Amnesia by G. H. Ephron Page B

straightened my tie, and approached her.
    â€œMy understanding is that the lawyers have arranged for that.”
    She looked unmoved. “I’ll need a release.”
    â€œLook. I have an appointment with Ms. Jackson. The court arranged it. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here dragging all this stuff with me if it hadn’t been set up properly.”
    â€œI need to see authorization. I’m not the one in charge around here, you know. I don’t make the rules.”
    â€œWell, why don’t you check with whoever does?” I paused and counted the holes in a ceiling tile. “My time is being paid for by the Commonwealth. I can wait.”
    I sat down with what I hoped was a look of infinite patience.
    Reluctantly, Nurse Lovely went over to the desk and looked at the telephone. I could tell she was trying to decide on her next move. After a few beats, she sat down, flipped through a Rolodex on the desk, and punched in four numbers. She waited, frowning.
    I watched the clock on the wall as the minute and hour hands met at ten minutes to ten. I looked longingly at a coffeepot, just visible through a glass door at the back of the nurses’ station. When I glanced back toward the desk, Nurse Lovely was glaring
at me. She quickly looked away, checked the Rolodex again, and punched in a bunch more numbers. Someone must have answered because she cupped her hand over the mouthpiece as she spoke. Apparently, the answer she got didn’t please her. She shot the receiver back into its cradle.
    I wondered about the animosity that radiated from Nurse Lovely. Nurses are often protective of their patients, especially when a patient needs the kind of long-term care Sylvia Jackson had required. Still, it seemed a bit excessive. Maybe I could kill her with kindness.
    I approached the counter, smiling one of my most cheerful. “All set?” I chirped.
    She muttered, “Help yourself.”
    â€œThanks.”
    First I went over to the medication Kardex. I flipped through the cards on the metal rack until I found Sylvia Jackson’s. I needed to know if she was taking anything that could affect her test results. She was on low doses of an antidepressant and something for seizures. No problem there. If she’d been sedated, that could have thrown off the cognitive tests.
    As I leaned over to read, I could feel Nurse Lovely’s eyes drilling holes in the top of my head. She stepped back when I passed in front of her to reach the metal chart rack.
    â€œOkay if I sit here for a few minutes?” I asked, carrying the chart over to one of the desks.
    Nurse Lovely gave me a tight little nod.
    I hunched over the chart, checking the most recent entries in each section. Sylvia Jackson was making progress with her walking. Her speech was improving. Several times her therapists had noted “episodic dyscontrol.” I could understand why she might be irritable and easily frustrated. She could probably remember precisely what it was like to be completely physically functional. Her injuries had left her far from that mark.
    Lovely directed me to a conference room at the end of the hall. There, I unpacked my notebooks and test instruments.
While I waited for Sylvia Jackson to be brought in, I thought about the gradual progress she was making in her recovery. Superimposed on an upslope of slow, steady improvement were sine waves, blips of emotional upheaval. Brain trauma affecting her memory and executive functions could account for her slow progress and her lack of emotional control. Even a nontraumatized brain would be overwhelmed by her ordeal. I imagined a pathetic, wheelchair-bound invalid, racked by depression, torn by frustration.
    I didn’t hear the wheelchair rolling into the conference room. I didn’t notice the little squeak as the brakes locked. I looked up sharply when a light, whispery voice broke the silence, first with a breathy exhale, followed by, “Hello, you must be