Amnesia by G. H. Ephron Page A

scheduled for ten. At nine I was circling the hospital complex, an enormous, three-winged granite building tucked in the crook of an elbow where two highways meet. The Big Dig — Boston’s massive, federally funded attempt to straighten the cow paths they call streets — had turned the hospital into a moat-surrounded fortress. The normal access road was now one-way, and the surrounding blocks had become staging arenas for earth-moving equipment.
    Cursing the always courteous Boston drivers who cut me off, I hunkered down over the wheel and peered out through a rain-spattered windshield as I tried to figure out where the powers that be had hidden the temporary entrance to the parking garage. Boston has a strange philosophy about signage: If you don’t know where you are, you don’t belong here.
    The garage was, of course, packed. My tires squealed each time I had to double back and climb to the next level of wall-to-wall vehicles. I passed up sliver after sliver of semi-spot left over after one of suburbia’s answers to that pressing question, what to drive on a safari into the veldt, plumps itself into a space
and a half. In an act of desperation, I left my classic Beemer in a space on the roof marked “Maintenance/Reserved.” It was either there or squeeze onto the end of a row where I was afraid I’d get clipped.
    By nine-thirty, I was staggering across a rickety wooden walkway that connected to the building entrance. I must have looked like a refuge, laden with bundles — two leather portfolios of testing materials, an enormous cloth shopping bag stuffed with binders and boxes, and a white Dunkin’ Donuts bag that was slowly turning wet and brown as the coffee sloshed around inside. By the time I reached the building, my arms ached. As I entered the revolving door, the bag gave way and the coffee plopped down on the floor, splashing my pant leg and mingling with the mud on my shoes.
    â€œFigures,” I grumbled to no one in particular.
    I entered the cavernous lobby, looking back to watch the empty cup roll around as the revolving door swept it inside, then outside, then inside again. I sighed and approached the circular granite reception desk. The brunette roosting there was on the phone. I dropped my burdens, cleared my throat loudly, and waited, counting the hoops that pierced her left ear. I reached twelve before she swiveled around to me.
    â€œI’m here to see a patient, Sylvia Jackson,” I told her. “Can you tell me what room she’s in?”
    With the phone still attached to one ear, she squawked, “It’s not visiting hours. You’ll have to come back at eleven.”
    I interrupted her mid-swivel. “I’m Dr. Peter Zak and I have an appointment to see her.”
    Without acknowledging what I’d said, she tap-tapped at her computer, paused, and then conceded, “Seven-Twelve West.”
    I stopped in the men’s room to wipe the mud and coffee from my shoes and pants. Then I continued to the elevator. I got off at the seventh floor, headed down the west wing corridor, and stopped at the nurses’ station.
    Two nurses were standing behind the counter, watching me
approach. I smiled, hoping for but not getting a smile in return. It was going to be one of those days.
    â€œI’m Dr. Peter Zak. I have a ten o’clock appointment to evaluate Sylvia Jackson. I’d like to check her chart before I begin.” I let my voice rise to a question mark at the end.
    The taller one, with the unlikely name LOVELY pinned to her starched white chest, shifted her position to block the gap between the counter and the wall. A tornado wouldn’t have mussed her blond helmet.
    â€œI assume you have a release?” she asked, planting her hands on her hips.
    I dropped my bags on the floor, wiped my forehead, and groaned. Nothing was going to be easy today. I took off my coat and folded it deliberately over the back of a chair,