The Song Remains the Same Read Online Free PDF

undergo an extremely traumatic event, their brain shuts down for them. It’s called dissociative amnesia—in reaction to the stress of what you’ve been through, the brain has blocked it out. Only yours took it too far—it blocked out too much. With dissociative amnesia, you can still remember all of the generalities of the way life works—you may remember world history references or what the Statue of Liberty is, for example, or”—he gestures to the television—“how a remote control works or that you flush the toilet upon using it. You just can’t remember the way that your life has worked.” He hedges, waiting for me to absorb this,to protest and say, Well of course that’s just utterly ridiculous! I’m not some sort of whacked-out head case! But I don’t. Don’t say that. Because who knows? Just who the hell knows? Maybe I am. A quick glance at the photo on the cover of People tells me that I don’t have any idea of who I really am, how the square pegs of my life refuse to fit into the round holes.
    When I don’t respond, he continues. “But, that said, we’re just working on theories here. Amnesia—any form of it—is quite rare, and I happen to think it’s more likely that there is indeed some damage, and with time, and with use, your memory should return. Maybe in bits and pieces.”
    “So my options are that I have actual brain damage or that my brain is damaging itself?” I say finally.
    “What’s the time frame?” Rory interrupts, and Dr. Macht opts for the less prickly of the two questions.
    “Unclear. Could be anywhere from tomorrow to months from now. Your therapist,” he says to me, “will come in and explain what you can do to nurture your memory back. Think of it as a muscle: you need to flex it to regain strength.”
    The overhead PA system pages him to the nurses’ station, and he’s off with a nod and a promise to check in later that evening before he goes back into surgery.
    “This all feels a little preposterous,” I say to Rory, using my good arm to rub the apex of my neck, “like someone is pulling the world’s worst practical joke.” I flop my hand down and hold up my palm. I’d noticed the scar there earlier today, running from my lifeline clear down my wrist.
    “This,” I say, thrusting my hand upward. “How’d I get this?”
    “Childhood accident—a broken plate,” Rory says, leaving it at that and easing into the chair beside the bed. She roots around inher bag, unveiling a mini box of doughnuts and two Snapple bottles, which clang against each other in her hand. A melody of iced tea. “I know it’s junk,” she says, “and that it can’t really fix anything. But we always ate doughnuts and Snapple when we signed an artist or had something else to celebrate. The day I convinced you to open the gallery in the first place, we binged like we’ve never binged before.” She pauses, awash in happy nostalgia. “Mom used to make doughnuts fresh for us when we were kids. Now we settle for Dunkin’.”
    “What are we celebrating?” I ask. “That one day—maybe in ten years, maybe never, according to the experts—I might not be committed to an asylum?”
    “No, nothing specific.” She unscrews the top of one of the Snapples. “But I thought it might be nice. Something your little sister can do for you. We’re all…well, we’re all feeling a little helpless.” She hands me a jelly doughnut, which promptly explodes upon my first bite all over my gown. “Now you look like you’re bleeding, too.” She giggles.
    “That’s not so funny.”
    “No, you’re right.”
    We snicker anyway. I lick the jelly off of my lips.
    “Do you always have to watch this guy?” She nudges her head up toward the TV, toward Jamie Reardon. “It’s on every time I’m in here. Sort of macabre, isn’t it?”
    “I like him.” I shrug.
    “He’s just some talking head, a piranha circling the waters.”
    “No, he seems different,” I say, like I have experience