Deanna always loved this time of year. Seventeen years old now, and there was still that sense of joy. Crunching down the freshly fallen snow along a path through an arch of trees, white layered branches hanging heavy as the flakes fell in abundance. Every so often the cold caresses on her nose.
What was it she’d been worrying about? Some boy? She couldn’t even remember his name. College? There was always something about that study course. For some time she had wanted to specialise in art, just leave those academic subjects her parents had pressured her to stick with to advance-higher level. ‘It will secure you a steady career,’ her mother had said, ‘so then you will never have to be dependent on a man for your security.’
But Deanna didn’t care; she wanted to be an artist. And now, as she progressed along this snowy path, the way of the future became clearer.
It was curious, though, that there was nobody else around. How can no one be appreciating this wonderful snow-scape? And someone special to be at her side?
But very soon, the realisation that anyone else would somehow infect the … what was the word? … Purity. Snow was purifying, the whiteness cleansing away the troublesome memories. Or at the very least making them insignificant like a single flake lost amidst a million others; fine and unique in aspect but ultimately to melt away to an indifferent universe. Was this what having a true perspective was like? To appreciate that none of it truly mattered, that her experiences were nothing special but had only seemed that way because they were personal?
But something did matter, she realised, as she trudged on further, along a path that receded to a narrow point. The beingness. The oneness. The nowness.
Then her attention was drawn to a figure in the distance, heading towards her at what seemed like a frantic pace.
She could clearly see now – this man. What struck her first was that he didn’t seem adequately dressed for the cold, in only a light sports jacket.
He stopped about a metre from Deanna, and causing her to stop abruptly. It was then she noticed he was kinda handsome, though maybe not exactly her type, a bit too pale and European perhaps. Well, for a start he was too old, by at least ten years. The man then put up his bare hand as if in a gesture of peace, and to give himself a chance to catch his breath.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked, in an accent that was not fully Canadian. English, she thought.
‘Err, no. Should I?’
‘I’m Scott. We were … together.’
‘I think I’d know if we were together,’ she said, refusing to explore that thought.
‘Not necessarily. Your memory is not so good.’
‘I think my memory is fine, thank you very much.’
‘Then tell me where this is.’
‘This is … the path.’ Why had it not occurred to me?
‘The Path? You’re not really here are you? This is all in your mind.’
‘If that’s true then you are just a figment of my imagination.’
‘I am real to you in your life. But you’re just a girl here; in your mind we haven’t met before, won’t meet for another five years.’
‘Okay, for a start: I am not just a girl, I’m seventeen. Secondly … secondly, I know this isn’t a dream, dreams are not this real.’
‘You’re right. This is not really a dream, but you have retreated into your past because of what’s happened to you.’ He looked so sincere with those words that surely he wasn’t trying to fool her.
‘Then what is happening to me?’
‘I can’t explain properly. But it’s to do with your memories: they are being taken from you, and you are trying to hold on – trying to fight what’s being done to you. I’m your link to those memories. If you reject me now they will be gone.’
He was looking familiar to her now, but she couldn’t place his name. She said to him, ‘So you want me to … be with you?’
He smiled. And Deanna felt then, knew then, that she’d known him for a long time.
He said to her, ‘Come here.’
She complied. But as they started to embrace, he was gone. Vanished in an instant. She almost stumbled. The feeling of him so fleeting and yet it was enough to leave her yearning. Scott. He was gone from her, a long way off, she knew, light years away, but she still had no memory of how or why.
And then...
The room at first seemed as white as the snow, until her eyes became adjusted to its clinical blue and grey lines. Deanna had been staring at the light above, the defuse white concentric circles seemed to be pressing down on her. She was on the floor, huddled in a corner. A basic metal-framed bed was beside her, its duvet cover crumpled up at one end.
She got up, bewildered, wondered how she could have ended up in this place; not even knowing who she was. She knew her name, Deanna, but it had no real meaning for her.
Then a man walked in, he was looking like some kind of doctor in his white coat, yet she suddenly felt extremely vulnerable in her thin night-gown.
‘Good morning,’ the man said, ‘I am Dr Heigener. I hope you are feeling better.’
Deanna got to her feet, but felt immediately unsteady. ‘Why am I here?’ she asked.
‘I think you should sit down.’ He indicated towards the chair.
She almost collapsed onto the moulded plastic chair beside the bed; her legs just didn’t seem to have the strength to support her.
Dr Heigener took a few steps towards her, avoiding eye contact, as if sensing her apprehension, until he stopped about a metre away to finally look at her. ‘You have been out for twelve days. You must be feeling weak still.’ He paused, allowing her to speak, peering down at her with clinical dispassion. But she said nothing, so he continued. ‘This must be a very difficult time for you. Do you remember why you are here?’
She tried to remember, but her only memory now was of the snow … and him, the one who was a long long way from her. ‘I don’t remember,’ she said eventually.
‘You were found on the point of death – frankly – trying to commit suicide, it would seem.’
‘I can’t think … why?’ As far as she could see there were no obvious signs.
‘It has been a traumatic time. Grief can have many different effects. Such a reaction is not uncommon.’
‘But who has died?’
‘Maybe this is not the time to discuss – you need time to recover.’
Then it occurred to her; she could see him now, if only in her mind. ‘No, he’s not dead. He’s just away from me.’
‘This is difficult, I understand.’
‘Don’t tell me he’s dead,’ she protested. ‘because I know he’s still alive.’
‘Deanna, do you remember what happened to him?’
‘He … I don’t. But I know he’s still alive.’ Scott. She could see his face now, a look of reassurance.
‘It is time to let go.’
But as he said those words the memories had flooded back as if a dam had broken. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said. ‘I need to get back. Gerald will need feeding.’
‘Gerald’s your cat, I know. Don’t worry, he is being looked after.’
‘Please, I must go home.’
‘When you have recovered.’
This room had unequivocally become a prison: sparse and oppressive, that man her jailer. ‘You can’t keep me here against my will.’ She almost spat out the words.
‘Legally we can. But it gives me no pleasure to enforce the law.’
She got up from the chair, in spite of how weak her legs felt. ‘I need my clothes back.’
‘Please don’t make this difficult for us.’
‘I am leaving now.’ Deanna willed her legs to take her towards the exit.
‘Nurse,’ called Heigener, who hardly raised his voice, ‘I will need some assistance.’
The nurse, a tall and well-built middle-aged woman, entered the room with a device in her hand Deanna understood to be a hypo infuser, handing it to Heigener. The woman ran towards her with a surprising athleticism.
‘Sorry to have to do this,’ Heigener said to her, as the nurse grabbed her arms and brought them with an indomitable strength behind her back. Heigener then pushed the infuser against her bare arm.
The room faded.
***