told me was true, and what was in this journal.He took the last sip of his coffee and said, "I didn't force you to let me see. I want you to know that."

I nodded and drank the rest of my coffee in silence while browsing the journal.Inside the front cover is a column of dates. "What is this?" I said.

"It's the dates we used to meet," he said, "and the dates we plan to meet. We'll be setting dates for future meetings as we go through therapy. I'll always be calling to remind you to look at your journal."

I remembered the yellow note in the middle of the diary I found today: "But today?"

"Your journal is with me today," he said, "so we wrote a note instead."

I nodded and flipped through the rest of the diary, which was filled with so many words that I couldn't make out the handwriting.Page after page, day after day of hard work.

I don't know how I found time to do this, and then I remembered the whiteboard in the kitchen - and the answer was obvious: I had nothing else to do.

I put it back on the table again.A young man in a T-shirt and jeans entered the cafe, glanced at where we were, ordered a drink, and sat down at a table with a newspaper.He didn't look up at me again, and I kind of felt bad for the 20-year-old.I felt as if I was invisible.

"Shall we go?" I suggested.

We go back the way we came.The sky was covered with dark clouds, and there was a thin mist around it.The ground felt wet underfoot; it was as if we were walking on quicksand.I saw a merry-go-round on the sports field turning slowly, although there was no one on it.

"We don't usually meet here, do we?" I asked when we got to the road, "I mean in a coffee shop?"

"No. We usually meet in my clinic. Do exercises, tests and stuff."

"Then why did you meet here today?"

"I really just want to give you the log back," he said. "I'm worried you don't have it."

"I'm already dependent on it?" I said.

"In a sense, yes."

We walked back across the street to Ben and I's house.I can see Dr. Nash's car parked in the same place, next to the small garden outside my window, the short path and the neat flower beds, I still can't believe this is where I live.

"Would you like to come in?" I said, "have another drink?"

He shook his head: "No, no more, thank you. I have to go. Julie and I have plans tonight."

He stood for a while, looking at me.I noticed that his hair was cut short and neatly parted, and that the vertical stripes on his shirt crossed the horizontal stripes on his jumper.I realize he's only a few years older than I thought I was when I woke up this morning: "Is Julie your wife?"

He smiled and shook his head. "No, it's my girlfriend. In fact, she's my fiancée. We're engaged. I always forget that."

I smiled back at him.These are the details I should remember, I thought.Minor things.Maybe it's these little things that I've been keeping in my journal, these little hooks that have held me together my whole life.

"Congratulations," I said, and he thanked me.

I felt like I should have asked more questions, I should have shown more interest, but that didn't make much sense.Whatever he tells me, I will forget before I wake up tomorrow morning.All I have is today. "Well, well, I should go too." I said, "We're going to the beach this weekend. I have to pack my bags later..."

He smiled. "Goodbye, Chrissy," he said, turning to leave, but looking back at me. "You have my number in your diary," he said. "It's on the title page. If you want to meet again, call me. I mean, then we can continue your treatment, okay?" "

"If I want to meet?" I was a little surprised.I remember penciling in a journal with dates between now and the end of the year, "I thought we had other treatment dates already set?"

"You'll figure it out when you read the journal," he said. "It'll all make sense then. I promise."

"Okay." I said.I realized that I trusted him, which made me happy because my husband was not the only one I could rely on.

"It's up to you, Chrissy. Call me anytime you want."

"I will." I said.He waved goodbye and looked back as he got into the car.His car drove onto the street and quickly disappeared.

I made a cup of coffee and brought it into the living room.There was whistling outside the window, the loud bang of heavy drilling and a fit of intermittent laughter, but it all died down to a soft hum when I sat down in the armchair.The faint sunlight filtered through the shutters, and I felt a faint warmth fall on my arms and legs.I took the log out of the bag.

I feel a little nervous.I don't know what's in this book: what kind of shocks and surprises and what kind of strange things will happen.I see the scrapbook on the coffee table.That was the version Ben chose for me, a record of a kind of my past.Will there be another version of this book in hand?I turned on logging.

There are no horizontal lines on the first page.I wrote my name in black ink in the middle.Chris Lucas.It's a miracle that I didn't write confidentiality under my name!Or don't peek!
But there are some more words.Some unexpected and terrible words.Scarier than anything I've seen today.There, just below my name, in blue ink and capital letters, read this:

Don't trust Ben.

But I had no other choice, I turned to the next page.

I started reading about my past.

[2] Also known as forward amnesia. ——Translator's Note
(End of this chapter)