Her Perfect Lies. Lana Newton

names. Claire had to pick the names out of a long list. Some of them were similar to one another, with a difference of one or two letters. There was a number next to each name. Claire didn’t know what the numbers meant, nor did she ask. She wanted the test over and done with. She wanted to be alone, so she could go through the photo albums and find another photograph of her mother. But she did her best to match the names to the pictures, on the off chance that by some miracle it would help recover her memory.

      Dr Johnson nodded at every answer, his face impassive. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Finally, he took the pictures of people away, only to replace them with pictures of vegetables. Claire had to memorise them and then pick names from a long list. ‘Verbal new learning,’ he explained.

      ‘And what do you expect me to learn from this, Doctor?’

      ‘You don’t need to learn anything. I need to assess how well you’re doing.’

      Not only did Claire manage to answer every question but she recorded a close to perfect score. Better than 90 per cent of Dr Johnson’s patients. The doctor looked unimpressed when he told her that. ‘You’re doing great, Claire.’

      ‘You think I’m doing great, Doctor? Then why do I feel so …’ She couldn’t think of the right word. Empty, lost, desperate? All of the above?

      ‘You don’t feel like yourself. It’s understandable and to be expected. You have what’s known as post-traumatic amnesia. It’s generally caused by a severe head injury.’

      Claire nodded while suppressing the desire to laugh in doctor’s face. Tell me something I don’t know. But what she said instead was, ‘These other patients of yours. The 10 per cent who did better than me on the tests. Have they recovered? Can they remember?’

      ‘Some of them.’

      ‘So what’s the prognosis?’

      ‘The good news is, this type of amnesia is usually temporary.’

      Claire perked up. This was good news indeed. ‘How long?’

      ‘The human mind is incredibly complex. You could wake up tomorrow and remember everything. Or it could take years.’

      ‘Or it could never happen?’

      ‘It’s impossible to tell. You were unconscious for a long time. That could affect the duration of your amnesia.’ Claire must have looked disappointed because something resembling pity appeared Dr Johnson’s face. Pity was not what she wanted to see. She looked down into her hands. The doctor continued, ‘All we can do is stay positive. Do you have a strong support network? Family, friends?’

      Claire thought of Paul’s cold eyes as he collected her from the hospital. She thought of her missing mother. ‘I have my father. And my best friend.’

      ‘That’s a good start. You’ll need all the support you can get. Try to immerse yourself in familiar activities. Anything could trigger your memory, anything at all. People, experiences, sounds. Scents can work particularly well.’ Dr Johnson stood up.

      ‘Is there anything else we can do?’

      ‘There isn’t much, unfortunately. No reliable treatments at this stage, I’m afraid.’

      ‘What about unreliable? Hypnosis, maybe?’

      ‘Some people believe hypnosis can help. But they are in the minority. We certainly don’t recommend it. The mind is a tricky fragile thing. It’s best not to influence it with something so intrusive.’ The doctor shrugged apologetically. ‘There is no foolproof solution. Find out what you’ve enjoyed before the accident. These experiences might act as a catalyst, and before you know it, you’ll remember.’

      Claire wished she knew what she had enjoyed before the accident. She made a mental note to ask Gaby. And then it occurred to her – she loved to dance! Yes, that was it. ‘When can I go back to work?’ Suddenly it felt like the perfect solution. She had been dancing since she was a little girl. What could be more familiar? She thought about how easily she seemed to remember the movements. If only she could dance again, her mind might catch up with her body.

      ‘You were a ballet dancer, were you not?’

      Claire nodded, for the first time feeling excitement and anticipation warming her from the inside like burning coals.

      ‘Not yet. No strenuous exercise. Although you’re physically strong, mentally you’re extremely fragile. As you improve over time, you can start challenging yourself – slowly. Remember, baby steps.’

      ‘I can’t stay here, cooped up in this house, not knowing what to do with myself.’

      ‘It might be frustrating at times, but rest is what you need right now.’

      ‘Please don’t tell Paul I want to go back to work. I’ll tell him when the time is right. I don’t want him to worry.’

      Dr Johnson nodded. ‘I’ll visit once a month to see how you’re getting on.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Claire, suddenly nervous. What was the point, if there were no treatments and no definite prognosis? If there was nothing they could do, why even try? ‘How will it feel when I start remembering? Will it all come back at once?’

      ‘It’s more likely you’ll experience islands of memory. You’ll remember certain things, perhaps those that have made the most impact on you in the past.’

      ‘What about everything else?’

      ‘Once you start remembering, it’s a good sign. Other memories will follow.’

      ‘And what if they don’t?’

      ‘That is also possible. No one can tell for sure. The human mind—’

      ‘Is complex. Yes, you’ve said.’

      ‘Remember, stay positive. In the meantime, I want you to start a diary. Write down anything that comes to mind. Ideas, memories, thoughts. Anything could help.’

      He said goodbye, leaving Claire standing in the doorway, watching his retreating back, unsure what to do next. After he disappeared, she did as she was told – she found a blank notepad and sat by the piano. As her hands played a melody she didn’t recognise, she thought of something to write in her new diary.

      What did the doctor say? Thoughts, memories, ideas? After two hours, there was only one question in Claire’s notebook, written in a square childish handwriting:

       What happened on the day of the accident?

      * * *

      In the afternoon, Claire played the piano until she could no longer see from the tears in her eyes. As Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture filled the room, she could sense memories within her reach but when she tried to grasp them, they melted away like fresh snow in spring. Being here, in this house she didn’t remember, looking at the stranger in the mirror and knowing nothing about her filled her with dread she couldn’t understand or control. She didn’t know what it was she was afraid of, but she was afraid nonetheless. If only her father was here. He would know exactly what to say to make her feel better.

      The moment her piano fell silent, Claire heard a noise. Molokai bounced up in the air and barked, disappearing into the living room. Claire slid off her chair and softly tiptoed after him. The living room was empty but she could sense a presence. She wasn’t alone. There was someone in the house.

      The dread was no longer a low current running through her. Suddenly she could think of nothing else. Would Molokai be able to protect her if … if what? If there was an intruder in the house? If she had a secret enemy she knew nothing about? Her head was spinning and the walls were closing in on her. She couldn’t see anything around her. All she could do was scream.

      ‘Don’t be alarmed, Miss.’ She felt pair of strong arms lifting her off the floor. ‘I’m Nina, your housekeeper.’

      Claire opened her eyes cautiously and saw a round