Amnesia (3 page)

“I did that once when I was in college,” the female counterpart joined into the speculation. “My parents just about went nuts, but I was young and wanted to taste all that life had to offer.”

“I think that was how my first wife and I started our marriage, come to think of it,” the male anchor came back on, his greasy smile all too evident through the tinny speakers. “Although, I must say that particular part of my life is still a little hazy. Amazing what chemicals can do to the brain. Now out to the Traffic Center to see what the morning commute has to offer. Ben, how do things look for the Friday morning commute?”

“Well Frank, it’s gonna be another roaster of a day, the mercury already pushing 90. So far we have no accidents, but there is quite a bit of sunshine slowing as the glare down there is as bright as the channel 8 studio lights during a political debate…”

Lissa turned the radio off. Better to listen to nothing than to listen to that. She was incensed that the radio personalities were so quick to judge what had happened to that teenager. They had already decided what had happened and who was to blame, even though they had no idea what was going on, if anything at all. She wondered again about what was keeping her in Boise and why she just didn’t leave the city to get away from all of this. Then she reconsidered and decided to just call the radio and give them a piece of her mind. Realizing too that this was probably what they were hoping for, she contented herself by just leaving the radio off. It wasn’t much of a statement, but at least she wasn’t endorsing their rubbish.

She pulled into the apartment complex, down the lane, and then into her assigned covered parking where she pulled to a stop and cut the engine. Quickly she rolled the windows back up leaving a crack at the top, hopeful that the heat wouldn’t be too unbearable when she got back in, locked the doors and stepped out into the blazing sunlight. Walking over to the stand of mailboxes she inserted her key and opened the door. Not surprising it was stuffed full, mostly with ads, trying to woo the new doctor into spending all that glorious cash—money that was still a long way off for her.

She closed and locked the mailbox door and turned right into the face of short greasy man. Surprised, she jumped and backed a few steps away, fighting to control her breathing, grateful that the yelp building in her chest didn’t escape her throat.

“Mornin’ Doc.”

“Good morning Mr. Dall. You surprised me.”

“Sorry ‘bout that Doc, I was just checkin’ on the mail,” the thin man drawled. “Looks like you’ve been gone awhile. Come to think on it, I don’t remember seein’ you around for a few days. Ever’thin’ okay?”

“I’ve been covering at the hospital for a friend. Thank-you for your concern Mr. Dall.” She started to walk away, hoping to escape before the conversation got any further along.

“No prob there Doc. Jus’ keepin’ an eye out for my tenants. An’ please, call me Ernest.” She simply smiled back at him and hurried to her apartment door.

Inside, she flipped the deadbolt home and leaned her back against the door, taking a deep breath. Home at last. She tossed her bag, the mail, and her keys on the table just inside the door and noticed that the digital answering machine had six messages on it. She pressed the play button as she kicked off her shoes, the thick carpet soothing her aching arches.

“Hey Babe, just checkin’ to see how your doin’. Call me. Dar.” She pressed delete then walked into the kitchen to pour a bowl of cereal for breakfast/supper before heading off to bed.

“Lissa, I got a call from that sweet Doctor Stanton today. I just don’t understand why you are being so insensitive to him and his needs. Now I want you to call…” she let her mother’s voice drone on while she got her food, then returned to the entry and hit the delete key, no
t bothering to listen to the re
st of her mother’s message.

“Hey Hon, still haven’t heard from ya. Talked to your mom again, such a great old lady. Call me. Dar.” Delete.

“Just Dar again. Call me.” This is getting old, she thought. Get a clue. Delete.

“Sister Brandon, just wanted to remind you of the service project on Saturday. We are doing some gardening for Sister Halton, who can’t get around anymore. We meet at the church at ten. Hope to see you there!” That one she would hold onto. She wasn’t due back until Monday morning, and it would be good to get together with the ward again. True, she was a little old to still be in a single’s ward, but the Bishop didn’t seem to mind, and she didn’t relish going back to a family ward as a single twenty-something sister.

“It’s me again….” Delete.

She knew she should be flattered that Darrion Stanton wanted to spend time with her. Most of the female staff and almost all of the nurses lapse into semi-consciousness anytime he walks into the room. But she knew that life with him would be miserable. Then again, she was pushing thirty, and there were no other prospects. The brothers in the ward were all recently returned missionaries, who had their eyes set on the young, vivacious, and much less intimidating girls.

The problem is, she told herself, is simply loneliness. Someday she probably would consent to Darrion. It was the logical conclusion and nearly everyone expected it. Maybe she would call him when she got up. Right now—sleep.

She finished her light meal and quickly changed into her nightclothes. She knelt briefly at the bedside, concluding her day with her Maker, and slipped beneath the warmth of her electric blanket, still thinking about how nice it would be to have someone there to snuggle up with.

“Then again,” she said out loud to the walls and pictures, “maybe he is just out there waiting for me to reach out and grab him.” She giggled, closed her eyes, and fell quickly to sleep, oblivious to anything but the blissful comfort of her wonderful bed.

Scardoni smashed the smoking cigarette butt into the already overflowing ashtray, oblivious to the scattering of ashes onto the filthy desk. His light complexion enhanced the scarlet of anger painting his face, nearly turning it purple. He seethed at the accusation and tone that flowed across the telephone line, the white knuckled grip a further indication of how truly enflamed he was becoming.

“I lost three men in that crash, Marcuse, and they were some of the best!” he shouted into the receiver.

“Then obviously your ‘best’ isn’t good enough for me and my money!” came the hot retort. “Don’t forget, Rudolph, that you were the ones that messed up in the first place. It was a simple request to help someone disappear. You were the one that decided on such a grandiose adventure.”

The voice paused for effect, and then added icily, “Next time it might not be your men that suffer for your disgrace.”

He was infuriated at the attack on his ego and the threat to his life. “Listen, Marcuse, I’m not used to being talked to that way. The ax swings both ways.  Next time the corpse falling from a plane may be yours.”

Laughter filled the angry ears of the German-American thug, forcing more blood into his mottled checks. But the words following that laugh drained the blood back out. “I have killed more men than you have probably even met. Dozens of lives are either preserved or taken at my whim each day. Death to me is nothing more than another occurrence, like using the toilet or falling to sleep. I have no use for such idle posturing from a man that can barely tie his own shoes.”

Then the voice became nearly friendly, although the near tangible chill would not be dispersed. “But I do still have use for your talents, and for that you still have my companionship—and money. The girl is alright then?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. A lot like her papa, proud and obnoxious. Her boyfriend is fine too, just like you said, although his bladder could use a little stiffening,” Rudy chuckled. “I swear the kid wets himself every time I walk into the room. It’s good though, gives me more control.”

“Good,” Marcuse answered affably. “Her father is getting to the point where he is almost ready to start listening. A few more days and he will do as I tell him. Just keep everyone safe and secure and I will let you know what I need when the time comes.

“Oh, and Rudy, I may need you for another small favor. It may pad your nest egg nicely. Interested?”

Scardoni started to relax, looking forward as much to more action than more money. He hated being a nursemaid and wasn’t an ideal babysitter. At the moment he was wishing he had never gotten into this mess. Yet everyone liked money and he had his habits to keep up, even in Boise, Idaho, you could feed those habits for a long time on the cash Marcuse was handing over.

“We’ll talk about it when you’re ready, but we may be able to come to an arrangement.”

“Then I shall look forward to it. ‘Til then, my friend, adieu.” Then as if simply an afterthought, “Please don’t screw up again. I would hate to see this budding friendship of ours terminated.”

The line went dead.

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

The storm ravaged his unclothed body and he shivered violently in the cold. He couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction in the wind driven snow and he was completely lost. Pure white extended around him in every direction with no break. No line could be discerned to demark the edge between horizon and drift. His straining ears heard nothing but the angry roar of the whipping wind which drove shards of snow and ice painfully into his exposed skin. Yet still he trudged on, hoping, praying that something or someone would come to his aid, if nothing more than to give him a glimpse as to where he was.

He had no idea how he had gotten there or how long he had been wandering. He looked up again, hoping to determine the direction of the sun, which must surely be hiding somewhere above his head. He figured it must at least be daytime, for there was light, although he couldn’t say if that light were dimming or brightening, or if it had changed direction. Again, as he searched what should be sky, all he saw was white sheets pouring from above. Surely he couldn’t keep going through all of this.

He started trudging ahead again, lifting one bare foot high into the air to clear the snow pack, and then setting it down again mere inches from the last hole. Once more the foot would sink below the surface until nothing was showing beneath his upper thigh.

Again he shook his head, wondering what had happened to his clothing. The only thing he could remember of it was that someone was pulling at them, and him, although why, and who, he couldn’t be sure. Was it someone dragging him maybe? Perhaps it was children, playing with him, as his nieces and nephews did. He couldn’t remember, so simply lifted the other leg to take another step.

Freezing to death. He had always been so frightened of freezing to death. He remembered hearing stories of pioneers walking across the country pulling handcarts, just stopping, lying down, and falling asleep—never to rise again. It frightened him to the core when he had first heard the tales. Now he realized that the fear had never really left him.

It began with him being frightened of sleeping, until his mother sat down with him one night and finally asked him why he always fought going to bed. At first he refused to answer, but in the end he blurted it all out to his mom, who in turn explained what freezing to death really was. It had helped him go to bed, but he still wasn’t too keen on the cold.

Suddenly he stopped, listening. Was it the wind changing? Or did he hear a voice just then? He stood as still as he could opening his mouth wide to stop his teeth from chattering long enough to strain for another sound, irrationally hoping that another would come. He wasn’t disappointed. It was a voice, although he couldn’t make out the words or the direction from whence they came. Hope filled his breast, scattering the fears that had beset him. He listened as intently as he could, putting all his might into locating the source of the sound.

He could clearly tell now that it wasn’t the wind, but rather was a voice, a low, caring voice. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but he knew that the person possessing that voice would give him the aid he so desperately needed.

He lifted his foot high enough to clear the snow and set it down again, his long stride eating up nearly a yard of the distance between him and where he hoped the voice originated. He strained his eyes ahead, searching frantically for something to tell him that he had chosen the correct path.

His foot came down firmly, landing on something slippery and squishy. He unconsciously jerked his leg back up and looked down to see what he had stepped on. How could something like that have been felt through the cold of his foot, especially after being buried in the snow? Only there was no snow.

He cast about wildly, trying in vain to comprehend what was happening to him. For miles around him the snow was completely gone, as if it had never existed. Instead, he was surrounded by millions of snakes. Slithering tongues could be seen sliding out of triangular heads, the reptiles crawling on top, around, and through other scaly bodies.

The wind too was absent, replaced by a constant hissing from the crowded mass, driving away the hope so recently garnered. He searched for a place to at least sit and rest his aching body, but saw no vacant space to lower himself without landing in a pile of creeping serpents.  He took a tentative step with his right foot, pushing his toes gingerly between the vipers, forcing an opening, finding at last solid ground. Then he tried for the left, first pulling it slowly from the reptiles coiled around it, then picking through the jumbled bodies to find a foot hold again.

Then the voice came again. This time he could decipher the words, but they made no sense. “Okay, Mr. John Doe, I’m Dolores, and I will be helping you with your bath. Just relax, and let me do the work. I’ve done this lots of times before. Yessir, I’m gonna take real good care of you.”

Again he looked around for the disembodied voice, but saw nothing but a blazing sun directly over his head, and a landscape completely covered with the demons from his nightmares.

He hung his head, and sobbed.

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

The annoying beeping just wouldn’t go away. The incessant alarm sounded like a truck backing right o
ver Lissa’s sleeping head. S
he swung an arm out in the general vicinity she hoped it was in, missing by a mere two feet.

It hadn’t been a good night for her.
Her uneventful weekend was turned upside down when h
e
r
best friend in med school had called
Sunday night
, giving here the exciting news of the twins she was expecting, her fourth and fifth children. After a long and mostly thrilled conversation, she had sincerely wished her ex-roommate hearty congratulations, and hung up collapsing into a fit of uncontrollable sobs.

She really was happy for her friend’s joy, but couldn’t dispel the poignant longing deep inside of her, a longing she was beginning to wonder would ever be sated. She had wept, prayed, and wept some more, feeling abandoned by her Father in Heaven in her time of need. It hadn’t been until after two o’clock this morning that sleep had finally overcome her exhausted body.

Again she reached out to silence the alarm, missing again by over two feet. Finally she lifted her head and her eyelids to blearily locate the obnoxious sound, at last finding the culprit, the digital alarm clock sitting on her bedside table, and eliminated the wail.

Five o’clock. Who in their right mind would get up at five A.M.? She snuggled back under her comforter-topped electric blanket and started drifting off again, only to be roused moments later by a banging on her apartment door.

At first she tried to ignore it, hoping that whoever it was would take the hint that someone in here was trying to sleep, but the beating just became louder and more insistent. She irritably pulled the blankets back, called out she was coming, and threw her pink terry robe over her nightgown.

First checking through the peephole, muttering something about how useless they were, she angrily unlocked the dead bolt, leaving the chain attached. “Darrion is that you!” she snarled through the two inch opening.

“Boise Police ma’am. Are you Ms. Clarissa Brandon?” came the polite inquiry.

Police? She thought, searching her mind for what they could possibly be wanting of her. “Just a minute.” She closed the door, slid off the chain, and then pulled it back open revealing two men in dark blue uniforms sporting the traditional police badge.

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Can we come in ma’am?” the first officer asked. He was holding a clipboard with the ubiquitous white, pink and goldenrod copy paper attached. She noticed that the paper was nearly full, and she spotted her name written a couple of times on it.

“Of course,” she said, pulling the door open wide allowing the two to enter. “Right this way,” she called, leading them into the living room area, glancing at her bedraggled countenance in the hall mirror on the way. She noted that her light brown, almost blonde hair was matted and lying lifeless on her oval head. Her eyes were still bloodshot and puffy from the short sleep and long cry of the previous night, and she felt like she was quite possibly looking the worst she had ever looked. She sighed realizing there was little she could do. There was no real reason to impress the two lawmen anyhow.

In the living room there were two sofas sitting opposite each other separated by a glass coffee table. On the table were a few recent copies of The Ensign and New Era, along with a large bowl containing dozens of blue marble looking rocks. She had never understood what the rocks were for, but it seemed to add the right touch to the table.

Crossing the room to sit on the couch facing the door, she pulled her feet under her body to keep them warm, and gestured at the other, inviting the two men to sit. Guiltily she looked around the room, seeing the empty ice cream bowl and Kleenexes littered around the sofa, coffee table and floor, evidence of the emotional night she had just experienced. For a moment she panicked wondering what the peace officers would think of her mess, but the thought was quickly discarded when she noted the serious look on their faces.

“Sorry to disturb you ma’am, but we need to discuss a few things with you, and it can’t wait,” started the man with the clipboard without preamble.

“I’m Officer Lowell, and this is Officer Renke. We are responding to calls of a prowler in the area. It appears that someone has been going through your garbage and has broken into your car. We had one witness that claims to have seen a man taking something out of your car, and we would like to have you take a look and see if anything is missing. Actually, it appears that they beat the car up pretty badly. Might need to get another. Insurance may help with that though, seeing as it was a criminal act.”

Lissa felt the blood drain from her face as comprehension cut through her sleep clouded brain. Someone was looking through her garbage? Yuck! And broke into her car? What was in her car? Nothing of any value, even the radio barely worked. And then trashed it as well? She shook her head to try to make it settle into some sense, but it still didn’t add up in her mind.