Amnesia (16 page)

Now here she was a few hours later, waiting out in the parking lot for the rugged police officer Bill Lowell to arrive, needing her and her expertise. Of course she was concerned with the patients, but there was a part of her that thrilled at the prospect that he had thought of her first. And that he was coming over. She wandered over to her assigned parking stall where the maroon Lumina now stood, wondering about the possibility that the desecration of her life might actually be a blessing in disguise after all.

Lights flashed around the corner and she heard the roar of the Suburban’s engine enter the lane leading to her lot. She waved to the driver to be sure he knew where she was, then stood back to allow him room to turn around, ready to leave quickly if need be. She noticed a sporty red car was following the bigger truck, and pointed out where to park, registering that it was another of the same party. When the Suburban stopped and engine died, she ran up to the back door, the professional physician meeting the ambulance.

“Doctor Brandon, thank-you for helping us.” She immediately recognized the large six-foot-four frame and deep voice of the officer so recently attending to her needs. “They badly need help, but are afraid of going to the hospital for some reason.”

He opened the tailgate and pulled it down so she could hop up to administer to the injured pair. She saw a beautiful girl sitting near the front softly whispering to two blood covered people and experienced a surprising flare of jealousy streak through her, which she quickly suppressed. She turned her attention to the wounded couple.

Looking first to the girl she began at her head, checking her breathing, feeling her pulse, and testing her pupils. She th
e
n went rapidly down her body checking for broken bones, bleeding, and other wounds, but found only minor scrapes, bruises, and cuts.

“She appears to be exhausted and dehydrated. Ideally I’d hook her up with an IV and prescribe rest, but I’d have to admit her to do that,” Doctor Brandon announced.

“No, you can’t do that,” the pretty redhead spoke for the first time. Lissa looked back up at her, feeling that stab of jealousy again, muted only by the concern for her patients. “It’s just that she was so adamant, and I believe she is really scared. She must have a good reason. Isn’t there another way?”

Lissa rocked back, wanting to not like the girl, trying to read her as if she were sizing up her competition. Yet she saw the sincerity and concern in her eyes, and instead felt compassion for the sweet girl.

“Are these friends of yours, Mrs. Lowell?”

Stunned for a moment, Shirley just stared at Lissa, and then started giggling as she put together the connection. She immediately sobered herself, however, when she noticed her counterpart’s reddening checks in the dim light of the Suburban’s dome light.

“I’m sorry. I’m Shirley Haywood, the future Mrs. Curt Meyers.” She emphasized the last word as she pointed out the back of the truck, turning Lissa’s attention to the approaching man behind her. “Nobody has been lucky enough to wear the Lowell name again. And no, I’ve never seen them before, it’s just that they need help so desperately, and we are all they have.”

Lissa felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment at her mistake, but also felt an influx of warmth as she realized the implication that Bill was still available. Realizing she didn’t have the luxury to sort her feelings out now, she steered the conversation back to the medical necessities at hand.

“Well, I suppose if we get her into a soft warm bed, and get some electrolytes down her, fill her up with Gatorade and soup, she’ll be okay. Do you have a place she can stay?”

Shirley looked down at the lovely face of the sleeping girl, wishing she could take her pain away. “No, my sister just moved back in with me. I doubt my parents would take her either, at least not without asking all sorts of questions. My dad is paranoid about things like this.”

Lissa looked up at Bill, but seeing his discomfort discarded that idea. “Tell you what. You can put her up in my spare bedroom. There is already a bed in there, so she should be fine. Bill, can you and Curt carry her up there? You know which one it is. In the meantime, let’s take a look at her friend here.”

She pivoted around to the other side of the sleeping bag as the two men carried the lifeless girl up to the waiting apartment. The doctor started at his head, giving the man a similar examination as she had the girl. Her face darkened as she searched his body, mentally noting several areas of concern. She spent much longer with him and found three worried faces looking back at her, mirroring her own.

“He has several lacerations and contusions around his head and is probably concussed. He has at least one broken rib and possibly internal bleeding. He is also in a deep state of shock and may not survive the night if we don’t get him to the ER now.”

She lifted her hands silencing the eruption of protests. “He will not survive the night without the proper care and equipment. I don’t have it here, and I have to watch over the girl.” She turned to Bill. “You have got to take him now. I don’t care what story you tell them, maybe that he was hit by a car, which may be the case, although I doubt it the way the bruising is around his eyes. Looks to me like was severely beaten and left to die. In any case, you have got to get him to St. Luke’s!”

She hopped out of the truck and headed back toward her apartment, then turned around to deliver her parting shot. “There are also ligature marks around his extremities—rope burns around the wrists and ankles of both of them. There is also an indication of some sort of gag. Whoever did this to them had them tied up while he beat on them and deprived them of food and water. If you don’t get him help now, the guy who did this will have murdered him.” Without another word she climbed the steps leading to her waiting patient upstairs.

Bill just stood there for a moment, torn between what she told him and what was starting to make sense to him. If they had been held bound and gagged then nearly killed, the girl was right, they were in grave danger, especially at someplace as public as the hospital. However, if they didn’t get him to the hospital, the man would be dead anyway. Lissa was right, he decided, and closed the tailgate and hopped in the driver’s seat, igniting the engine with a roar.

“Curt, you take Shirley home in the Volt, or stay here if you like, whatever you want. I’ll probably be at the hospital for the rest of the night—if I’m not down at the station filling out more reports. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what happens.”

Slowly the newly engaged couple started back to the newer car, not wanting to leave without some resolution, but knowing there was nothing more they could do. Curt pushed the remote unlock button on the Volt to the sound of a short beep and flashing lights as the Suburban sped down the lane. He glanced up one last time as Bill disappeared around the corner, taking his charge to get much needed medical care. He walked Shirley to the passenger door, opened it for her, and then turned to look at her.

“Not exactly how I planned this night, you know.”

She smiled, put her arms around the back of his neck and pulled him into a passionate kiss. When they broke to catch their breath he pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes and tenderly spoke.

“At least we’ll have a great story to tell our grandkids.”

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

The patient in room 7014, having so recently recovered from a coma, flipped through the channels on the overhead television, and finally turned the set off in frustration. It wasn’t that the broadcasts held no interest for him; he normally would have enjoyed several of the shows. No, it was his furiously churning mind that drove him to shut off the intrusive noise. He
swung his legs passionately to
the left, off the bed, and stood, intent to work off some of his emotions with a walk around the floor, dragging the ubiquitous IV stand with him.

It had been well over twenty-four hours since he had awakened to that beautiful face, the heavenly sight that still tugged at his heart. Yet still he found no answers to the questions that so relentlessly vexed him. He felt well enough, the throbbing headache finally dissipated, his bruised body aching only slightly after the analgesics the doctors had prescribed. In fact the only part of him that still hurt was the wound to his left cheek. Unless he considered the ache in his heart.

When he first woke he was totally lost, the soothing sight of the lovely doctor the only thing keeping the panic from surfacing. She had quickly assumed her more professional attitude, much to his dismay, concealing her youthful gaiety and glowing smile, sobering instantly when she realized he was gazing at her. It had saddened him to see such soberness emanating from the one that had pulled him from his horrific ordeal. Even now he could remember, though dimly, the fears that had so entirely engulfed him.

She told him that he had been in some sort of accident, nearly drowning, and that something called “hypoxia” had sent him into a coma. She then unwittingly introduced him into a new nightmare, not unlike the snow or snakes of before, only this time he knew it was real. She had simply asked him his name.

He had started to tell her, ready to voice what he had repeated many hundreds of times throughout his life, but his mind simply drew a blank. He asked her to repeat the question, hoping to jog his memory, which she had done dutifully, despite the sudden expression of worry that had appeared in her countenance. Again he found no answer to the innocent query. No matter how hard he searched for the correct response he found nothing.

Recognizing his quandary, she altered her questioning to where he was from, then why he was at Cascade, and on to several other areas, finding answers to none of them, despite his struggle to remember. No matter how hard he tried he could remember nothing about himself.

This is not to say he couldn’t remember anything at all. He recognized several television programs, could recall certain experiences from his childhood, and oddly enough knew that the CTR ring she wore on her left ring finger stood for “Choose The Right.” It was these memories, and the lack of others that was torturing his mind now, spurring him into activity.

He had already paced the hospital floor several times today, wracking his memory, reliving every event he could find. He knew his name wasn’t Robbie, the appellation given him by the overweight but good natured Dolores, but it was a form of address he far preferred to the official name of “John Doe” appearing on his hospital charts. He had already tried so hard to find his real name that it had provoked a splitting headache despite the painkillers in the IV. Instead, he sought now to relive the memories he could recall, hoping to trigger clues to his identity from them.

The earliest he could remember was as a small child, perhaps four or five years old, sitting in an old metal fishing boat with a kind old man whom he had revered. He was holding a fishing pole, like “Grandpa,” as he chose to label the older man, and was imitating every move the elder made.

The lake upon which they sat was still and quiet, the tangy air carrying the smells of the fish filled water and rotting wood, mixed with the surrounding pine woods. The perfumed breeze assailed his senses, giving him a feeling of peace and tranquility. The gently rocking boat and lapping waves added to the enveloping comfort, and had coaxed him into sleep. He awoke later to the sound of oars creaking in their locks, heading to another section of the lake to sit with rod in hand, lazily awaiting the bite of an unsuspecting fish. He couldn’t remember if he had actually caught anything, but it really hadn’t mattered; fishing to them had never been about catching fish.

Somewhere close, he knew, was the cabin their family owned, where they had spent many nights huddled around a glowing fire, listening to stories of long ago and far away. He could remember the scent of the wood burning, and the smoke travelling up the flue into the night air. He could almost taste the roasted marshmallows, many bags of which had fallen prey to the family outings. The warmth from the fire seeped into his body on those occasions, filling him with contentment and the deep satisfaction of knowing he was loved.

The man now known as Robbie cherished these memories, and enjoyed reliving them. But they drew him no closer to finding his identity. So he continued on to less joyous reminiscence; the agonizing high school years.

He had been stockier then than his trim body now exhibited, and he’d felt shunned by the schoolmates he had so wanted to befriend him. He really had no real friends then, only a few who he’d “hung out” with before play rehearsals, or band practice. He wasn’t as talented as most of them, but clung to the times of being less alone, hoping that he would somehow win their hearts and respect.

There were several characters that he had performed in the school plays, and disappointingly he could recall them vividly. There was the bubble-gum chewing baseball “Coach” in “Happy Daze,” where he had pleaded with the main character to get hit by the ball, only for the ball to hit the bat instead, fouling the ball, and eventually striking the boy out.

Then there was the demonic and hypocritical “Judge” in “Sweeney Todd” who had been a vile character, trying to seduce his foster daughter, only to end up dead by the maniacal barber who was the title character. The “Judge,” who was a little batty himself, was lucky he hadn’t ended up in someone’s dinner like the other victims. It had been a fun role to play, getting the audience to hate the character, and have them wondering which one was worse, the murderous and sadistic judge, or the murderous and cannibalistic barber.