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Every Little Girls Dream
Book One
This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental.
I have based the tragic incident in the first chapter on a real event, and I salute those public servants and volunteers who worked so hard to manage the event, from every angle. My heart goes out to those directly and indirectly involved in the whole horrible affair, and I hope that I can, in some small way, pay homage to those who sought to bring relief and help.
Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.
This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don't read it.
Synopsis.
Tom Stewart is a rough, tough, seasoned, twenty-nine year veteran Police Inspector. Used to command, he is a popular, dedicated family man, on the eve of his half-century and facing the end of his career. He has lived with a secret for most of his life, successfully managing it. With retirement, he stands to lose the major factor in that success and he is very uncertain about how he will control the hidden urges.
Jenny Adams, a sixteen year-old schoolgirl, has her whole life ahead of her. She is bright, sensitive and pretty, she has everything going for her. She is returning from a day's shopping with her mother on a train.
The train is derailed in tragic circumstances. Jenny's mother is killed while Jenny sustains serious head injuries and is in a coma.
Inspector Stewart is aware of the incident, but not directly involved. Time, however, is perhaps up for Tom, as he is rushed to the same hospital in which Jenny lies on the brink of death.
One of them survives, but which one?
Join me in a voyage of true discovery.
Chapter Five
The Shrink
Dreams are very funny things. When you are in them, even the silliest situation can appear real and serious. But when you dream serious things, it's hard to know what is real and what isn't.
I dreamed.
I was dimly aware I was dreaming, yet at the same time, I didn't want to stop it in case I could learn something about myself.
I was at a funeral. I was standing in a church looking at a coffin resting on trestles up near the altar. I was aware that people I loved were standing beside me, but for some obscure reason, I didn't want to look at them.
I was looking down at an open hymnbook that I was holding. The letters are out of focus and I'm holding the book far away so I can read it. I could see my cuffs and I had a white shirt on, with a dark coat or jacket over the top. I had a black leather wristwatch strap on my left wrist, and a flash of gold informed me I was wearing a ring on my left ring finger, the wedding finger.
My hand was palm up, so I couldn't see whether it was a plain wedding band, or had a stone or engraving plate on it. They seemed quite large calloused hands, but I knew that they were definitely mine.
I looked at the coffin, with the many bouquets of flowers that adorned it. I turned to my left and saw, across an aisle, a woman dressed in black. She was middle-aged, yet was crying almost uncontrollably.
I knew her. I should do, because she was my sister. I knew her name was Kathleen and she was married to a man called Bob, whom didn't like very much. I looked back at the coffin and knew that inside, lay the lifeless body of my mother.
I woke up gasping for air and sweating. For a few moments, I was completely disorientated and forgot where I was. It dawned on me that I was still in hospital, and then, strangely, my hand went to my crotch, to check whether I was still a girl.
That action concerned me, particularly as I felt inexplicable relief to discover I was female. Indeed, on feeling the now familiar softness between my legs, I relaxed completely and the stress of my dream abated.
I scrabbled for my pen and notebook and wrote down what I could remember: -
Sister – Kathleen 40 -50???, married to Bob.. I don't like him. Mother dead. Wedding ring? Black watchstrap.
Specs for Reading?
Now my father told me I had a brother called Richard. Why did I suddenly dream I had a middle-aged sister called Kathleen? She was older even than Dad, so it made no sense. I could still picture her face from the dream. It was as real now as it had been in the dream.
The ward was quiet. The old lady hadn't returned to her bed opposite, so I was alone in my little cul-de-sac. It was dark outside, so I had no idea of the time. I was sleepy but aware that I needed another pee. There was a wall clock, but it was further up the ward. I slung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up.
The ribs still hurt a lot, but my head was better. I waited in case the dizziness returned, but it didn't. I considered buzzing the nurse, but decided to have a go on my own. I stood up, holding onto the bedside cabinet, set off slowly, keeping close to something to grab hold of should the need arise. As I passed the clock, I noticed it was only five a.m.
I reached the loo and as I approached the toilet itself, I had an overwhelming urge to pee standing up. It was silly, as the seat was down, yet I almost reached out and raised the seat as if I was on automatic. I resisted the urge and, lifting my nightie, sat down.
I tried to think what had made me do that. I was half-asleep, so I felt it was an unconscious action, born out of conditioning. That meant my feelings of not really belonging were right, and that somehow I had been male and woke up in this slightly battered, but otherwise very beautiful young girl's body.
The frustration of just not having any memory was almost tangible. The dream was still very real and I tried to focus on the face of the woman I knew was called Kathleen. It was the first single memory of anything and I didn't want to lose it. As I sat there, I suddenly had another flash of memory involving the same woman, but a lot younger. She was dressed as a bride and was getting married. She was laughing, and there was another woman with her. I closed my eyes and the woman's face turned towards me.
It was my mother, - our mother, Kathleen's and mine. She was a small, slightly plump woman, with a big smile and greying hair. I smiled, as I could almost hear her voice…almost. I felt the warmth of her affection and it made me cry again.
I opened my eyes and the memory faded. It was still there, as my only memory so far, I wasn't going to let it go!
I finished my pee and examined my new body. Although I have no idea of whom I really am and certainly no clue as to who I might have been before, I had to admit I was more than happy with the situation.
I did feel that I didn't belong in this body, as much as I didn't belong in a brand new Ferrari. That didn't mean to say I didn't like being in it, and could certainly get used to it!
In the absence of an irate owner demanding I quit and hand it back, I began to have a proprietary feeling about it.
I slipped my nightie off and examined as much of me that I could see. Limited somewhat by the restrictions of bandages and pain, I was able to appreciate what I could see.
I was about five foot six. This was another factor in my belief that somehow I had been someone else. I had a vague impression that I had been taller, quite a bit taller in fact. I had to stretch to see my breasts in the mirror and an involuntary smile came to my lips when I saw them. I was slender, with a very narrow waist, and hips that curved out gently. With long slender legs, bereft of hair, topped with that jewel nestled at their union. The smile became broader.
Whoever I had been, this was who I had always wanted to be, of that I was completely certain.
Feeling slightly chilly, I dressed and returned to my bed. My absence had gone unnoticed, so I snuggled in to warm up again. I must have dropped off, because the nurse woke me up to take my temperature and blood pressure.
“How's the pain, this morning?”
“Okay. Still there, but bearable. I went to the loo in the night and it was okay,” I replied.
“That was naughty. Why didn't you buzz me?”
“I didn't want to bother you, besides, I was fine.”
“What if you'd have fallen?”
“I didn't.”
“You could have done.”
“I didn't, so it's not a problem.”
She shook her head and smiled, then wrote down my readings on the chart. She wandered off to deal with someone else and so I dozed.
Hospitals aren't really good places to rest or sleep. Armies of cleaners and all kinds of people come clattering in from six thirty onwards. But it was pleasant lying back and not feeling pain for a while.
As I semi-dozed, I recalled the dream when I was standing on the edge of a void. I couldn't remember when I dreamed it, but the feeling of being given a choice was very strong. There was light and warmth and then there was the void. That was all I could remember. I thought about my other dream, and I wondered how true they both were, or whether I was just suffering the after-effects of being battered on the head, or given loads of drugs.
As it started to get light, the reality of my flesh, my pain and my senses seemed to over-ride the silly notions of being someone else. Everything inside me told me that was impossible and I concluded that it was all due to my bang on the head.
I still had no memory, except a picture of a sister called Kathleen, and a mother who loved me and was now dead.
I was roused by the arrival of another patient. It was a young man and he was unconscious. They lifted him off the trolley and onto the bed next to me, carefully, so as not to disturb the two legs that were in plaster. I saw steel pins sticking out of the side of both plasters, at various intervals up both legs. One arm was plastered, as was his other wrist, while his neck was in a neck-brace.
They pulled the curtains round as soon as the trolley was removed. Hannah came over to me.
“Hi Jenny, how are you today?”
“Okay, I think. What happened to him? He looks a real mess.”
“Motorbike accident. He's been in surgery for hours. He was another one who very nearly died.”
“How many bones has he broken?”
“Lots,” she said, picking up my chart.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Oi, Miss Nosey, it's none of your business,” she said.
“Go on, it's really dull in here. The only excitement yesterday was when the old lady was taken out. Did she die?”
Hannah looked at me for a moment.
“Yes, Jenny, she did,” she said.
“Oh, I'm sorry.” I felt terribly guilty all of a sudden.
She read my chart for a few moments.
“Well?” I asked.
She shook her head and smiled.
“He left the road near Sonning and ended up in some trees. No one else was involved, and a passing motorist called it in. Happy now?”
“Was he going too fast?”
“Probably.”
“Is the bike a write off?”
“I have no idea, but if he's anything to go by, I wouldn't be surprised.”
“What make of bike was it?”
“Jenny, I have no idea. I think I've answered enough, don't you?”
I grinned.
“Do you want breakfast?” she asked.
“Yes please.”
“Any memory come back?”
“I'm not sure,” I said, unsure whether to share what little I did have.
“Oh?”
“It may be nothing, but I remember going to a funeral.”
“That sounds cheerful. Is that it?”
I nodded. For some reason, I felt cautious and didn't want to say too much.
“You're to see the psychiatrist this morning. Maybe he can help.”
“I hope so, it's really awful not knowing anything.”
“Do you want a wash?”
“Yes please. Can I have a bath?”
“Not yet. We'll give you a bed bath, okay?”
“I suppose so, it's better than nothing.”
By the time the psychiatrist arrived, it was nearly eleven o'clock and I was actually tired. I'd had breakfast, a wash, seen the doctors on their round, been to the loo, had a hair cut and put some makeup on under Hannah's supervision. The last bit had been a real hoot and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
The hairdresser simply gave me a very short cut all round, leaving a reasonable fringe at the front. I felt a lot better when she had finished, as I only had a small dressing covering the wound on the back of my head now.
A young man wearing jeans and an All Blacks Rugby shirt appeared at my bed.
“Hi, Jenny Adams?” he asked. His accent was in line with his shirt.
“So I'm told,” I said, feeling impish.
His face fell a little. He was a good-looking man, in his late twenties, with dark hair and a rugby player's build.
He sat down.
“I'm Bruce Phillips, you've been referred to me because of your amnesia,” he said, holding out his hand.
I shook it.
“You're the shrink?” I asked.
He grinned and nodded.
“So I'm told,” he said and we both smiled. Touché.
I sat and looked at him.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Physically, a bit stiff, sore and somewhat restricted. Mentally, I feel frustrated, angry, confused and bored out of my brain.”
He laughed.
“Okay, let's forget the physical side, the other doctors tell me you're getting better, and I can see that for myself. So, one at a time, what's frustrating you?”
“I can't remember anything before waking up with a tube down my throat. A man came in and told me he was my father and that I'm called Jenny Adams. I don't even recognise myself, let alone anyone else. I've thirty-eight cards from people who know me and I can't picture any of them, even my supposed brother and boyfriend. Yet, I managed to do a difficult crossword, I can remember the food I like and don't like, and I know I just don't have the same taste in music than I did before the crash.”
Bruce was writing everything down on a pad.
“I'm writing this down, because my memory is awful, okay. What about anger, why are you angry?”
“Because I can't remember.”
“That's it?”
“It's enough, isn't it? I mean, I'm told my mother died in the crash, but I can't feel anything because I can't remember her. Wouldn't you feel angry?”
He nodded.
“Yup, I probably would. Go on.”
“What's to say, I'm confused because I can't remember and every moment is new to me. I mean, it's as if I was born a couple of days ago, with the ability to speak and wipe my bum, but no idea as to how I learned to do those things. I did that cryptic crossword yesterday and how the heck can I do that, but not remember my own name?”
“Good question, and to be honest, I don't know. Head injuries are strange things. It's not like illness; it's more complex. No two patients are the same. What you and I have to do is work out a plan. We've got to get you to a stage that the past is something that is not that important any more. The important thing is now and tomorrow. You have a future, and that's important. Yesterday is gone, but the memories may well come back and you have to be able to deal with them. Some might be nasty and others nice. Can you imagine what your mother looked like?”
The question almost threw me, for I immediately thought of the grey haired lady from Kathleen's wedding.
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Okay. Your Dad has been in to see you, so you know what he looks like. I want you to close your eyes, and try to imagine him at home, and say standing next to the Christmas tree. Where do you keep the tree?”
I shrugged, my eyes closed.
“I don't know.”
“Where would you like to keep the tree, given a choice?”
“In the sitting room.”
“Why?”
“Because…., just because.”
“Tell me about your sitting room, can you picture it?”
I shook my head, but in truth a picture was forming in my mind. I saw a picture on the wall above the fireplace.
“You must see something.”
“A fireplace?”
“What kind of fire?”
“A burning one.”
“Minx! Coal, wood or gas?”
I shrugged.
“Flames, coal or gas, I think.”
“Jenny, I just want you to watch the flames for a while. Can you feel their warmth?”
I nodded.
“It's Christmas, what's on the mantle piece?”
“A clock.”
“What's it look like?”
“Brass, a carriage clock. There are candle sticks and a funny looking mug.”
“Go on,” he said.
I felt there was danger here and immediately withdrew. I opened my eyes.
“It's gone. Did you hypnotise me?”
“No, you were awake and aware all the time. But I have at least managed to prove that your memory is there, it's just hidden away somewhere.”
“Am I bonkers?” I asked, and he burst out laughing.
“Dear me, no. You suffered a major trauma to your skull and that impacted on your brain. There was a danger you could have suffered some brain damage and I have to say I am surprised at how well you have recovered. This temporary amnesia could be mental trauma or physical. I don't believe it's mental. That's to say, it isn't really a psychiatrist's case, but a neurosurgeon's. The surgeon has done what he can, so now it's up to the two of us to rebuild your past.
“I want to play a name game with you. I'll say a word, and I want you to tell me the first word that comes into your head, okay?”
I nodded, and off he went.
This went on for a while and he wrote down all my responses. Then he changed tack and we chatted about the news.
“Have you seen a TV since the accident?”
“No, why?”
“If I said - Iraq, what would it mean to you?”
“Iraq? A country in the middle-east, Saddam Hussein was dictator, there's a war on, and the Americans and British have gone in to get the soldiers killed in a self-perpetuating conflict with no defined enemy.”
He frowned and looked at me.
“You don't think we should have gone in?”
“No, but then I'm not the person making decisions.”
“Who's Prime minister at the moment?”
“Tony Blair, why?”
“Who's the American President?”
“George W. Bush, look, why does this matter, and how will it help me?”
“How do you know these things?”
I stared at him.
“Coz I do,” I said, surprised at myself.
“I'm going to ask you questions, and I want you to answer as quickly as possible. Don't think, just answer with the first thing that comes into your head, okay?”
I nodded.
“What's your favourite colour?”
“Blue.”
“What's your favourite drink?”
“Malt whisky,” I said and grinned.
“Come on, seriously?” he said.
“Um, chocolate milkshake.”
“Liar, you thought about that one. Try again, favourite drink?”
“Gin and tonic,” I said, quite truthfully, and his eyebrows shot up.
I grinned sheepishly and he smiled at me.
“Does your Dad know?”
I shrugged.
“Favourite food?”
“Thai.”
“Favourite place?”
“By the river.”
“Favourite band?”
“Status Quo.”
His eyebrows shot up once more, as he glanced at the pile of CDs on the cabinet.
“Favourite film?
I couldn't think of a film.
“I can't think of one.”
“Okay, do you like cartoons?”
“Of course, everyone likes cartoons.”
“Which character is your favourite?”
I closed my eyes. This was hard, but finally something did pop into my head.
“Shrek.”
He grinned.
“Yeah, mine too.”
“Favourite author?”
I shook my head.
“Any author?”
I shook my head.
“Try.”
Again, I closed my eyes and concentrated of picking something out of the soup that was my mind.
“Douglas Reeman.”
He paused, writing in his little book.
He then ran a couple more tests, and finally closed his book.
“Well, am I bonkers?”
“Confused, yes, but not bonkers. Jenny, your answers are perfectly normal, but not for a sixteen year old girl. If you were over forty, then you'd be discharged immediately, but you're not. Either some wires are a little crossed, or you've taken onboard values belonging to someone else, like your father or mother.
“Everything about you is fine, except your speech pattern and thought process are more advanced than I would expect. I can't explain it, but memory or no memory, psychologically your mind is more mature than the rest of you.
“I don't think your memory loss is permanent, as you can bring back things like favourite food and drinks. By the way, how come you like gin and whisky?”
I shrugged.
“I dunno; it was the first thing that came into my head. I can't ever remember drinking either.”
He chatted to me generally, making me laugh at a couple of stories he told about a rugby tour he went on as a student.
“Are you from New Zealand?”
“Yup, can you tell?”
I grinned and nodded.
“Have you been there?”
I shook my head.
“I don't think so.”
“You'd like it. It's a wild and beautiful place,” he said.
“So why come here?”
“Because it's boring as buggery!” he said and grinned.
“Did you see them make the Lord of the Rings?” I asked.
“Ah-ha, remember that, do you?”
I frowned and nodded. I did, vaguely.
“I'm not sure, but I do know it was made in New Zealand. I didn't have to think about that, it was just there.”
“Good. See, you're getting better already. No, I was already over here in medical school.”
“Why become a shrink?”
“Because I'm not that good with blood. Actually, it seemed to be a greater challenge and the rewards are really satisfying. What do you want to do?”
I shrugged again. It was an easy way out.
“I really don't know. My Dad's a pilot and I remember so little about me that I haven't a clue. I think I'd rather work with people, rather than with things like money or accounts. Something like a doctor or a nurse.”
Bruce looked at me and smiled.
“Your future is an open book. With determination and hard work, you can be whatever you want to be!”
“Yeah, I just want to be me, but I'm not sure who that is,” I said.
“We'll find her, together, we'll bring her back better than before!”
“I hope so, I really do!” I said.
Tanya Allen
Copyright 12.10.05