Chapter 20

Macias says I’m smart, that I remember dates, places, literature, and art. She knows this from all the tests they’ve given me. “What is this picture? What’s twelve times twelve divided by two? Who was JFK?” I ask her, if I’m smart, why can’t I remember my own name, my past life? She smiles but doesn’t answer. Psychiatrists do that, I’ve learned.

The next morning, I pad in bare feet to the bathroom I share with another patient, Selma. I don’t know Selma’s last name. They don’t allow last names here. I can tell Selma’s recently taken a shower since the glass is misted over. I pick up a damp towel thrown over the tub and run it across the mirror in sections, top to bottom. I’m fifty-ish—so they tell me—with a round face, short-cropped hair, and blue eyes. I turn sideways and notice the beginning of jowls. I move my head up and down, work my jaw, try to make the bags of fat under my neck disappear. Newsflash: They don’t.