Amnesia (7 page)

“Oh that,” the startled nurse brushed off, calmer now and back under control. “No, it was the name of my youngest boy. He would have been the same age. And I hate the name ‘John Doe.’ I didn’t think it would hurt.” With sudden realization of the doctor’s position above hers she added fearfully, “You won’t report me for it, will you?”

Lissa smiled compassionately at the elder woman trying to set her at ease. “Of course not, I think I would have done the same thing. What happened to him, your Robbie? Of course, if you would rather not…” she trailed off not wanting to intrude.

“Oh, no, of course not. Not much to tell that you don’t hear in the papers. He was the typical teenager, wanting to spend more time with his friends than anything else. Then one night they decided to add some beer to their party and went up into the foothills. The driver is in jail still, charged with killing him and the other three kids in the car.”

She paused, reflecting on her thoughts. “It doesn’t help, you know, putting that child in jail for basically the rest of his life. It doesn’t help the hurt, it only adds another heart that is hurting—his own mama’s.”

She shook her head coming back to the moment. “Anyways, when I first saw this boy he reminded me of my own sweet Robbie, so I started calling him that. Maybe it will help him feel loved, help him find his way back home to us.”

Lissa couldn’t help feeling warmly about this loving lady who had seen so much, not only as a nurse where there is a steady stream of misery, but also as a mother who had to bury her youngest child because of a thoughtless moment. She was even more impressed with her compassionate understanding of others when society would teach us to hate and cheer at another’s pain. The world could use more like Dolores she decided, especially in the medical arena.

The nurse shuffled back out to attend to the others dependent on her care and the doctor turned back once again to the man lying in the bed, seeing him a little more a man and less a patient. She walked over to the bed, searching the face closer looking answers, as if they could be deciphered from his features if only read correctly.

“Robbie,” she spoke softly to the man, “is that really your name?” She paused, suddenly embarrassed that she was speaking to someone that probably couldn’t hear her. She pulled her head up and looked around to ensure there was no one there.

Pulling the chair over she sat in it backward with her arms folded across the back, leaning her chin against her forearms. Somehow she felt drawn to the relaxed face, as if she were looking at a sleeping child that just needed to be disturbed to awaken. It seemed like such an open and honest face like this, clean and moral.

“So are you clean and moral?” she asked aloud suddenly unconcerned with what others might think. Somehow she felt as if they were the only two people in the world. Oddly, she felt a connection to the man, feeling that if she could only think hard enough she would be able to recognize him.

“Where is your mother today? Is she like Dolores, worrying about where you are, praying that you are alright? Is she even now searching the world over to find you?”

Again she paused, this time feeling a sense of empathy for the mothers in the world with lost boys, both physically and spiritually. She wondered what she would do if she had a son that had been snatched from her by the cruel twisting of fate, either through death or having gone astray from the path she would so laboriously direct. Would she be like Dolores who held no ill-will for those involved? Or like her own mother who blamed the world for her sorrow and expected them to pay.

She continued, “Do you have other family that is missing you? Is there someone else that needs to know that you are alive and that the prognosis is good that you will come out of this? Are you married and have children…?”

Lissa couldn’t quite finish the thought as a flash of insight revealed what she would feel if her husband had suddenly disappeared and no one had told her. “Hell hath no fury” would be a good start. She also felt a tiny bit of jealousy as she thought of how happy his wife would probably be just having someone there to love her and give her children. Again she veered off that thinking, heading for
safer
ground for her emotions, already tender enough after the experiences of the last few days.

“So, Robbie. I like that. Do you mind if I call you Robbie too? So, Robbie, what do you do for a living?” She smiled mischievously at a thought and decided to follow it where ever it led.

“It’s elementary, dear Watson—he is a florist.” She giggled at the thought and continued an octave lower, imitating the man in the novels. “Notice the hands that are not callused, but have pin pricks on them, obviously from the rose thorns. Okay, maybe from finger pricks to test his BG—that’s short for “blood glucose level” Dr. Watson, but I like rose thorns better. Obviously he’s not a construction worker.”

She laughed out loud then, realizing the fool she must appear. She never did anything like this; even to people that were awake. Then she quieted back down, laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly to him. “Whatever you do, whoever you are, I promise that you are getting the best care in Idaho. We’ll do whatever we can to bring you back home, I promise.”

She glanced around again, making sure no one had seen or heard her, then looked back down to see tear-filled yet startling blue eyes staring back at her.

*
             
             
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*

The man stood among the snakes, his weeping finally ended, replaced by exhaustion and despair. He knew he couldn’t sit among the serpents, couldn’t even move without being attacked, therefore he was rooted to the spot. Then again, where would he go? He could see around him for miles, craggy rocks and dirt surrounding him on every side. And from every hole and seam slipped scaly death.

Reptiles of every sort covered the rocky soil, some he recognized, most he did not, their bodies sliding and skidding across the others. The actions seemed to anger and annoy the invertebrates and several times two would rise up against each other, strike, one falling dead soon to be cannibalized by the victor.

Directly above him shone the hot noonday sun, its menacing rays beating down on his disrobed body, setting his skin on fire and baking his brain. If the venomous creatures around him let him live, surely the angry heat from above would finish the task. He glanced up trying to make out east or west from the shining orb. Stubbornly it remained directly above, revealing no answers, leaving only more questions.

Off in the distance through shimmering heat waves he could make out dim outlines of mountains, but nothing clear enough to give away a clue to his location. Even if he could recognize the peaks, he realized there was no way to reach them; there was no way he could crawl through the heat and poison that far.

But what of the voice he had heard. It was like a nurse reaching out to aid her patient. It sounded like something he had heard on television once; from a hospital show where the RNs were helping their needing sufferers with rudimentary grooming.

“Like a television show,” he repeated aloud. The heat must be causing him to hear voices, like hallucinations. His mind must be simply rehashing scenes from what he had watched on TV. The thought only depressed him more, so he shoved it aside, again wondering which would kill him first, the poisonous asps or the radiating heat.

Speaking of the heat, he considered, what happened to the snow? Was that also a hallucination? Or is the heat the vision and the cold real? From what he had heard about freezing to death, it was like going to sleep and never waking up. Was this his last dream, just before he met his Maker?

The voice cut through his thoughts. He jerked his head up knowing that this time there was nothing to obstruct his view of the origin. It was the same voice, he knew, and it again sounded like a mother hen coddling her chicks. It was so comforting that it reminded him of his own grandmother, who had died so many years ago. He strained to see who it was, but saw nothing but blue sky and dazzling sunlight. Then the voice was gone, and he was left alone again.

The disappointment was tangible leaving an ache in his chest that threatened to burst. He fell to his knees in the sand, the tears just beginning to trickle down his dusty face, the emotions gathering into a storm just beneath the surface of his skin.

He sat back, oblivious of the snakes, almost daring them to deliver their fatal sting. Perhaps it was his grandmother after all, calling him home in some strange way, home to those who had gone on before. How much more he wanted that fate than the current doom he was experiencing.

He fell back supine, his face to the blistering sun, the sobs again racking his ravaged body. His entire body ached, the muscles cramping with every move, sending spasms to accompany each wail. He felt the heat burning his exposed skin, penetrating down into the very meat of his flesh.

Perhaps what he was experiencing was already death; it matched the concept of hell very nicely, and would answer many of the questions before him. He was so frightened that he wanted to just shrivel up, but knew instinctively that this particular option was not left to him. Fear became despair as he realized that he had no options. Despair finally became exhaustion as his spent emotions left him, a wreck of the man he had always dreamed of becoming. He knew he could not go on, but also knew there was nothing left but to endure.

Slowly he started to rise realizing that he may as well try to survive since death seemed unwilling to take him just yet. He sat up, suddenly realizing that he wasn’t covered with snakes or snakebites. He looked down as his hands, then past that to the sand beneath him.

Sand? He brought up his head, again noting the landscape, which had somehow shifted again.

All around him now were sand dunes, some small hills, barely more than a foot or so high, others mountainous, raising hundreds of feet in the air. He circled slowly, taking it all in, trying to get a grasp on what he was seeing. As far as the eye could see was simply sand.

Above him the same hot sun stood still, refusing to lead the way to safety, the same intensity beating down on his tortured shoulders. However, it seemed not quite the same, not nearly as hot as before.

A small seed of hope sprang into his heart as he realized that as difficult as this seemed, it wasn’t nearly as impossible as before. The horror of a frozen death or a poisoned end was gone. Instead he was left with sand, and one could always walk out of sand.

He sighted the highest dune and headed for it, determined to reach its apex and find some way back to civilization. His path was slow and treacherous, the sliding sand stealing his footing from him, sending him back towards the bottom.

Seeming eternities later
,
he finally gained the top of the hill and surveyed the scene. Still he could see nothing but the rolling sand, the wind occasionally pulling at the earth whipping up small dust storms, angry at the dunes for standing in its way.

He began to feel the hope flicker and wane, the realization that he didn’t even know which direction to follow burned like acid in his veins. He almost dropped to his knees again, the despair filling his heart where the hope resided not so long ago. He knew when he was beaten, he told himself, and this was it.

Yet something inside him screamed to press on. The small voice was nearly drowned out by the cacophony of voices crying defeat, but still he heard it and knew it was right. With a deep breath he steeled himself, determined yet again that he would survive. It didn’t matter what was thrown at him; at least he wouldn’t quit—not now, not ever.

He threw his shoulders back and faced the next dune in front of him; the direction didn’t matter, all that mattered was that he kept moving. Inside his heart he felt that seed of hope, so dangerously close to being cast out, renewed and growing, his resolve feeding it and nurturing it. He struck off down the opposite hill he had just ascended heading toward another towering prominence directly ahead.

He was on his fourth dune when he heard the voices again, but this one wasn’t the motherly one from before, it was angelic and sweet, singing to him as a heavenly host. It called to his heart even more than his ears, pulling him toward its promise of joy. He stopped and closed his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t see the source anyhow, allowing himself to be swept up in the beauty of the sound.

He took a deep breath, feeling slightly intoxicated by the contrast between the bliss the voice offered and the despair that had so recently engulfed him. He realized that he was smiling feeling alive again, the pain all but disappeared. If this were his fate he would gladly turn himself over to it; this was the heaven that he had so often envisioned.

He again opened his eyes determined to find the voice among all the sand, but found instead that he was in a hallway of sorts. White walls reached past him in both directions, then ended somewhere ahead where he could see it turn. He was so startled that he fell into one of the walls allowing it to brace him.

He looked down at the floor and saw white nondescript tile allowing no hint of which direction to follow. However he did notice one other thing—he was dressed.

He wore a white one-piece coverall that reached to his ankles and wrists and was quite a comfortable fit. It was either linen or cotton, he never could tell the difference, but it moved with him in such a way that he wasn’t even aware he was wearing it. On his feet were stockings and white slippers that made no noise as he moved along the corridor. They too were quite comfortable and he quickly forgot they were even there.