Mr. Nobody by Catherine Steadman

Author:Catherine Steadman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2020-01-06T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

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I set up the photo sequence and press start.

A photograph of an empty beach.

His eyes flick fast over the image, pupils dilating fractionally, he inhales sharply.

I watch the fMRI light up. His cortex now aglow, pulsing, as it processes the image. Then his amygdala, the fight-or-flight center, blazes, processing his emotional response to the stimuli. Immediately followed by a flare in his hippocampus—relevant memories are being sourced. Memory Retrieval 101.

Matthew remembers being on the beach. But then, we knew that, didn’t we?

I check the video link; he’s very pale. I check his vital signs: his pulse is slightly raised. To be expected; the last time he was on a beach must have been absolutely terrifying.

Now to test whether his memories go any further back than that day on the beach.

I flick to the next photo in the sequence.

A stock family photo—a young couple, each holding a child in their arms.

I watch the fMRI images as they register. Cortex firing, only a dim glow from the amygdala, and nothing from the hippocampus. Interesting. Either Matthew can’t remember having a wife and child or he’s never had either.

I flick to the next picture.

Another family photo this time from the 1980s—a couple in their forties with a seven-year-old son; it’s more formal in style.

I’ve chosen a stock image from the eighties so it will resonate more with Matthew’s memories of being a boy, and potential memories of his own parents, if he can access them.

I watch the fMRI screen. Visual cortex glows, and then the amygdala leaps to life, a burst of brain activity blazing on the screen. An extremely strong emotional reaction to the idea of parents or childhood. But as I study the dark mass of the hippocampus, there is nothing. Nothing. He has no memories of a family. I realize I’m holding my breath. I double-check the screen. No, there is no activation.

He really can’t remember.

A fizz of excitement thrills through me. Matthew might be the first fully verifiable case of fugue.

In spite of everything that’s happened over the last two days, I feel a bright burst of joy inside. I can’t help but smile to myself. Buoyed, I flick to the final image.

A thick green forest fills the screen.

I watch his face on the screen, his pupils widening as he makes sense of it. Last night Matthew mentioned having one clear memory, of being in a wood.

I look to the fMRI screen. His visual cortex activates, but his amygdala is strangely subdued, given how he spoke about the memory. I study the screen and then a sudden flash, an intense burst of activation in the hippocampus. A flash of memory. I jolt forward, leaning into the screen, and a constellation of areas in the cerebral cortex glow in answer to the initial flash. I’ve never seen anything like it, such a localized and specific reaction. I glance at his amygdala again. There’s hardly any emotional engagement. No emotional connection to these memories. My focus is pulled by a sudden low beeping below the screen.

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