by Terry Sanville
He opened his eyes and found himself strapped to a gurney, in a swaying vehicle, a siren screaming. A masked person, probably a woman, stared down at him, pressed a stethoscope to his chest, and took his vitals. A plastic mask covered his mouth and nose. He pawed at it; his arm trailed a clear tube that dripped fluid into a vein.
“He’s back,” the woman said.
“Good,” said her partner. “Keep him on oxygen and check his blood glucose.”
“Got it.”
He continued to finger the plastic mask. “What . . . what happened?”
“We don’t know,” she replied. “They’ll tell you more at the hospital.”
“Hospital?”
“Yes, Cottage Hospital.”
“Where . . . where’s that?”
The woman glanced at her partner. “Just lay back and breathe easy, Mr. Delmar.”
“Who’s Delmar?”
The paramedics stared at each other. “That’s you . . . Mark Delmar.”
“Me?”
The ambulance came to a stop, its back doors flew open, and they hauled him out. Others came running. They rolled him through an automatic door signed “Emergency,” into a curtained-off stall and shifted him onto a new bed. A nurse dressed in teal scrubs transferred his IV bag to a stand and took his vitals.
“Do you know where you are, Mr. Delmar?”
“No . . . and I don’t know this Delmar fellow.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“No.”
“What do you remember?”
“Only waking in the ambulance.”
“You’re lucky. Your fiancée asked the police to do a welfare check at your house. They found you unconscious.”
“My fiancée?”
The nurse stopped and stared at him for a moment. She continued to type into the computer, adding notes. “Do you know where you are?”
“In a hospital?”
“Yes, but where? What city?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know what state you’re in?”
“A confused one,” he said and tried to grin.
“Who is the President?”
“President? I . . . I don’t remember.”
Nurses came and went, drew blood, and wheeled him down a long corridor for some type of scan – a huge machine that clicked and buzzed and drew him partway into a claustrophobic tunnel. Gradually the fringe of fog that encased all things around him faded and he could see more clearly.
He lay quietly and stared at the wall clock, not sure if it was day or night. Reaching for the carafe, he poured a glass full of ice water and gulped it down, drinking it so fast that his throat and chest ached. Outside his curtained stall, mumbled conversations:
“. . . Tox screens were clear . . . need more specialied tests . . .”
“. . . CAT scan showed nothing . . .”
“. . . need an MRI to really see what’s . . .”
“. . . severe retrograde amnesia . . .”
“. . . yeah, like somebody deleted his files . . .”
“. . . keep him for a few days then refer him to UCLA . . .”
“. . . the fiancé is really upset. Should we . . .”
“. . . not yet . . .”
Time passed slowly. He wanted something to read but couldn’t remember what he liked. His hunger grew and he pressed the call button over and over, but nobody came. Finally, a guy dressed in gray scrubs pushed back the curtain and emptied the trash.
“Could you have the nurse come see me?” he asked.
The guy looked at him blankly. “I sorry. No speak English.”
Finally, a portly man in a white lab coat entered his space, sat on a stool next to the bed, and adjusted his glasses. He smelled of cigarettes and Old Spice.
“Mr. Delmar, I’m Dr. Norris. I’m a hospitalist here at Cottage. How are you feeling?”
“Hungry.”
“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that.”
“Why does everyone call me Mr. Delmar?”
“Because that’s what it says on your driver’s license.”
“Really?
Dr. Norris handed him the plastic card. Mark studied the photo of a stranger who was born in 1990 and lived somewhere in Santa Barbara, California, wherever that was, was six foot tall with blue eyes, brown hair, and weighed 190 pounds.
“We’ve noticed that your memory has taken a vacation. But close your eyes and think back. What do you remember about yesterday?”
“Nothing really.”
“Have you taken any drugs that we should know about?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Have you had any problems at work or with your fiancée?”
“I don’t remember anything or anyone,” he said, starting to get troubled and very worried.
“Do any of these people look familiar?” Dr. Norris held up a photograph of a small group of smiling adults.
“No. Should I know them?”
“Does the man on the right end look familiar?”
“Hey, I already said no.”
“That’s you, Mr. Delmar, a bit younger but you.” Dr. Norris scribbled in a small notebook.
“Look, Dr. Norris. I am drawing a blank. How I got here or what happened before I don’t know.”
Norris stood and closed his notebook. “We’re going to take some more blood to test for specific chemical poisoning. And the neurologist has ordered an MRI scan. We want to keep you here until our staff evaluates the results of these tests.
“How long will that take?”
“Could be three days. But within a day we should know if your amnesia is transient, and you begin to regain your memory.”
“I hope so. But can I get something to eat now? I’m starving!”
“You’ll be moved to a ward in a little while. They’ll provide food. I’ll check in on you tomorrow. Sleep well tonight.”
Mark Delmar closed his eyes. His thoughts wandered back to his time spent in the ambulance, the sounds, the sights, the smell of rubbing alcohol, and the sting of the IV needle. Beyond that hung a thick black curtain, an abyss devoid of people, places, or things, ideas, or mental images that might trigger the senses. It was like the time before the Big Bang when there was no time. Only God’s time. And how the hell could he know about the Big Bang but not remember yesterday? He fell asleep wondering if he could survive a future without a past.
Time passed like viscous lava creeping across a flat plain. Once or twice each day a Physician’s Assistant administered a memory test, getting the same results. On the third day after lunch, a trio of doctors entered his room and gathered around the bed. Mark clicked off the TV and pulled himself upright. The doctors introduced themselves: a hematologist, a neurologist, and Dr. Norris who took the lead.
“Good afternoon, Mark. We’ve completed our analysis of your blood work and imaging.”
The hematologist stared at his notes and spat out words like a machine gun, rattling on and on about what tests were conducted and the purpose and accuracy of each. Finally, he concluded, “Your blood panels came back normal, everything within range. The toxicology analysis didn’t show anything harmful. But there are more specialized tests that should be run.”
Mark frowned. “So, I’m healthy?”
“From my perspective, apparently so.”
“Did the scan show—?”
“The MRI provided excellent images,” the neurologist said. “My colleagues and I studied them closely, focusing on the hippocampus and other related structures in the temporal lobe. We didn’t detect any growths or trauma.”
“So, what does all this mean?”
Dr. Norris cleared his throat. “It means that we don’t know what is causing your amnesia. But we have suspicions.”
“Like what?” Mark snapped. He felt the doctors hid behind the technical trappings of their profession when all he wanted was an answer, and more importantly, a cure. Were they scared to cut to the chase? Did more words somehow soften his problem and the lack of a fix?
“We think you were poisoned by the ingredients in the flea bombs you placed in your house.”
Mark sat up. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your fiancée told us that your dog has fleas and that you activated several flea bombs to take care of the problem.”
He stared at them.
“Don’t worry, your dog is fine,” said Dr. Norris.
“I don’t remember having a dog . . . or a fiancée.”
“Yes, yes. Well, we researched the effects of the chemicals in the flea bomb on humans. Not much there, most of it involves short-term localized impairments and nothing that would explain amnesia.”
“So . . .I’m pretty much screwed?”
After a long pause, Dr. Norris said, “Not necessarily. Your memory could return at any time – in bits and pieces or all at once. But we believe that you should be referred to UCLA Medical Center for further evaluation and treatment.”
“How long will that take?”
They explained the process.
Mark sat stunned, with the phrases, health insurance, if they accept, and several weeks tumbling around his mind. “So . . . what’s next?”
Dr. Norris stepped forward. “We can arrange for transitional care, subject to insurance coverage, or . . . your fiancée has said that you can live with her until UCLA opens up.”
Mark stared into space, not knowing what to do.
“You don’t have to give us an answer right now. Your fiancée will be in to visit you this afternoon. You can decide after that.”
Mark nodded. The doctors hurried out. He lay back and rubbed his eyes and thought about his so-called fiancée. She’ll be a total stranger to me. She’ll expect me to know her. What if she’s ugly? What if I don’t like her? What if she’s scared, doesn’t like me . . . whoever that is?
He felt exhausted and drifted off to sleep as the TV blasted forth with an episode of Castle.
Mark sat in a wheelchair, clutched his discharge papers and waited. He’d decided that staying with a stranger was better than one more night on the ward or in some rest home. Hannah entered with Dr. Norris. She rushed to his side and stroked his cheek. He flinched. She was tall, beautiful and spoke to Norris in a strong voice.
“Is he alright? Can I take him home?”
“Yes. Except for the memory loss we talked about, so far we haven’t found other problems.”
Hannah nodded, moved behind the wheelchair and pushed Mark down the hall, into the elevator, then out the hospital’s doors into the blinding sunlight and to her car.
Traffic crowded the city’s streets. Hannah drove the Prius expertly, changing lanes and leaning on the horn at just the right moments. They motored northward toward the mountains then turned and cut across the intervening foothills covered with housing. She finally pulled into the driveway of a Spanish-style house, perched high on the slopes overlooking Santa Barbara and the Pacific. The house looked old, its orange roof tiles askew and covered in lichen, the front yard’s cactus garden gone amok.
“Yeah, this place was my grandparents’,” Hannah said. “They came here from Chicago right after World War II. I’ve only been here about five years.”
Mark nodded even though the words Chicago and World War II meant nothing to him. While in the hospital he realized that he could speak, read, and understand the names and functions of objects. But historical places, events, and context lay beyond that black curtain.
Heavy dark furniture filled the inside of Hannah’s house. Paintings and photographs of ranchlands covered the walls. In the living room, a blackened fireplace occupied one wall. A classical guitar rested in a far corner next to a huge piano. Hannah left him there and disappeared for a moment with the suitcase filled with his clothing and personal items.
“Do you want some iced tea?” she asked. “Today’s been a scorcher.”
“Yes, that’d be great.”
“Two sugars, right?”
“You clearly know me well!”
They sat on an overstuffed sofa and gazed out a picture window at sailboats dotting the gray-green Santa Barbara Channel.
“I’m so sorry that I didn’t get to you sooner,” Hannah said. “But you were busy with the Stempson House, and I thought you’d just turned off your cell.”
Mark nodded, not knowing what the hell she was talking about. He figured he’d be doing a lot of that over the next few days. Weeks? Months?
“This is so weird, don’t you think?” she said.
“God, yeah. I’m not sure what I should do. They told me nothing at the hospital, just to wait until they get word from UCLA.”
“Yeah, I know. Dr. Norris told me as much about your case as he could.”
Mark leaned back into the cushions and sighed. “So, what do we do now?”
“Why don’t I tell you about you, then about me, then about us.”
“This just gets weirder and weirder.”
Mark gulped his iced tea, closed his eyes, and wondered if he opened them again would he be back at his own house, wherever that might be. He listened intently as Hannah rattled off what she knew about him: Catholic, licensed architect with his own practice (mostly residential), male Australian Shepherd named Socks, parents dead, no siblings, divorced, chess player, non-athletic, wine connoisseur, Lotus driver, great lover with training still required.
Hannah’s story seemed more interesting: Jewish, USC grad in Music (classical piano), three cats (Magic Man, Cinnamon Girl, and Elise), parents alive and well in Pasadena, two brothers, never married, chess player (usually beats him), reader, athletic (runs five miles a day), wine connoisseur, Toyota driver, great lover, and coach.
Mark opened his eyes and smiled at Hannah. “Thank you. That’s great. I’ve narrowed my questions down to the top one thousand. So . . . tell me about us.”
“Okay. Well, we met about a year and a half ago at PetSmart. You were buying doggie kibble and flirting with the clerk.”
“I flirt?”
“Oh yeah, big time.” Hannah chuckled. “I was standing right there, and you hardly noticed me.”
“How could I not notice?”
“See, you’re doing it right now.”
“Sorry.”
“No, keep going. Anyway, I followed you out. You turned around right before me; both arms were full of pet food. You eyed the cat food bags and said something about your dog loving cats. I said my cats never knew a dog. And that was that.”
“So . . . how well did I know you? I guess if we’re engaged, well.”
Hannah grinned. “Well . . . if you mean in a biblical sense, ever since our fourth time together.”
“You certainly are . . . desirable.”
“There’s that flirting again.”
“Oops.”
They talked for what seemed like hours, Hannah telling stories about her youth or recounting the past year and things they had done together. To Mark, it sounded like a full life, one without much threat or fear. She showed him cell phone images of them at various places, taking selfies, always smiling.
He looked, amazed at how nothing rang a bell. Nothing.
“So . . . do you remember anything at all before you passed out? Has that changed at all?”
“I don’t remember anything.”
“Oh, crap! I almost forgot.”
Hannah bolted from her seat and disappeared into the adjoining kitchen. A door opened and closed. The clatter of paws on kitchen tiles sounded. An Australian Shepherd burst into the living room and charged toward Mark, its bushy tail frantically beating the air. He bent forward and grabbed the dog by its shoulders before it could climb into his lap, scratched it behind the ears, and rubbed its belly, the pooch whining and barking the entire time.
“Ah, so, this is Socks,” Mark said, laughing.
“Yep, definitely happy to see you.”
“But you have cats. How do they . . .”
“You’ll see later after he calms down.”
In a few minutes, Socks scratched himself, turned a few circles on the carpet then slumped across Mark’s feet and pretended to sleep.
They continued talking. Mark didn’t notice that the sun had disappeared into the sea until Hannah turned on a light. Somehow two bottles of wonderful cabernet had emptied themselves and stood guard on the coffee table strewn with magazines about the pop music scene. Evidently, Hannah did studio work when not giving private lessons and teaching at the community college. He silently congratulated himself on his decision to stay with her ¬– she seemed delightful, smart, educated, and sexy as hell. And it was clear to Mark that she loved him.
He excused himself and asked for directions to the bathroom. Once inside, he stared into the mirror over the sink. The dark three-day beard and his over-the-ears unruly hair made him look like a coal miner, home after a hard day’s work. He pushed his hair into place and rejoined Hannah, nervous about what might happen next.
He found her seated at the piano, concentrating, playing something slow and dramatic. He waited until she finished before speaking.
“That was beautiful. You certainly are accomplished.”
“Pull up a chair.” She pointed, not taking her eyes off the keyboard, and dove into another piece.
Mark found a wooden folding chair leaning against the wall and pulled it up close.
“Grab that guitar.”
“You play the guitar too?”
“Hell no. But you do . . . rather well.”
He retrieved the instrument from the corner.
“Go ahead and tune it. You have perfect pitch, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Just close your eyes and work the tuners.”
He closed his eyes and gently plucked the strings. It felt familiar.
“How’s that?” he asked, as sounds filtered through.
“Perfect. Now keep your eyes closed and play.”
“I can’t remember.”
“You may have muscle memory and know how to do it.”
“Just try.”
Mark began to play. His hands and fingers seemed to move on their own accord. He opened his eyes and watched, as if from a distance. Notes poured from the instrument’s sound hole as his fingers danced across the fretboard. Whatever it was he played came to an end. He stared at Hannah, open-mouthed.
She smiled at him and touched his face, her fingers warm and soothing. “See, muscle memory.”
Mark shivered. “Yeah, that was something. I wonder what else I remember?”
She stood and moved away from the piano. She pulled him closer. There is more muscle memory there, she smiled coyly at him.
He followed her as she sashayed toward the back of the house, to the bedroom to start his second life.
He woke to sunlight pouring through an open window, curtains thrown back to expose the city, sea, and sky. For the first time, he thought about his future, something he’d been avoiding. And the more he thought about it the more he felt that UCLA could wait. His future could be a grand adventure, something the Discovery Channel would be proud of.
Hannah called out to him from the kitchen. He pushed himself up. Socks lay stretched out on his side at the foot of the bed. Three huge cats curled up against his belly. All four snored softly. Mark slipped from the bed and padded across the floor toward the aroma of something delicious baking, eager to start another life with Hannah.
Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, and novels. His short stories have been accepted more than 500 times by journals, magazines, and anthologies including The American Writers Review, The Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated three times for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.