Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

panic.”
    “I won’t let it.”
    That brought an immediate smile to Dr. Hirsch’s face. She slid the pill back into the packet. “Too much control is not helpful either. Barbara Bullard is going to work with you today. I don’t want you to do too much. Tomorrow morning we’ll get your eyes checked and your ears. Are you still hearing noise?”
    “It comes and goes. I wish I could make out what it is. And there’s the woman singing—”
    “What woman?”
    “I don’t know. She’s on a hill, some place high up. I can’t see her, but I hear her singing.”
    “What is she singing?”
    “I don’t know. Just that it’s very sad.”
    “It may be connected to what happened. It’ll become clearer as your memory returns.”
    “Black.”
    “White.”
    “Sand.”
    “Beach.”
    “Dog.”
    “Cat.”
    “Cold.”
    “Hot.”
    “Dancer.”
    “Me.”
    “Dog.”
    “We did that already.”
    “Go with me. Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Work.”
    “Play.”
    “Bagel.”
    “Zabar’s.” She was tired. Her eyelids had grown heavy, heavier. “I want to lie down now.”
    “Just one more, okay?”
    “Okay.” Her chin nudged her collarbone.
    “Dog.”
    The room began to spin. “I can’t—”
    Hands held her still. “Try. I’m holding you. Dog.”
    “Dead.”

7
    T HE TUNNEL was long and brightly lit. She felt like an inmate with an attendant. She was an inmate with an attendant. They followed a circuitous route up some stairs, down some other stairs, through an atrium, into another building. Pedestrian traffic, a few patients, but mostly health professionals all with plastic labels: doctors, nurses, social workers, administrators, rushing. No one strolled. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and Barbara Bullard was no exception.
    “What is that?” It looked a lot like a library or bookstore, right in the middle of the hospital.
    “It’s a library,” Barbara Bullard said. “I’m planning a visit this afternoon. Would you like to come? You can pick out something to read—like a book on dogs—that may help jog your memory.”
    Dr. Gillette, the ophthalmologist, bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor Michael Fox. He was light-haired and preppy in a navy sport coat and gray flannel trousers. His yellow oxford cloth button-down was very Brooks Brothers. He read the material in the folder Barbara Bullard handed him, then said, “Okay, let’s have a look at you. I’m going to put these drops in your eyes to dilate your pupils.” He was chewing gum.
    His moving jaws made her testy, as did the procedure, but Dr. Gillette didn’t seem to notice her pique. When the first drop hit, she gasped and brushed his hand away and hugging herself, rocked back and forth. She was on fire.
    “Keep cool,” he said. “It’ll subside. I have to do your other eye.”
    The pain was agonizing. “I can’t,” she cried, coming out of her chair.
    “Keep blinking,” he said. “I promise it will subside.”
    She sat down again. “I’ve had these tests before but never this pain.”
    “You remember eye examinations though?”
    “Just a sense of it.” She responded with more ease as the pain receded. These people were her lifeline. How stupid she would be to alienate them. It was better to be docile, yet somehow she knew that docile was not her basic nature.
    “Do you wear glasses? Contacts?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Don’t think so. Look up. Okay. Don’t move your head, just your eyes. Look right ... left. Been seeing spots last couple of days? Headache?”
    “Doesn’t that come with a bad bump on the head?”
    “Sometimes, not always. Let me see it.” He ran his hand lightly over the back of her scalp, the side of her head.
    “Ouch.”
    “Okay. No double vision?”
    “You ask me that after you put the drops in?”
    Dr. Gillette chuckled and tilted his head toward Barbara Bullard. “Any allergies? Your eyes are bloodshot, very irritated.”
    Well, duh, she thought. Didn’t you just do that? “How would I know? My eyes tear. Maybe it’s from the pill they give me to keep me from being agitated.”
    “I don’t think so,” Bullard said. “And you haven’t had a pill since Sunday night. It’s now Wednesday.”
    A Dr. Pentil was the next stop. His speech was so thick and incomprehensible, Temporary Jane whispered to her escort, “He’s going to check my hearing? You have to be kidding.”
    Still, he was able to pronounce her ear drums bruised but with no permanent damage,