“What do you think when you look at me like that?” she asked.
“That everyone I meet here is strange.”
But it could be because of the way he was seeing things, he told himself. Maybe people never had been the way he thought he remembered.
* * *
He remembered being with a group of young people, laughing and teasing each other as they walked along a road by a shore, where waves broke over rocks below. It was an old town somewhere, of imposing, high-fronted houses built in terraces around squares with green lawns. Ships sailed out of a harbor, past a lighthouse at the end of a long stone pier.
* * *
“You were involved in some unconventional experiments involving processes deep in the brain, which have affected your mind and altered the way you see the world,” Dr. Arnold told him.
“I seem to remember I worked with computers. I came to this country to work with them from somewhere else.”
“Ah, excellent! You’re getting better every day. Now I want you to meet Simon, who’s going to be your regular counselor. Simon, this is the man we want you to help. His name is Joe. Do you remember your full name, Joe?”
“Corrigan. . . . Joe Corrigan. Pleased to meet you, Simon.”
* * *
One Saturday night there was a dance for the patients to get to know each other and begin rediscovering long-unused social skills. Corrigan felt as if he had been caught up in a charade of walking character clichés.
“How are you finding it, Joe?” Dr. Arnold inquired, rubbing his hands together like an anxious headmaster showing his face at the annual high-school ball.
“Tell me these people aren’t real,” Corrigan answered.
Arnold seemed unsurprised but interested. “Why? What’s wrong with them?”
“I feel as if I’m in an old, corny movie.”
“The parts of your memory are starting to come together again. Not as much of what you think you see is really out there. Your mind is filling the gaps by projecting its own, stored stereotypes from long ago. Don’t worry. It’s a healthy sign.”
* * *
There came a day when Corrigan grew tired of being restricted. He wanted to get out in the air and work with his hands. In a shed in the rear grounds of the hospital he found some garden tools, and decided on impulse that he would plant a vegetable patch. There was no need to seek approval—one of the advantages of being deemed unstable was that nobody was surprised at anything one did. In any case, asking would simply be an invitation to be told no. A phrase came to mind from somewhere in his past and made him smile: “Contrition is easier than permission.”
The world was coming more together now, and although he hadn’t said so, inwardly he considered himself to be virtually back to normal. But when he turned over the first fork of soil, there was nothing underneath—just blackness. He stared, confused, then closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them again, nothing was amiss: he saw earth, roots, a shard of pottery, and a few rocks.
“You see, you’re not as well as you imagine yet,” Arnold told him when Corrigan described the experience. “Your perceptions can still be disrupted by sudden changes of mood or intent. That is why it is important for you to get into the habit of thinking smoothly. Avoid discontinuities. . . . But wanting to get out and about again, I can understand. It’s perfectly natural.”
“Maybe I could visit my old company?” Corrigan suggested. He could remember a little now about the organization that he used to be with, and his work there. It had involved supercomputers and other advanced hardware.
“That project was abandoned a long time ago now, Joe,” Arnold replied. “And I’m not sure that digging up those ghosts would really be for the best. But I agree that we should begin broadening your experiences as a start to getting you on the road back to a normal life.”
“How long have I been here?” Corrigan asked.
“It’s getting close to three years now,” Arnold said.