salads … meals such as one would get only in fine restaurants and good homes. He set these dishes down on clean tablecloths, urging the boy to eat everything before him.
One night he said, “You must face the fact that you’ve suffered a head concussion, and that’s been followed by amnesia. I suppose it’s only because you were in fine physical shape that you were able to get along without medical attention. Now you’re on the way to complete recovery. But to make it come even faster you’ve got to have plenty of rest and nourishment. That’s all any doctor would tell you, I’m sure.”
“What good is my being physically well,
if I can’t remember?
” McGregor asked bitterly.
“Your memory will come back, too, if you’re healthy and want it back.”
“Want it back?” A thin smile crept on the boy’s face. “
Don’t you think I do?
”
The man looked at McGregor a long while, and then said, “Yes … yes, I guess you do, at that.” He turned away guiltily. “The last few days I got to thinking that maybe you didn’t want to regain your memory,” he admitted. “I’ve heard of some people creating a mental block because they don’t want to remember their past.” He met the boy’s eyes again, those tragic, saddened eyes. “I was wrong,” he said.
“You were thinking of the money in the dresser,” McGregor said accusingly. “You thought that sincethe police are after me …” He paused. “I want to remember everything,” he began again, heatedly. “I don’t care what happens to me after that. I can face it then. You’ve got to believe that.”
“I believe you, and if you want your memory back it’ll come.”
“But how? What good is my wanting it back, if the barrier is always there?”
“It’s half the job,” the man said. “The other half is complete physical recovery from your injury.”
The boy smiled bitterly. “Then I should be completely well,” he said. “I feel fine.”
“No, it isn’t that fast. You have to work for it. There are steps you must take.”
“Steps?”
“Yes, steps. Your body, your hands must have been trained to do something. Start using them, and maybe you’ll find out what it was. Something you do should come easier, more natural to you than anything else. Pursue whatever that is, and perhaps the association of this and what comes from it will make something else more familiar. Follow that line and somewhere along it you should get your memory back.”
Gordon left the room. He returned a moment later, carrying a rifle which he handed to the boy. “Let’s see you hold it, feel it,” he said abruptly.
The boy’s hands slid down the long barrel. The rifle was light in his hands but there was nothing familiar about it. Instead he lifted it awkwardly to his shoulder.
Seeing this, Gordon quickly took the rifle awayfrom him. “You sure never handled a rifle much,” he said. Then he pushed something else into the boy’s hand, his eyes intent, watching every move.
The boy looked down at the small revolver, and was afraid to close his fingers about it. He was afraid because of what he might learn. But finally he made himself grasp it. He felt the polished butt in the palm of his right hand, the trigger beneath his finger. He raised it, sighting it.
“You’ve closed the wrong eye,” Gordon said. “Keep them both open or just close the left one.” Then he took back the revolver, making no effort to conceal his relief at the boy’s being no more familiar with the revolver than with the rifle. He smiled. “Whatever you’ve done hasn’t been in this line,” he said. “That’s good to know.”
The days that followed were easier for McGregor. He had some kind of plan now, and it was far better than just sitting around the house, waiting for the black mental curtain to rise.
He worked with the flowers and plants, cutting them back and planting new ones. He spaded the earth, and rubbed the dirt in his hands, hoping that just
One night he said, “You must face the fact that you’ve suffered a head concussion, and that’s been followed by amnesia. I suppose it’s only because you were in fine physical shape that you were able to get along without medical attention. Now you’re on the way to complete recovery. But to make it come even faster you’ve got to have plenty of rest and nourishment. That’s all any doctor would tell you, I’m sure.”
“What good is my being physically well,
if I can’t remember?
” McGregor asked bitterly.
“Your memory will come back, too, if you’re healthy and want it back.”
“Want it back?” A thin smile crept on the boy’s face. “
Don’t you think I do?
”
The man looked at McGregor a long while, and then said, “Yes … yes, I guess you do, at that.” He turned away guiltily. “The last few days I got to thinking that maybe you didn’t want to regain your memory,” he admitted. “I’ve heard of some people creating a mental block because they don’t want to remember their past.” He met the boy’s eyes again, those tragic, saddened eyes. “I was wrong,” he said.
“You were thinking of the money in the dresser,” McGregor said accusingly. “You thought that sincethe police are after me …” He paused. “I want to remember everything,” he began again, heatedly. “I don’t care what happens to me after that. I can face it then. You’ve got to believe that.”
“I believe you, and if you want your memory back it’ll come.”
“But how? What good is my wanting it back, if the barrier is always there?”
“It’s half the job,” the man said. “The other half is complete physical recovery from your injury.”
The boy smiled bitterly. “Then I should be completely well,” he said. “I feel fine.”
“No, it isn’t that fast. You have to work for it. There are steps you must take.”
“Steps?”
“Yes, steps. Your body, your hands must have been trained to do something. Start using them, and maybe you’ll find out what it was. Something you do should come easier, more natural to you than anything else. Pursue whatever that is, and perhaps the association of this and what comes from it will make something else more familiar. Follow that line and somewhere along it you should get your memory back.”
Gordon left the room. He returned a moment later, carrying a rifle which he handed to the boy. “Let’s see you hold it, feel it,” he said abruptly.
The boy’s hands slid down the long barrel. The rifle was light in his hands but there was nothing familiar about it. Instead he lifted it awkwardly to his shoulder.
Seeing this, Gordon quickly took the rifle awayfrom him. “You sure never handled a rifle much,” he said. Then he pushed something else into the boy’s hand, his eyes intent, watching every move.
The boy looked down at the small revolver, and was afraid to close his fingers about it. He was afraid because of what he might learn. But finally he made himself grasp it. He felt the polished butt in the palm of his right hand, the trigger beneath his finger. He raised it, sighting it.
“You’ve closed the wrong eye,” Gordon said. “Keep them both open or just close the left one.” Then he took back the revolver, making no effort to conceal his relief at the boy’s being no more familiar with the revolver than with the rifle. He smiled. “Whatever you’ve done hasn’t been in this line,” he said. “That’s good to know.”
The days that followed were easier for McGregor. He had some kind of plan now, and it was far better than just sitting around the house, waiting for the black mental curtain to rise.
He worked with the flowers and plants, cutting them back and planting new ones. He spaded the earth, and rubbed the dirt in his hands, hoping that just
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