Amnesia (24 page)

“Yes, actually, I do know. He woke up Monday afternoon, and got released today. Unfortunately, he has amnesia, and his emotions are shattered because of it.” She felt herself aching for the man again, wanting desperately to rescue him from his plight.

“Amnesia?” Bill asked. “Like he can’t remember anything at all?”

“No, not exactly,” she answered. “You see there are several types of amnesia. There are cases where the victim loses their entire memory, but that is extremely rare, and usually associated with severe trauma—like an automobile accident. He has what is actually termed a ‘psychogenic fugue,’ where they actually leave their current lives and start another. Like I said it is decidedly rare.

“Other types of physically induced amnesia are just like you see on TV, where someone hits their head. Although hitting it again will only cause more damage, not a sudden recollection, as if something got knocked out of place and you simply need to knock it back in.”

“Right,” Nancy broke in, “like a football player might get knocked out, and when recovering can’t remember the seconds before he got hit. That’s called ‘retrograde amnesia’ right?”

“Exactly,” Lissa smiled back at her, marveling in the nurse’s background. “Retrograde because the fullback forgot what happened just before the accident, and even the accident itself, but can recall everything that happened before and after. However it can range from seconds to years, depending on the severity of the trauma. In these cases it’s like an entire block is missing from their lives, as if they never even lived it. The research suggests that’s because their brain has been physically altered, causing it to lose the connection to those memories, and doesn’t know how to reconnect to them.”

“How sad,” Kate chimed in. She had been quiet until now, and Lissa had almost forgotten she was there. “What do they do?”

Lissa smiled warm assurance to the girl, attempting to assuage her concerns. “Usually they work with friends and family to regain what they lost and forge new memories. Sometimes they can get some of it back over time, but they can usually work around it. And remember it’s pretty uncommon.

“The most common form of amnesia though is actually emotional, rather than physical. For whatever reason, the person simply doesn’t want to remember.”

“Why not?” Bill asked. “Why would someone want to lose their memory?”

“Several reasons I can think of,” she continued. “Surely you have some things in your life you’d rather forget?”

Bill instantly envisioned a fiery accident with his loved ones inside, a memory he would gladly give away. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Lissa saw the change in his affect, and regretted the question. She searched her mind for a way to take it back, but decided instead to just forge ahead. “Actually, it’s usually an unconscious decision, where the mind simply doesn’t know how to deal with some shock, so banishes the memory to someplace until it is ready to deal with it. People with this type of amnesia almost always get their memory back, once they are stable enough to handle it. That’s why some abuse victims suddenly recall so-called ‘repressed memories.’ They can’t deal with what is happening, so they tuck it away until they are ready. Then suddenly, years later, it hits them right between the eyes—often with frightening intensity. It can be pretty debilitating.”

“Yeah, we see that fairly often,” Jack offered. “Unfortunately, sometimes it’s real, and sometimes it’s not. Like that one lady who ‘remembered’ an inordinate amount of details about something her dad once did, only to find out that her shrink just fed it to her.”

“That can happen too,” Lissa sighed. “The brain is still pretty foreign to us scientists and doctors. It can do so much, yet is so delicate. But that type of coaxing false memories is also pretty uncommon.”

“Okay, I have another question,” Bill piped up. “Doesn’t everyone forget things? I mean, no one can remember everything, right? Like the combination to your third grade gym locker. I guess if you have a photographic memory, maybe, but even they can’t remember everything, can they?”

“Well,” Lissa countered, “a qualified yes to your first question, everybody forgets things, and a definite yes to the second question about photographic memory. To answer the second, there really is no such thing as a ‘photographic memory,’ at least not like people think of it. There is something called ‘eidetic imagery’ where people can bring up an image of something very similar to what they’ve seen, but it fades quickly, and is usually pretty inaccurate.

“As for the first question, scientists believe that your mind captures and stores all input, whether it is from the physical senses, or an emotional/psychological event. This storage, or memories, is always there, but we just can’t always retrieve it. You can think of it like a swimming pool and diving rings. You have an infinite amount of diving rings and an infinite amount of swimming pool space, so you can just keep throwing the rings in. But after some time you can imagine how getting to the ones at the bottom can be pretty hard to get at, and may need some help to pull back out. With amnesia, it’s like someone has pulled a tarp over some of those rings, and you just can’t get to them at all.

“That’s what it’s like for most emotional amnesia. The rings are all tied to some event somehow, like the abuse of the victim we talked about earlier, and their mind put a tarp over those rings. Unfortunately, not all of those rings are bad, but connected to the actual event in such a way that retrieving them will bring back the memory it is trying to block.

“Let’s say that the tarp is tied to the bottom of the pool, and you want a ring, a good ring, that’s underneath the tarp. So you untie a corner and reach in for that one ring. But when you untie that corner the pressure of all those rings pushes the tarp away, and now all of the rings are uncovered. Now you have the complete memory of the event, as if the tarp was never there to begin with. That’s when the patient gets their memory back.

“So to answer your first question, we all have rings at the bottom of the pool, but the amnesia victim, unlike the rest of us, has a section of rings tied underneath that tarp. And it is almost always restricted to just that tarp, and you can have full access to any other memories.”

“And that’s what happened to this Robbie?” Jack asked.

“Exactly. He has a tarp over the memories associated with who he is and why he’s here. He does remember things like high school, and religion, etc., but when it comes to his identity, he has it all tucked safely under that tarp.”

“He must be awfully frightened,” spoke the mothering side of Nancy. “What if he has a family somewhere, or even a wife and kids?”

Lissa felt a surprising pang of jealousy at the thought of Robbie having a wife, but tried to mask it by answering the query. “Yes, he is. He has no place to go, no friends, no family, and he can’t even remember what he does for a career. He feels like he’s lost himself somewhere, and wants desperately to find it. He doesn’t even have a place to live.”

She paused for a moment, knowing that this was the perfect time to initiate her side of the plan they had worked out at the hospital, but now that the moment was here, she felt nervous about taking advantage of these good people. Yet Robbie trusted her, so she took a deep breath, pulled her shoulders back, and forged ahead.

“Actually, I was hoping that you could help me, or, well, him, with that.” She hesitated for a moment, but then noted the eager looks on the faces surrounding her. For the second time that day she was encouraged by the noble selflessness that could be found in her world.

“Anything. What exactly do you need?” It was Nancy that had volunteered, bringing a gentle peace to Lissa’s heart. How she wished her mother, with all of the wealth she controlled, would be so willing to help. She smiled again, and proceeded.

“Well there are two things. First, he has no place to stay, no clothes, and no money. Bill, I was wondering if he could stay at your apartment for a while, and maybe borrow some clothes. He’s about your size, though not quite as fit.” She stopped on that note, feeling warmth rising in her cheeks as she thought about the man’s muscled arms and rippled chest. She forced her thoughts back to Robbie, and found herself feeling similar warmth in that direction. Her best way out of her embarrassment, she decided, was in changing the subject.

“Sure. When can he come over?” Bill offered, apparently oblivious to her plight.

“Tonight. He’s at my place right now, but can’t stay there for obvious reasons.”

“Of course. I can swing by there when we’re done.”

“Thank-you.” She smiled at the generosity of the man she was beginning to know, and was thankful that he had been brought into her life, for more reasons than one.

“Uh, what about us?” Jack obviously didn’t want to interrupt the clear connection between the two, but wanted to see what else Lissa had in mind. To his dismay, he did spoil the moment, bringing the conversation back on track.

“Well, I wondered if you could help us track down who he is. Isn’t there something you can try, like fingerprints or dental records or something?” she responded, putting the final part of her idea into action.

“Haven’t they done that already?” Nancy asked incredulously.

“Probably not,” Jack answered. “Although it sounds like it should be standard practice, the department wouldn’t normally do that sort of thing. It’s usually only in connection to a crime, when they are trying to identify victims, or narrow down suspects. But I can have the lab start on it first thing in the morning. Why don’t you bring him down when your shift starts tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning?” asked Bill, “I’m still working nights you know.”

“You were,” Jack responded. “I’m the one that decides shifts, and I’m going to need someone I can trust running errands for me. Be at my desk with the lad at 07:30. Now that’s settled, I’m stuffed and in the mood for some games. Everyone know how to play ‘Life?’”

The rest of the evening was filled with games and laughter, wrapping the five in the bonds of lifetime friendship. All too soon the hours had been whiled away, and bedtime had approached.

Bill walked Lissa out to her borrowed Lumina, much as he had earlier that morning, and the two stood in the darkness. A light breeze wafted through the air cooling the baking earth bringing with it the smells of the carefully tended shrubs and flowers surrounding the McConnell home. The crickets sang out their creaking tune, adding a touch of comfort to the otherwise still night.

Lissa turned to face the large frame of the man accompanying her. She leaned back against the car door and gazed up into the dark eyes towering above her. She felt so comfortable in his presence, like she could see the goodness of his heart and knew she was safe with him near.

She also noticed his ease when they were together, and realized that they shared something she had felt only rarely before—a bond of closeness and friendship that reached out through the ages. She was reminded for an instant of a similar, though more intense, feeling she had shared with Robbie, but quickly banished the thought, as Bill carefully stepped closer to her, close enough for her breath to quicken in anticipation.

“It’s been good to be with you tonight,” he breathed softly. The warmth of his breath caressed the top of her head, and she experienced a wave of tingles originating in that spot, and travelling down her body, clear to her toes.

“Yes it has. Very good.” She whispered the words with great intensity, her heart beating wildly in her breast, her breathing becoming more labored and ragged.

Slowly, as if in slow motion, she watched as his face lowered toward her, her eyes darting from his eyes, than down to his lips, then back up to his approaching dark eyes. She closed her own eyes, yearning to feel those lips on her own, her passion building inside of her, trying to burst free, to grab hold of the opportunity before her. She could feel his face nearing hers, mere inches separating the two. She ached for that kiss, and knew that it was only seconds away.

Suddenly his cell phone rang, jarring the moment and startling the two. Bill jumped back from her as if scalded; his own breathing fast and ragged, evidence that the passion had been mutual. For a moment they just stared at each other, unsure of what to do next, almost angry from the disappointment.

The phone rang insistently again, and a reluctant Bill pulled it from his belt. He had his breathing back under control, but felt drained from the passion and the jolt of the interruption.

With a voice more calm than either had expected given the situation, he answered the phone. Lissa watched his face turn from disappointment to something close to horror as he listened for the few seconds, the feelings of closeness only a moment ago now all but forgotten.

“I’ll be right there!” he said into the phone then angrily hit the “end” button. Lissa was beginning to get frightened as she witnessed the transformation, a feeling that quickly intensified to terror at the words he flung over his shoulder to her on the way over to his Volt.

“Come on. There’s a man at your apartment, and he’s waving around a gun.”

Bill Lowell swerved around the corner from Parkcenter Boulevard onto River Run, allowing his anger to control the speed of the Volt. He completely ignored the screeching of the tires, and quickly compensated for the fish tailing the loss of traction caused. Once he had straightened he picked up more speed, despite the narrow residential lane. His only concern was for his friends that awaited his arrival. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw headlights swing in behind him; Lissa in her borrowed Lumina following only slightly slower than he.

He turned the last corner to Lissa’s apartment, and squealed to a stop in the parking lot. His peripheral vision noted a white Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with a black top pull out of one of the stalls, but gave it no heed. His entire focus was on the man standing on the second floor landing, banging on one of the doors. He also noticed that Lissa had pulled into her appointed stall, but was wisely staying near the car.

He reached over and unlocked his glove compartment and pulled out his backup service revolver he kept there. It wasn’t the traditional Glock semi-automatic that most Boise cops wore; instead he kept his father’s old favorite Smith & Wesson J-frame .38 Special revolver. It was much smaller and lightweight, but was just as lethal in the hands of the expert Bill was.

He left the car tucking the gun into his belt at the small of his back, ready if needed but concealed from the perpetrator, leaving his hands free. He quickly moved over to the stairs, pushed his back against the wall, and slowly ascended the stairs until he could just see over the floor of the landing. He looked around again, ensuring there were no innocent bystanders, and then proceeded cautiously to lure the man away from the door.

“Good evening!” he shouted above the banging of the door. He couldn’t see the perpetrator, but knew the man would be hugging the wall and peering around the corner to see who was accosting him.

“What do you want?” the man shouted back. Bill could hear the anger tinged with fear in his voice. This was a man that was used to getting his way and was infuriated at the feeling that the situation was slipping from his control.

“What seems to be the matter sir?” Bill called back. Police training told him getting the man talking was the imperative key to cooling emotions and diffusing the situation.

“What business is it of yours?” the man growled back, unwilling to show his hand.

“I’m a friend of the people in the apartment.” Again training played into his thinking, and he held back the revelation that he was a peace officer. Soon enough he would have to play that card, but this early in negotiations it would actually enflame the perpetrator, making him reckless—fear driving him into desperate acts.

“Well, friend,” he responded, speaking the appellation with heavy sarcasm, “my wife is in there, and I’m here to take her back home where she belongs.”

“Sounds like she’s not too interested in going home right now,” Bill said. “Why don’t you and I go find a cool place to sit, maybe get something iced to drink? Sure would be cooler than standing out in this heat, don’t you think.”

“Sounds great,” the man called back sarcastically. “Why don’t you go and I’ll meet you there.” He turned and banged on the door several more times. “Carrie, get out here now!”

“Is Carrie your wife?” Bill called out knowingly.

“Look,” the man called back, blowing out his breath in a huff, “this is between me and my wife. Why don’t you just get out of here before I lose my patience?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to help you out here,” Bill soothed. “If you’re Carrie’s husband, then I’m sure she’ll be coming home anytime now. You know women, they just like to talk. Sooner or later they’ll be done and she’ll be on her way. So what about that drink while we wait?”

“She’ll come home now, or someone will get hurt!” he yelled through the door. “You know I’ll do it too, don’t you!”

A muffled shout came from inside the apartment which Bill couldn’t make out at his position, but it seemed to infuriate the man. He started banging on the door again, hitting it with the butt of the gun in his hand, and kicking it in time with a string of epithets that escaped his lips. Bill was beginning to get concerned about the stability of the man, and decided to change tactics, praying that he was making the right decision.

“Hey, there’s no need for all that!” he shouted over the din, succeeding in bringing the man’s focus, and anger, back to him.

“I told you to stay out of this. It isn’t your affair!”

“I’m afraid you’re making it my affair. Carrie is an old friend of mine, and I want to make sure she’s safe.” He intentionally changed the amiable tone of voice he had used up to this point into a more commanding forceful tenor. “With you carrying on like this, I can’t be assured she would be safe if she left with you.”

The man’s answer was icy. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Time to put his cards on the table. “I’m Officer Bill Lowell, Boise Police Department. If you are Carrie’s husband you must be Paul Price. You and I actually used to be pretty good friends.”

“Ah yes, good little, naïve, Bill Lowell,” Paul answered. Then he laughed. “My faithful home teacher. You came every month, but you never did see how disobedient my wife was, and how I had to keep her disciplined. So what’s the First Presidency message this month Bill?”

The implication washed through Bill, chilling him through to the bone. It was true, he had visited every month, and had even spent several evenings together. He and Lacy had invited them over on several occasions for dinner and cards, sometimes staying up all night almost until time for class the next day. They had laughed and joked the entire night. Everyone had enjoyed their times immensely.

Or had they? He thought back on those nights to a quiet and submissive Carrie, who hardly spoke and rarely laughed. He could even remember Lacy commenting on it once, but he had dismissed it as her being simply withdrawn. Now he wondered how much of her shyness had been beaten into her by her husband. Literally.

Now that he thought it through it all made sense. She was always cowering behind Paul, almost as if she were hiding, never saying anything without a nod of approval from him. And when she did talk it was always stilted and strained. He had rarely even seen Carrie without her husband present, and could remember that she wouldn’t visit Lacy alone. He could even remember once that he had run into her at the grocery store and she had evaded his salutation, nearly running to get away from him.

Bill berated his ignorance. He was right there, responsible for her, and he had been completely oblivious. Even after all his training to pick up on this type of behavior and subtle clues he had shrugged them all off. Clues he had completely ignored and misread. Along with his guilt he felt a surge of anger and determination. He may have missed it before, but now he resolved that it would never happen again.

He set his jaw in determination and reached behind his back and withdrew his gun. If Paul was already beating his wife, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to cause her more harm, especially when he was about to lose her as his favorite whipping boy.

“I may have been naïve Paul, but I’m also a cop. I will not allow you to harm Carrie, or anyone else. Now put your gun on the floor and kick it past the stairs. I don’t want you to get hurt either.”

Paul laughed at the comment. “Look Lowell, I know you’re this big Boy Scout, trying to save the world, but you can’t touch me. Carrie is mine, and I’m not leaving here without her.” He paused, then added menacingly, “and don’t forget that I grew up on a farm and got pretty good with this Desert Eagle!” To emphasize his point he grabbed the slide at the top of the gun, just above the grip, and pulled it back with his left hand, ejecting a bullet into the chamber.

Bill froze, his heart pounding, his senses sharpened. He could hear the soft chirping of crickets surrounding the apartment building, harmonized by the croaking of some frogs. A slight breeze brushed against his cheek where a nervous bead of perspiration streaked down from his brow. He could smell the lingering aroma of charcoal from someone’s barbeque dinner earlier in the evening, and could even smell the odor emanating from his own sweating body. He could also make out the ragged breath of his old friend standing above him on the landing, the sure sign that fear and adrenaline, along with a healthy dose of rage, was in control of his body.

In a flash Bill saw Paul wouldn’t back down now; the only way this would end would be to incapacitate him, either by pinning him to the ground and restraining him, or by injuring him to the point he could not defend himself. Either way, Bill needed help. He could only hope it would be quick enough.

He reached down into his left pant pocket and retrieved his cell phone. Utilizing only his left hand, leaving his right hand free to control his weapon, he dialed 911, and then set the phone down on the stair below him. He couldn’t risk having Paul hear him calling in back up, and knew that by leaving the line open Dispatch would locate his signal and send in the cavalry. The only question was how to keep Paul distracted, and himself safe, until they arrived.

Slowly he worked himself up the steps, pressing his back hard against the wood siding. He couldn’t see what Paul was doing, and knew Paul had the dual advantage of height and cover of the corner. If his opponent chose the wrong moment to step around that corner, the stairwell would open immediately to his left and down, exposing Bill entirely. It was a tenuous position that he must change.

He glanced up to see what was overhead, and saw nothing but the bare wood ceiling several feet above him. No help there. Off to the left there was a storage locker, but he could see from here that the padlock was on and secure. Besides that it was just opposite Paul and he would have to cross right in front of him to reach the closet. Straight ahead, across the landing, there was an open railing, then the drop to the ground below. And of course to the right was Paul, still banging on the single door, cursing and yelling for Carrie to join him.

Suddenly Paul went quiet. Bill froze. Something was happening in the apartment but Bill couldn’t tell what it was. He took a long step up, crossing three steps, to pull himself closer to find out what was going on. Then he heard the jangle of the chain and deadbolts opening. What he heard next pushed his heart into his throat, and he found it difficult to breathe.

“Hello Paul.” It was Carrie, speaking calmly and slowly to her estranged husband.

“It’s about time!” Paul yelled, followed by a loud slap and a stifled scream of pain. “You never did listen to me. Now you will pay for it!”

There was another muffled hit and cry. Bill’s anger was pulsing through his veins. It was all he could do to restrain himself from jumping around the corner guns blazing. Yet his paramount concern was Carrie’s safety. A few hits were preferable to a piercing bullet. He gained the last step then cautiously peaked around the corner to take stock of the scene. What he saw was as bad as he had imagined.

Paul stood facing the doorway, eyes wild and hair disheveled. He had spittle trailing down his chin from the sides of his mouth, much like a mad dog. It was obvious he hadn’t bathed or shaved for several days. His soiled clothing stood evidence that he had not changed for some time. In his right hand he held a glistening Mark XIX Desert Eagle .357 magnum pistol, his knuckles white from his enraged hold on the grip.

In front of him stood Carrie, looking tiny and vulnerable yet determined. She had a trickle of blood seeping from an open tear on her lip, the product of a backhanded slap. She also had red eyes, proof of recent weeping. Yet there was an aura of calm surrounding her, although it was also obvious she was very frightened.

The open door behind her lighted the scene in an almost eerie way, the reflection lighting Paul’s face in such a way as to give him the appearance of a vampire, his pale complexion deathly white, the drool the remains of his victim’s blood.

Yet that same radiance backlit Carrie giving her the appearance of an angel, wrapped in a halo of glory. Bill felt his heart reach out for the second time this week, yearning to protect a slight girl from an evil attacker. He knew he had to do something, but he didn’t know what. Unfortunately, Paul forced the issue for him.

Paul reached up and grabbed hold of her hair and ripped her head back, producing another cry of pain in the small woman. He took the gun and pressed the barrel under her chin hard enough to break the skin.

“I told you Carrie,” he hissed, “you belong to me. If I can’t trust you to behave like a good girl, you will force me to take a drastic step. So what is it, are you going to behave or not?”

In a calm, resigned voice Carrie answered with some difficulty, due to the Desert Eagle shoved into her skin. “I would rather die than live with you Paul. You’ve beaten me for three years, belittled me, and abused me. And I believed every word you said. I thought that I just had to do things better, that it was all my fault. And through it all I loved you.

“But no more. I won’t do it again!” Her voice rose in anger as she spoke, a crescendo building to a yell. “Go ahead. Pull the trigger. You’ve already killed my spirit so many times that I don’t want to live like that anymore anyway!”

The fire in her eyes was awe inspiring considering the situation. She was nearly a foot shorter than he, a man that was obviously beyond rational thought, and had a gun shoved into her chin. Yet she stood there defiant before her tormenter, taking back her control, despite the cost. But that price was too high. Bill would allow no more.