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During their transatlantic calls, Clive recognized his wife's voice and would immediately tell her he loved her.As she shared what she'd been up to, Clive would respond with a longer conversational loop than before, though much of it was invented (a phenomenon referred to in neurology as confabulation, or unconsciously replacing fact with fantasy). "Wasn't Queen Victoria a fabulous queen? Did you know she invented the bath?" Clive would ask.
Deborah found herself being drawn back to her husband and, after three years in the United States, decided to return to England because she missed what she describes as the Cliveness of Clive. "It's his soul, I suppose," she says, "something that is not dependent on your mind or your ability. It's your identity, which is at a much deeper level."
To spend time with Clive is to be charmed by him. He laughs a lot, and others laugh with him, even when he asks innocently if you're the prime minister or the queen of England. "He thinks you're important because you're the first person he's ever seen since waking up," explains Deborah. He listens attentively and often makes seemingly appropriate responses, until he starts to repeat himself.
The brain injury unit where Clive will probably always live is home to ten patients. During the week, Deborah, who works full-time, talks regularly with her husband by phone; the pair live for the weekends when they are together.
On Easter Sunday 2002, the couple renewed their marriage vows in a local church. "We can't be husband and wife in some ways," Deborah says. "I can't have a physical relationship with him. But we are nevertheless committed to each other. I still think he's the best man in the world.
"He gives me unconditional love, undivided support, his whole attention," she continues. "When we are together, his every other thought is of me. How many women can say that about their husbands?"
On a recent weekend, Deborah pays Clive a visit just before lunchtime. In his room are photographs of his life before he became an amnesiac -- Clive conducting an orchestra, his wedding. They are intended to help habituate him with himself. The white sofa, in front of the window overlooking the garden, was a wedding gift to the couple; the Shaker chest of drawers is from their former home together.
The room also holds a piano and a small organ. Clive sits down to play and, to the unschooled ear, sounds extremely accomplished. "He makes errors now in timing, which he'd never have done before," Deborah says. Sliding onto the piano bench next to him, one arm around his waist, she picks up some sheet music and places it in front of her husband. As his fingers ripple across the keys, she looks at him adoringly, and begins to sing one of Schubert's lieder in accompaniment.
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