A Little Bit of Déjà Vu

by Laurie Kellogg

  “Actually, I’ve been going by Mac.” He settled back onto the edge of the hospital bed.

  “Okay, Mac. Can you tell me what you remember?”

  “Everything except details about my life. I seem to know a lot about electrical and mechanical engineering as well as science—particularly biology and anatomy and physiology.”

  “That explains why you know the exact number of bones in a human being.” She jotted down some notes on her yellow lined pad. “Anything else?”

  “I have vague recollections of things that happened to me as a kid, and I have awful nightmares that I can’t remember after I wake up.” He also had vivid memories of sex, but no way would he tell her about them. “I remember having a sister.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “And the name, Abby.”

  The doctor’s forehead furrowed, suggesting this information had some significance. “You seem disturbed by that name. Why do you think that is?”

  “You’ve got me. Thinking about it makes my chest hurt, so I try not to. Weird, huh?”

  “No. When a patient with dense retrograde amnesia loses only biographical memories, we pretty much rule out a pathological cause. So a physical response, like the tightness in your chest, isn’t unusual if the memories you’ve repressed are stirred.”

  “So you’re saying my problem isn’t from a head injury?”

  “I seriously doubt it. Since you’ve retained your world knowledge, it’s highly unlikely your memory loss has anything but a psychogenic origin. I believe it’s simply a manifestation of a dissociative disorder caused by psychological trauma. In the past, doctors would’ve called your condition shell shock or battle fatigue. But we’ve recently begun classifying soldiers with residual effects from the war as having post-Vietnam syndrome.”

  In other words, it was all in his head.

  Dr. Grant absently tapped her pen on his chart. “The mind is something we still don’t know enough about, Mac, but we do know it’s a survivor. Your subconscious will do whatever it takes to keep you mentally at ease. This Abby may be connected to the psychological trauma that caused your amnesia.”

  “Great. So I’m stark raving mad.”

  “No.” She smiled. “You’d be crazy if your mind hadn’t shut down to protect your sanity. Right now, you’re comfortable and safe. You’ve been Mac a long time, so it’s going to take a while for your subconscious to feel secure enough to release your memories. Be honest. Do you really want to remember?”

  Mac let his mind wander back to the day his captors realized he’d lost his memory and had thrown him into a pitch-black pit dubbed The Hellhole. He’d nearly crapped his pants when a hoarse whisper broke the dark silence. “I guess they forgot they already threw me in here this morning.”

  “Shit! I thought I was alone.” He winced, from the pain in every inch of his battered body.

  “Shh. Keep your voice down.” The man squeezed his arm in the dark. “If they realize we’re down here together, they’ll put us in the stocks—after they beat us.”

  Just what he needed. If they broke one more of his ribs he wouldn’t be able to draw a breath.

  “I’m Leonard Washington. What’s your name and where are you from?”

  “Truthfully, I don’t know. I don’t remember a thing about my life before this morning. They transferred me here from another camp right after I woke up.” Judging from his missing front teeth, how badly he’d been whipped and beaten, and the burns covering his arms, they must have had him for a while. “I told them my name is Paul McCartney.”

  “I suppose that’s as good as any. Personally, I would’ve gone with Elvis. I doubt Charlie would buy a black guy named McCartney.”

  “You’re Negro?”

  “Yeah, does it matter?”

  “Hell no. Do you care I’m White?”

  Leonard released a soft snort. “Good answer. You and I are going to get along great. Although, you won’t be very interesting if you can’t recall a damn thing about yourself.”

  “Believe me, I wish I could.”

  “I wouldn’t work real hard at trying to get your memory back. You might find out you lost something worth remembering. And there’s already enough torture going on here.”

  “Mac?” Dr. Grant touched his arm, yanking his mind back to the hospital in the Philippines. “Are you okay? You spaced out on me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I asked if you really want to remember.”

  Fiddling with the silverware on his tray, Mac shrugged. “I guess I’m a little nervous. I’ve always felt as if I had something special in my life. Maybe I’m afraid of missing it when I find out I’ve lost it.”

  “You’d be the best judge of your motivation. I’m hoping the Department of Defense can confirm an ID on you soon to connect a few more of the dots.”

  They’d fingerprinted him almost a week ago, but apparently the request for a match had gotten lost in the shuffle somewhere along the way. The military refused to ship him stateside until they could confirm his status as an American serviceman.

  “If not, we can try hypnosis to identify you. But considering your anxiety about learning your past, I’m not sure that will be effective.”

  He twisted his mouth. “I guess once Superman is revealed, Clark Kent, the mild mannered reporter, will cease to exist.”

  “I know that’s scary. Chin up.” She grinned. “You never know. You may find you have a real fetish for wearing tights and a ca—”

  “Hold that thought.” Major Jensen, the administrator in charge of identifying Mac, strode into the room. “The mystery’s solved.”

  Mac sprang to attention next to the bed.

  The silver-haired officer waved his hand. “As you were.”

  Perched on the edge of the mattress, Mac gripped the sheet while the major laid a thin file on the rolling hospital table. “Lieutenant, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you’re a walking corpse.”

  “What?”

  “You were listed as killed in action. Your dog tags were found in the charred wreckage of the chopper you went down in on 11 January 1967. When your body couldn’t be positively identified among the remains, the Army felt—since the headcount was correct—it was unlikely you survived. So they declared you dead.

  “Are you saying they found the body of someone who wasn’t supposed to be on the chopper?”

  “I guess. Technically, you should’ve been listed as presumptive finding of death.”

  “So what’s my name?”

  The doctor opened his file and scanned it. “You’re Second Lieutenant Matthew Thomas Foster.”

  Matt Foster. No wonder the nickname Mac seemed more comfortable than Paul. The morning the commander of the POW camp had woken him, he’d held a pistol to Mac’s head, and repeatedly demanded his name. Fearing for his life, Mac had spouted off the first one he could think of—Paul McCartney.

  It would take some adjustment to think of himself as Matt. He glanced between the doctor and the major. “Don’t you think it’s strange that Mac is so close to my real name?”

  “You were probably subconsciously drawn to it. You turned twenty-nine this past January eleventh....” She did a double take at the file and stared at the major. “The same day he was captured?”

  “I guess I had one helluva birthday that year, huh?” After having no access to a mirror during his captivity, Matt had seen himself clearly for the first time only ten days ago. “I look at least thirty-five.”

  “Actually, I’d pegged you as being closer to forty.” The major chuckled. “I nearly swallowed my tongue when I saw the year you were born. Wait until you see your induction picture.” The major handed him a photo from the file.

  Matt analyzed the smooth, youthful face in the picture. He was a good-looking kid, but he looked nothing like Mac—or, uh, Matt. The boy’s soft face had perfect symmetry, whereas his had irregular, chiseled features.

  “This can’t be me. My hair’s a lot darker brown—at least what isn’t gray. On top of that, my
nose is slightly crooked and broader. And there’s a big difference between the two sides of my face. Someone must’ve made a mistake.”

  The doctor took the picture and glanced back and forth between him and the photo. “He’s right, Major. He doesn’t look like this boy. Are you sure there wasn’t a mix-up?”

  “No. I thought the same thing, so I went back and had your ID double-checked. Your fingerprints are a match. You’re definitely Matthew Foster.”

  “Maybe someone else’s picture got stuck in my file.”

  Dr. Grant scrutinized the photo. “Mmm....no-o, I don’t think so. I see a resemblance in the eyes.” She tapped the three-by-five glossy. “You were probably a late bloomer.” She flipped through his medical chart. “The remodeling in your x-rays show half the bones in your face were fractured at one time or another. They’ve healed nicely, but I’m sure those skeletal changes could’ve altered your facial structure significantly.”

  The major studied the picture again. “Maturation alone could account for a lot of the difference. What you went through probably aged you faster than normal.”

  “If you didn’t have the evidence to prove it, I’d never believe I’m this Matt Foster guy.”

  The doctor sorted through the folder. “Matt, some people change a lot more than others as they age. Being twenty pounds underweight and that beard don’t help. And your bridgework probably changed the whole shape of your mouth.”

  It felt weird being called something other than Mac. “I guess it makes sense. What else do you know about me?”

  Doctor Grant glanced back at the file. “At the time of your capture, your parents lived in Texas.”

  That was odd. When Leonard had talked about his home in Philly, Matt had known a lot of details about the area. Having that in common with Leonard was partly why they’d grown so close—and why he’d requested to eventually be transferred to the Philadelphia VA hospital. “I would’ve sworn I grew up in Pennsylvania.”

  “Your records show you attended high school there, so you probably did. Your parents and sister may have moved while you were in college.”

  “Then I was right about having a sister. Is her name Abby?”

  “No. It’s Sheri. Does that bring anything back for you?” the doctor asked.

  Closing his eyes, he tried desperately to connect it all to a memory. After several moments, he tossed his hands up in frustration. “No.”

  “You also have a wife, Matt,” the major added. “Her name is Abigail. She lives in Pennsylvania.”

  Matt’s chest felt as if an armored tank had rolled over it. Great. He could just imagine his reunion with a wife who was a complete stranger. Hi, Honey, I’m home. Oh, and by the way, I don’t know who the hell you are.

  After so many years, she’d probably moved on with her life and wouldn’t even want him back. He gritted his teeth to steel himself. “Is she remarried?”

  Major Jensen pursed his lips. “It took the Army way too long to identify you as it was. We were in a hurry, so we didn’t get much information on her. She’s still receiving DIC benefits, so she has to be single. We haven’t notified her you’re alive yet.”

  The constriction in Matt’s chest increased. “Then please don’t.”

  The doctor squeezed his arm. “Why don’t you want her to know you survived?”

  “I-I don’t remember a thing about her. She’s lived under the assumption I’ve been dead for all these years. She’s had to make a new life for herself. Why should I disrupt it when I don’t even know what she looks like?”

  “She may help you remember.” The doctor laid his file on the table. “It’s her name that’s haunting you. She may be at the root of your amnesia.”

  Matt slanted a dubious look at the doctor. “How do you figure?”

  “It’s my theory your captors managed to kill all your hope. I think your subconscious repressed your past to escape the mental anguish of never seeing your wife again.”

  “Okay, so she may help me remember, but I don’t want to turn her life upside down by suddenly showing up. I could simply go take a peek at her. If she seems happy and nothing comes back to me, I don’t see the point of involving her in my problems.”

  The lines deepened around the major’s mouth. “Since your wife’s widow’s benefits will be rescinded, the Army will be forced to inform Mrs. Foster that you’re not deceased.”

  “Can’t you at least give me a little time?”

  The major hesitated a moment and nodded. “I suppose I can drag my heels a few weeks on submitting the paperwork, but that’s the best I can do.”

  A long breath hissed out of Matt at his reprieve. The military was good at moving slowly.

  “The army is releasing you with an honorable discharge,” the major continued. “I’m sure you’re eligible for some degree of disability compensation. Although, the VA will have to determine what percentage.”

  “I can’t imagine it’ll be much. My memory loss doesn’t affect my ability to work.” Unless, of course, someone offered him a job writing a book on the life and times of Matthew T. Foster.

  “I like your attitude.” The major clapped his hand on Matt’s shoulder.

  “So when do I get shipped stateside for release?”

  “Don’t you think you need a little more time here to readjust?” the doctor asked.

  “No way. I’ve already had over six years stolen from me.” He wanted out. The hospital was just a more humane prison. “Keeping me cooped up will only prolong my problem.”

  “You’re probably right.” The doctor smiled. “But the military has a responsibility to help you.”

  “I don’t need to be looked after like a two-year-old. I want to get a job and pick up the pieces of my life.”

  The doctor glanced at the major and shrugged. “Now that most of the POWs have been processed, I’ll be returning to the States the day after tomorrow. I suppose we could release the lieutenant with a provision to be readmitted if he experiences any difficulty. However,”—she turned to Matt—“you’ll need to be seen as an outpatient. You originally asked to be sent to the Philadelphia veteran’s hospital, which is where I’m normally assigned, so I can personally follow up with you and release you from there.”

  Major Jensen smiled at him. “Your initiative is admirable, Foster. You’ll do fine.”

  Once the major left, Matt flicked a glance at the doctor. “If the government cuts off my wife’s income, I guess I don’t have much choice but to go back and take care of her.”

  The doctor laughed. “You missed the bra burning, Matt. You’re not living in the fifties any longer. You do have a choice.”

  “Bra burning?” Why would a woman want to set her lingerie on fire?

  “A couple of years after you were captured, a group of feminists planned to burn their brassieres outside the Miss America pageant as a protest for equal rights. The cops wouldn’t allow them to start a fire on the Atlantic City boardwalk, so everyone threw their bras into a trashcan in a symbolic burning. That’s when some women began going braless.”

  No bras? Hot damn. Apparently a few things had changed for the better.

  “My point is women support themselves all the time these days. I suspect while you’ve been gone, your wife has become quite independent. The two of you are completely different people today than when you fell in love.”

  “What would you do if you suddenly found out you had a husband you hadn’t seen in over half a decade?”

  Anguish and indecision strained the doctor’s beautiful face. “Exactly what I did. My husband came home last fall after commanding a MASH unit for almost four years. We tried for a few months to save our marriage, but it didn’t work. I’d become a doctor, and Jack came home toting a lot of the same problems other Vietnam vets share. We’d both changed too much. It’s why I wanted to work with the POWs being released.”

  “Maybe I should just drop my wife a note and wish her all the best in her new life.”

  “For the sake of y
our recovery, you should at least meet her.” Dr. Grant pursed her lips a moment. “Just remember, couples evolve together as a unit. You and Abby have been apart a long time, having different experiences. It’ll take time to readjust.”

  “That’s why I don’t see any reason to disrupt her life.”

  “Well, if you’re thinking about not visiting her, let me point out your wife’s home is less than an hour from Philadelphia in a small town called Redemption.”

  So he and Len had guessed right about him living in eastern Pennsylvania.

  “Redemption?” He snorted. “That’s definitely the town meant for me, don’t you think?” He closed his eyes as the image of a road sign flashed through his mind. “Welcome to Redemption, Pennsylvania—A stone’s throw from New Hope, less than two hours from Paradise.”

  “Huh?” Dr. Grant’s brow knitted.

  “Don’t ask me how I know it, but that’s what the town’s welcome sign says.”

  “There you go. You’re already remembering something.” The doctor smiled. “If I were you, Abby’s proximity would make me wonder if fate was trying to tell me something. It’s possible you really did have something special. Maybe it’s worth trying to get it back.”

  ~~~

  Wednesday, April 4, 1973

  Redemption, Pennsylvania

  How could she refuse him again?

  Abby Foster smoothed the figure-hugging skirt of her ebony cocktail dress while Robert opened the historic inn’s door. The floral scent from the lobby floated into the night with the melodic strains from the piano.

  Nobody could say Rob wasn’t romantic or persistent. But three proposals inside a year were a bit much. She wished he’d take her for a fast-food burger, instead. Then she wouldn’t feel so guilty when she turned him down—again.

  He slid her satin evening jacket off her shoulders and kissed the slope of her neck. “I love your dress. If you’ve gotten Mrs. Dalton’s to fit anything like you did yours—”

  “Don’t get me started on Helen Dalton’s gown,” Abby muttered, letting Rob guide her into the elegant dining room. They waited for the host to check Rob’s name on the reservation list. “I have to let out every damn seam. I swear, if she gains another ounce, I’m going to have you wire her jaw shut so she can’t eat until after her son’s wedding.”