In Her Skin

CHAPTER 1

Alma, what are you doing?

My mother's voice circles around me. I even feel her presence. I thought I'd come to terms with her death, but lately I'm not so sure. Here, in this hospital room, I can't fight the memories of the day she died. They flood my mind and all I want to do is run. The urge is so strong it pushes me out of my seat. Then a memory pushes me back down. Not the one of my mother's death, but the one that has brought me here to volunteer for an experimental drug.

I've had memory flashes as far as I can remember. Pieces of a memory really. Nothing concrete. It's of me standing at the bottom of the stairs, my mother pulling me away. Always the same brief memory. Then, three weeks ago, everything changed. It was like the camera of my mind unfroze going beyond that familiar image. I saw my baby sister Nina, immobile at my feet. My mother knelt so we were face to face, eyes so full of tears they swam down her cheeks and spilled onto the floor.

‘Alma, sweetheart, listen to me. You can never speak of this day.’

‘What's wrong mummy? Why is Nina asleep on the floor?’

My mother's face pulls tight. ‘Promise you'll never say a word.’

Her voice is frightening. Hoarse and broken, not her usual melodic tone. I blink, not sure it's my mother gripping my upper arms, forcing me to do as I'm told. But the large green eyes before me, though darker than usual, are the ones I've gazed into all my life.

‘I want to wake Nina,’ I turn to go to her, but my mother locks my chin between her fingers.

‘Promise me,’ she says in a way I can't refuse.

‘I promise mummy.’

She gives me a tremulous smile and leads me away.

I was only five and not sure I understood what I'd promised. I still don't because everything is blank after that. I don't remember where she took me or what happened next. All I know is I never saw my sister again, and as much as I try to push the memory further, I can't. And the more I try, the more I'm afraid I had something to do with Nina's accident. Why else lock it away?

These bits of my forgotten past chip away at me, and my mind cracks in places I fixed a long time ago. Fear is taking over my resolve to learn the truth of what happened that day. Do I truly want to know? I have to. There's more to my sister's death than what my parents told me. Hiding my hands under the desk they assigned me upon entering, I anxiously press the end of each finger to the pad of my thumb from pinkie to index, then back again. This is supposed to calm me but isn't working. In a last attempt not to flee, I twist the soft skin on the inside of my wrist until the pain overpowers my cowardly thoughts.

At the sound of a chair scraping the floor, I turn and glance at my surroundings.

Fluorescent lights hang on the low ceiling, their shine harsh and blinding against the white walls. Somehow all that whiteness does nothing to brighten the room, or maybe it's my thoughts tainting everything around me. It's too crowded in here. Another nineteen volunteers sit at their desks, and I can feel their breaths sucking precious air from the windowless room. The walls close in on me and I feel faint, so I let my fingers do their thing and they go back to their rhythmic motion under the desk, but with more speed, doing their best to pull my mind from all anxious thought.

Feet shuffle on the tiled floor, and there's an impatient sigh. A moment later, the room holds a collective breath as the door opens and a man walks in. He strides to the front of the room and looks at us before clearing his throat.

‘Hello. I'm Doctor Alvaro Ramos and I'm the clinical trial coordinator. I know they briefed you before today, so I won't go over the same details.’ His hands disappear into the pockets of his lab coat as he scans the group before him. ‘I'm here because your participation in the new drug is essential for all trauma patients with suppressed memories.’

Just my luck that his dark eyes fall on me and linger on my face. Can he see my fear? Read my thoughts? I squirm in my seat and look away.

‘What we hope to achieve with this experimental drug is to help trigger those memories. In other words, to trigger the memory back into recollection.’

Good, because that's just what I'm here for. I lean back against the chair and try to relax, but my thoughts overlap with his words. How is the drug going to work? When will it work? Will the memories feel as though they're happening in real time? Am I even ready for this? The doctor's voice is like white noise in my head and, for the first time since I stepped into this room, my heartbeat slows down to normal.

At the words "side effects," I zone in on the doctor again.

‘In a day or two, or possibly even today, you may get headaches. You may feel groggy. Nauseous. Headaches are—’

I block him out because if hear I hear about all the side effects, I might jump up and run out for real this time. Don't think, just breathe, and stay calm. This is going to work. The doctor invites a team of five nurses to go around the room and hand out the pill we'll take during the trial. I straighten in my seat as one of them approaches pushing a trolley stacked with plastic cups. She hands me one which is half-filled with what looks like water. When I'm asked to stick out my hand, I do as I'm told. Not that I feel it there, but when I look down, there's a tiny, inoffensive pill the colour of a forget-me-not flower laying in the palm of my hand. The nurse moves on without a word and I glance around the room to see nineteen other hands held out, as though begging. The doctor's voice breaks the silence.

‘Don't take it until you're instructed to.’

The nurses are quick and efficient, and I don't have long to wait before one of them steps up to me. ‘You can take it now.’

The woman's cropped peroxide hair is the same stark tone of white as her uniform. If she faced the wall, she'd be invisible. The very thing I want to be right now so I can disappear from this room. What was I thinking? I can't take an experimental drug. I even avoid aspirin. I glance from the nurse to the blue pill, then back to her. She encourages me with a smile. Do I take it? There's too much to lose if I don't. By this time, my palms are so damp I'm afraid the pill will disintegrate in my hand, so I pop the little blue forget-me-not into my mouth. Satisfied, the peroxide blonde moves on to the next volunteer, who doesn't hesitate, and another young woman catches my eye. We share a look that says, "will it work?".

‘Once you've taken the medication, you'll have to wait here for half an hour. A medical response team is on hand in case anyone gets a severe reaction,’ the doctor says.

Wait? What? I search the faces around me. At the first sign of anything strange, I'll have my fingers down my throat in no time.

‘Also, not all of you have received the same medication. Some got a placebo, others and existing treatment, and the rest the clinical trial one.’

You've got to be kidding. He should’ve started off by saying that. Who knows, I might’ve changed my mind at that piece of information. Does this mean I'm stuck here another thirty minutes for nothing?

‘I can see by the look of some of you that you're not happy with this, but I explained this during my introduction.’

I start to lift my hand, only to let it drop. You're an idiot, Alma. You should’ve listened to everything he had to say during the presentation.

‘While you wait, we're going to hand out a sheet with questions. They're of a different nature than the questionnaire you filled on the first day, so please answer them and make a note of anything you wish to ask.’

This time I'm listening to every word, but the only thing that sticks is that I'll be in this small, crowded room for another thirty minutes. I don't do crowded rooms. Or lifts. Or dark spaces My fingers move manically under the desk as fear whirls inside my head, threatening to swallow all coherent thought. I learned that fear can be a state of mind, but I'm not good at controlling it. And putting into practice the tools I learned in therapy doesn't always work. There are still times I can't push the shadow of certain images back into the dark where they belong. Like now. Just knowing I'm in a hospital makes those unwanted shadows force their way into the light, and I blink back tears as I see my mother in a hospital bed. Her body riddled with scars, proof that her mind had been broken to the point of self-harm.

A clipboard appears in front of me, and I take it, glad for the distraction. Pen in hand, I read the first question.

Age:

24

How long have you had a suppressed memory?

Ever since I can remember.

How did you hear about this study?

I researched "how to retrieve suppressed memories" on the internet.

Are you feeling any adverse effect to the drug?

With my eyes closed, I listen to my body. No.

Any symptom you've never experienced before, even a mild one?

My heart is racing with nerves and fear, but that happens a lot. No. None.

Why did you enrol in this clinical trial?

There's a footnote explaining that all information is confidential. None of the participants are to talk about their experience with one another, only with their assigned doctor. What a relief. I'd imagined each of us standing to share our story like at an AA meeting where I'd have to tell them I may have accidentally caused my sister's death, and that's why my mother wanted nothing to do with me. Oh, and that I have zero recollection of that day, so I don't really know if any of this is true. I shiver at the thought of the look on their faces.

Reading the question again, I ponder. Not because I don't know the answer, but because I don't want to divulge it.

My memory loss is traumatic, and it's affecting my life in a negative way.

That's all they need to know.

If you have any symptoms, even mild ones, please stay behind.

I'd rather suffer the consequences than spend an extra minute in this room.

It's a thought I don't put on paper.

‘Remember to jot down any side effects in the journal we're providing. That's what we're looking for in this first phase,’ the doctor says.

At that moment, the clock strikes on the hour, and everyone shuffles to their feet. Three men and a woman stay behind, possibly with questions they hadn't thought of before because none of them look ill.

‘Please collect a bag on your way out and remember the protocol.’

The nurse's voice is too loud in the quiet room. From the moment we sat at our desks, nobody spoke, and no one would, now that we know we can't share our experiences with anyone but the doctors. The queue moves fast and when I'm at the top, they ask for my name and date of birth and hand me a paper bag. When I shake it and it rattles. How cruel if this is a placebo. We're here because we need help, not a sugar pill.

‘I hope this works.’

It's the young woman I'd made eye contact with earlier.

‘Yeah, me too,’ I say, looking around to make sure nobody is watching.

With a nod and an encouraging smile, she walks away. I follow her out the door but skip the queue to the lifts. Because of my claustrophobia, I prefer the stairs. There's no sign of stairs anywhere, so I continue down the corridor and stiffen when a door opens. Don't look. Just keep walking. But my eyes are like magnets drawn to the opposite pole. My heart jumps at the sight of the man surrounded by machines with a tube protruding from his mouth. He has dark, wavy hair like my dad's. Now I desperately need to keep moving.

The beeping of machines follows me, and so do the tormenting images. They crash into me, forcing me to quicken my pace, challenging me to outrun them. I take a left, then a right. No stairs. No exit. Feeling trapped, my legs propel me further down the corridor and I ignore the surprised faces of two nurses that I almost crash into as I turn around the bend. Finally, an exit sign. I take the stairs two at a time and don't slow down until I'm out in the street and down the road, stomach heaving, lungs burning. How can I do this twice a week when hospitals are still my undoing?

I hurry through the streets and search for something to calm me. A couple kissing. A man walking his dog. A mother and young daughter hand in hand. The little girl looks three or four. I don't have memories of myself at that age. Did my mother ever hold my hand to protect me from harm or to comfort me? Glancing away, I cross the road and jump when a car honks at me for not waiting for the pedestrian light.

It's been five years since my parent's car accident and, unlike the memories I don't recall, this one is so clear it hits me full force. I still haven't shaken it off when I get to the train station and find an isolated spot away from the crowd waiting for the train from Madrid to Alcalá de Henares. My rapid puffs fade into the chilly air and I step forward until the toes of my boots align with the edge of the platform. If only I could snatch all the unwanted images from my mind and throw them under the train. Why can I only recall what I don't want to?

A weight on my shoulder forces me backward.

‘What—’

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just…’

For I moment I stare at this stranger whose eyes are full of pity. Then it hits me, and I understand why she pulled me back and I'm relieved when the train whooshes by and my hair flies onto my face and covers my embarrassment. I should tell her I'm not suicidal. Instead, I move away from her watchful eyes and lose myself in the crowd.

***

Once off the train, I catch the bus home. It leaves me at the Plaza de Cervantes, a short walk from my apartment. Amid the late evening bustle, there's a familiar sound coming from the rooftops. I never tire of seeing those large birds and glance up, spotting a stork clapping its bill, communicating with another one sitting in its nest on the opposite building. It's the same loud sound that rings in my ears each morning. Not an ideal awakening. More like the price I pay for living so close to the plaza. Alcalá de Henares is Miguel de Cervantes' birthplace, a Spanish town teeming with stork's nests which are as much a part of this place as the many steeples of the Medieval city. It's beautiful here and not big enough to get lost in like Madrid. I can walk into a shop or sit at a table at my favourite Churrería and they know me by name. It's a city that's warm and welcoming to residents and visitors alike, and I've yet to meet someone who doesn't find something to love about it.

As always, I think of my dad as I pass the bronze statue of Miguel de Cervantes. It's on a pedestal, with Cervantes glancing down, quill in hand. As a teenager, I told my dad that Cervantes looked pensive, no doubt planning his next masterpiece. He playfully tugged at my nose. Don Quijote will always be his best. And I believed him, just as I always had.

When I cross the road, the streetlights flicker, their orange hue not strong enough to light the path to my building. My step quickens and I hurry along the cobbled pedestrian zone, busy with people unwilling to give in to the cold of early May. A fog of cigarette smoke surrounds an outdoor table and slowly disperses into the air, revealing a group of people drinking beer like they would on a summer day. Just as I pass, they break out in laughter, and I turn to glance at them. At the same time, something flies at me, and I dodge, banging my shoulder against the metal corner of the small newspaper kiosk. I let out a surprised shout as I bounce off it like a ball. My arms shoot out to break the fall, only I never hit the ground. Strong hands help me regain my balance and I straighten with the help of the man's support.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ I say, catching my breath.

‘Are you hurt?’

His eyes move to the shoulder I'm nursing, so I lower my hand.