Marilyn Kaye - Speak No Evil

For Baptiste Latil,

who remembers all my stories

THE BOY KNOWN AS Carter Street was dreaming.

In his dream, he was in an empty space. There were no windows, no lights, but it wasnt dark, just a dull, bland grey. He was standing because there was nowhere to sit no chairs, no sofa. He couldnt even sit on the floor because there didnt seem to be a floor. Maybe it wasnt a room at all. He could have been hanging in the air. Or he might have been inside his own head.

But the room, the space, wherever he was it wasnt completely empty. There was a big television. And an unseen hand turned it on.

What he saw on the screen was vaguely familiar, like a rerun of a programme hed seen before. A young boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, was riding on a roller coaster. He was accompanied by two shadowy, larger figures sitting on either side of him the boys parents? The boy was laughing, throwing his arms up in the air as his car went into a steep descent.

The vision on the screen dissolved, and was replaced by another image. The same boy, with the same shadowy figures, at a dining table. Then he saw the boy splashing in a swimming pool. And now the boy was running round a baseball diamond. Then, abruptly, that unseen hand switched off the TV and the screen went dark.

That was when he woke up. For a moment he just lay in the bed very still and stared at the white ceiling above him. That boy in the dream. . Did he know him? Maybe, maybe not. But there was definitely a connection. Whoever he was, the boy had been turned off, and Carter Street could relate to that.

He sat up and looked around. There was no television in this room, but it wasnt dark and empty. Light streamed in from a window. There was a desk, a chest of drawers, a basin with a mirror over it. There was even a picture on a wall a small brown puppy lapping water in a bowl. Did the boy in his dream have a dog? No, because his mother was allergic to dog hair.

But he couldnt have known that, could he? Not if he didnt know the boy. Anyway, it was just a dream. He shook his head vigorously as if he could shake out the memory of it, but he knew it would linger. They always did, those dreams.

He didnt want to remember dreams he had to concentrate on the present. His name, for example. Carter Street. At least, that was what everyone called him. And his location. . He wasnt in the home of his foster family, the Grangers. And he wasnt in Madames gifted class at Meadowbrook Middle School. Then it came back to him: he was in a place called Harmony House, a special place for teenagers who were in trouble. Was he in trouble? He didnt know and he didnt care. He wasnt in danger, that much he knew for sure, and that was all that mattered. He wasnt cold, he had a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in. He wasnt hungry well, maybe he was, just a little, but he knew that hed be having food very soon. So everything was OK.

He got out of bed, went to the basin and filled a plastic cup with water from the tap. He took the cup over to the windowsill, where a plant was sitting. The plant hadnt been there when he arrived. It had been sent by his teacher, Madame, with a note that read, We miss you.

The words didnt make much sense to him. How could anyone miss him? Even when he was physically in that class, he wasnt really there. He barely existed, no matter where he was. He made no impact on the class, and no one paid any attention to him. They wouldnt notice if he wasnt there.

Another paper had come with the plant instructions on how to take care of it. He had to keep it warm, and he had to give it water every day. It had no other needs, just shelter and nourishment. Just like Carter Street.

After watering the plant, he continued with the same routine hed been following since he arrived three days ago. He washed his face, brushed his teeth and got dressed. Then he left the room, closing the door behind him. He turned to the right and walked to the corner. He was aware of other boys coming out of rooms and moving in the same direction, but he didnt speak to any of them. He couldnt, even if hed wanted to.

He descended a flight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, he went into the room on his left. At the entrance, a smiling man said, Good morning, Carter. It wasnt a question or a demand, so Carter didnt have to do anything. He walked on to the serving area.

He joined a line of residents to pick up his breakfast tray, and when he received it, he took it to a table and sat down. There were others at the table. On his first day, a couple of them had spoken to him, but now, after three days of no responses, theyd stopped. He didnt particularly want to look at them, but they were in his range of vision so he couldnt avoid seeing them. A tall boy, light brown hair, glasses. Another boy, darker hair, wearing a green shirt. A girl, blonde hair. She had tiny sparkling stones in the lobes of her ears. None of this was important. He just registered the facts. They were talking, but their words meant nothing to him. Not until the boy in the green shirt spoke directly to him.

Could you pass the salt?

He understood this as a question that demanded an action. He picked up the salt cellar and handed it to him.

Thanks, the boy said.

He knew what that meant the boy was expressing appreciation for Carters effort. But the word wasnt important, it didnt require a response, and now he could address his food. Food was important. He knew what was in the bowl cereal, milk, fruit but that didnt matter. All that mattered was the fact that he could eat it and then he wouldnt be hungry.

When he finished eating, he remained in his seat and watched the big clock on the wall. When it displayed a particular time he rose, carried his tray to a conveyor belt, and left the dining room. He couldnt go back to his room, though. He had an appointment.

Turning a corner, he went to a door and opened it. A woman at a desk spoke to him. Hello, Carter. You can go right in, Doctor Paley is waiting for you.

Carter went through the inner door.

Hello, Carter, the doctor said. Sit down.

Carter did as he was told, and waited while the plump, balding man adjusted the video camera on a table. At the first meeting, the doctor had asked Carter if he would mind if their sessions were recorded, and Carter had offered no objection. Why would he? Being recorded didnt hurt.

How are you today? Dr Paley asked.

Carter was stumped. He couldnt deal with questions like that. After three days of meetings, hadnt the man figured that out? His foster family, Madame, his classmates none of them asked him this question any more because they knew he couldnt answer it. And why should he? Surely the doctor could look at him and see that he wasnt in pain, that he was breathing, that he was physically intact. Nothing about him was any different than it was the day before.

When he didnt respond, Dr Paley didnt press the question. He just went on speaking.

I dont know very much about you, Carter. Nobody does. And thats because you dont know much about yourself, do you?

Carter didnt answer, and Dr Paley didnt seem to expect him to. He continued talking without a pause.

The big question, of course, is why? Its possible that you have a condition known as amnesia, an inability to remember. You dont even seem to know your own name. He shuffled through some papers on his desk. According to your history, you were found here in this city on Carter Street, and brought to a hospital. The authorities there needed to give you an identification name, and this was what they decided to call you.

Carter gazed at him steadily and waited for him to say something Carter didnt already know.

Theres no indication as to how this amnesia developed, Dr Paley went on. He picked up another folder and opened it. The authorities finally sent over your medical records, and Ive studied them. Some cases of amnesia occur when the subject receives a severe blow to the head, but the scans you were given show no indication of any trauma. Its possible that you experienced some sort of an infection a high fever perhaps, or a virus that affected the part of your brain that stores memory. But blood tests gave no indication of recent illness.