by Lee Boschen
He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came. He saw his failure reflected in her sympathetic expression.
"I thought I could trick it out of you,” she said. “Make you respond without thinking."
"This is only temporary, you say?"
"What they actually said was that ‘post-traumatic amnesia is usually only temporary.’”
He sighed deeply. “Amnesia. Jesus.” He gazed around the room, finally gathering his will to set that problem aside. “This is nice, but I'm pretty sure it isn't home. Would you tell me where I am, please?"
"You're out in the country, about ten miles northwest of Indianapolis. The road out front is Shepherdsville Road, west of highway 52 between Indianapolis and Lebanon."
"Clear out there? How the hell did I get—” But then he remembered the crashing end to his flight into the frozen water of the ditch. His mind veered off on a more immediate problem. “How do I get home?"
"Don't worry, I'll take you home. Where do you live?"
He opened his mouth opened to tell her, but nothing came out. He tried again. “I live ... I live on—” His shoulders sagged. “I don't know,” he said finally. “Oh, man, I don't like this. Temporary or not, it's ... it's weird. That's what it is."
"Will you stop worrying about it?” She smiled. “After all this trouble, I'm not going to throw you back out in the cold. If we can't do anything else, we'll take a picture of you and have it broadcast over TV. Somebody will claim you. Are you married?"
He stared at her as he sought the answer—a face, a name in his mind. But there was no face, no name, and at last he shook his head. “I don't know. I don't think so. I don't feel married. And I would, wouldn't I? Surely if I thought enough of a woman to be married, she'd leave tracks somewhere in my mind.” He rubbed his face. “Isn't that something? Not to know if you're married. God, I could have children."
She nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose you could. Well, I'm going to take you to the trauma center at the hospital. From the looks of you, you're going to need stitches."
"Stitches,” he muttered. He shook his head, and grunted as the sharp stab of pain at that simple movement cautioned him not to move his head quickly again.
Silent for a moment, he asked, “Who are you?"
"My name is Leslie Carson."
"Leslie Carson.” He said the name slowly, looking in his mind for a match. He could find none. “You've gone to a lot of trouble on my account, Leslie Carson, and I'm very much obliged to you."
She answered formally. “You are most welcome, sir.” Smiling, she added, “Would you care to join me for breakfast before I take you to the hospital?"
"As long as I can wear my blanket,” he said. “I'm a little cold."
"And you look a mess,” she said. Her smile took away any sting from her words. “But I put your things in the drier and you can get dressed if you feel up to it."
My God, he thought, a six-hundred dollar wool blazer tossed in the drier. It would probably be four sizes too small. He looked excitedly at her. “Hey."
"What?"
"I just remembered that my jacket cost six-hundred dollars. Now why—"
"Don't worry,” she said. “I read the label and ran it on the air-only setting."
"No, no, that's not what I was going to ask. Why did I remember that specific figure, when I can't recall my name? And how did I know Miko is a Siberian husky, but don't know if I'm married? And when you told me where this place is located, I knew immediately where it would be on a map. How did I know that?"
Leslie threw up her hands. “I don't know. Perhaps the people at the hospital will be able to tell you. It's pretty clear, though, that you're not a vegetable.” She grinned. “I mean, your sentences make sense, and you remember some things. Just not some other things.” She gazed pensively at him for a moment, then “What do you remember about being hit?"
He paused for an instant, then cautiously shook his head. “Nothing. I didn't even feel it. I never saw anyone. Or I don't remember it if I did. I barely remember flying through the air, then waking up in that icy water. I don't think they stopped, just opened the door, shoved me out, and kept right on going.” He frowned in recollection. “No, there was one other thing. A noise. An awful crash."
Leslie nodded. “Yes, I heard that too. But when I looked out, in the dark I couldn't see anything wrong. I thought it was just somebody from Indianapolis dumping their trash out here in the sticks. Something else for me to clean up in the morning. We get a lot of that. You'd be surprised how much racket a plastic bag full of cans and bottles makes when it lands on the shoulder of the road.” She shook her head. “If it hadn't been for Miko—” She swallowed hard. “I'd have found you there this morning. And you would have been...” Her face paled. “Oh. Oh, my God."
He remembered the telephone pole outlined against the stars and he shivered with a sudden chill. “Jesus,” he said.
"What?"
"If they'd waited just a few seconds to throw me out, I'd have hit the phone pole."
She squeezed her hands together. “They really didn't care, did they? Or maybe—do you think you were already supposed to be dead."
He gulped. Someone had intended him to die? It sure looked like it.
"They hit the pole with the car,” she said. She scowled. “Snapped it in two."
"No,” he said slowly. “It was still standing—it fell over when I tried to pull myself up on it."
Her face was very expressive. He could see her imagining his struggle, picturing it ending in failure. Then she angrily thrust out her jaw. “It would serve them right if they did hit it. To do that much damage to the pole ... I can only imagine what it must have done to their car."
"Yeah. I wonder if it was my car? I mean, if they robbed me, why not take my car too."
She put her hands to her cheeks. “Oh. Your car. Sorry. Was your car red? There's red paint on the pole, and it wasn't there before."
"Red? I don't know. Do I look like the kind of man who'd drive a red car?"
Leslie put her hands on her hips and stared at him. “Now how do you expect me to know that?"
He threw up his hands. “I don't. Just thought it was worth a try. I suppose, just in case it was my car, I'd better phone the sheriff and report it stolen.” He stopped, his shoulders slumping in dejection. “How am I going to do that? Whose car am I to say was stolen? What kind of car do I drive, anyway?” He slammed his hand against the couch in frustration. “My car could be at home. Wherever that is. No reason why I couldn't have been thrown out of someone else's car. But why bring me up here to dump me? Why not leave me where they hit me?"
"Where was that?” She snapped the words.
"I was at ... at...” He sagged. “I don't know."
She sighed. “I hoped the answer would pop out. But you might just as well relax. With the phone out, you can't call anyway. Besides, we have to go into Lebanon to go to the hospital. You can go to the sheriff's office after that. For now, about breakfast...?"
"Maybe I ought to try coffee first. See how my stomach takes that. Okay?"
She stared at him, clearly undecided about something.
"What?"
She nodded in decision. “There's something I need to do first.” She got up and went through her office. In a minute she came back with a steaming pan of water. “I want to clean you up before you see yourself in the mirror."
Her touch was gentle as she knelt and dabbed away the crusted blood from his face. As she worked, he saw the water in the pan change from pink to rose to a deep ruddy hue. She avoided eye contact, concentrating on her work. Only at the end did their eyes meet. And lock. He sensed a tingling excitement as he began to understand the messages passing between them. He opened his mouth to speak, to say ... he didn't know what, and then he realized he didn't need words, that somehow they were already communicating. He didn't want to spoil that.
Her throat moved in a gulping swallow. She dropped her cloth in the pan and rose to her feet. �
�I'll ... make you some coffee.” She whirled and hurried from the room. “Get your clothes on, please,” came floating out of the kitchen.
* * * *
She slid another three scrambled eggs onto his plate. His mouth full of toast slathered with kumquat jelly, he bobbed his head in thanks. He looked into his empty coffee cup in surprise. She filled it for him, pushed the creamer a little closer. He raised the cup to his lips and his eyes met hers. She grinned. “I thought maybe some toast and coffee..."
He swallowed. “Yeah, I, uh ... you're a good cook."
"Come on, scrambled eggs?” She gathered up the dishes, and as she walked by him on her way to the sink, she grinned at him. “You're easy. Wait till you taste my—” She stopped, her grin vanished, and as she turned away, her face grew cool.
He knew why. She didn't want to get too friendly with some guy she had to pull out of a ditch. He couldn't blame her. Who was he?
He kept fiddling with his coffee cup, turning it round and round in the saucer, when he realized that he was a lot more relaxed than his situation warranted.
"There's something about you,” he said.
Leslie glanced warily at him. “Oh?"
"I ought to feel tense, really nervous about this ‘temporary’ loss of memory.” He gestured toward the kitchen windows. “I mean, what's going on out there in my life? Part of me feels like I ought to be worried about that, yet I don't feel that way. I think somehow that's because of you, and I think that's a good thing and I thought I should tell you so."
She gazed pensively at him. “Tell me, are you ... successful with women?"
He stared out the window. Successful with women? Was he? “I don't know,” he said, “but what you're thinking is the reason I almost didn't tell you. Would you rather I hadn't? Would you rather not know how you affect me?"
Her clear gaze wandered over his face as if she were looking for an answer there. She shrugged finally. “I guess it's nice to know I make a good first impression."
He imagined what lay ahead for them: she would take him to the hospital, they would process him, and she would be gone. Suddenly he knew he didn't want that. Why? The answer was slow coming. His response to this woman wasn't what he would have expected. Gratitude? Yes, of course. But more. Much more. Feelings stirred on a level deep inside him. Trust. Need. My God ... need.
"Leslie, will you have dinner with me tonight?"
She drew a deep breath. Her look was long and level. “Would you mind if I said no?"
His thoughts tumbled. Why shouldn't she say no? What was he to her? It was too soon to tell her what he felt. He didn't really understand it himself. He nodded and gave her the truth. “Yes, frankly, I would. Very much."
"You don't have to do that, you know."
"Is that what you think, that I'm asking because I owe you?"
She studied her hands silently for a moment. A faint frown formed between her eyebrows, then faded. Finally, she raised her eyes to his and answered him. “No, I don't think that."
Was it possible that she also felt this ... this need? “Does it bother you that I'm not asking out of a sense of obligation?"
Another pause. “A little.” She gave him a look from under her long, dark lashes. “That way at least I'd know why. This way I'm not so sure."
"Good."
"That's good?"
"Why should I be the only one with an itch I can't seem to scratch?"
Her mouth twitched. “Where do you want to go for dinner?"
"I thought we might try—” His mind drew a blank. “You choose."
"I'll think about it.” Then she said, “How does your head feel? Are you up to a ride?"
"I guess so. To the hospital?"
She nodded. “Then, the sheriff. I want to find out who you are. After that, maybe we can talk about dinner tonight."
"Fair enough.” He leaned back in his chair. “You know, Leslie, the Chinese are an ancient and wise people. They say that if you save a man's life, you become responsible for that man for as long as he lives.” He smiled. “How about that, Leslie Carson? Are you ready for that?"
It was the first time he had smiled. Her reaction to the transformation of his rugged good looks was magical. He's beautiful, she thought. The warmth she had felt last night while sitting beside him on the couch flooded her like a great wave. Then a feeling of dismay swept through her.
He'll die just like the others.
The discipline of long years clamped down then. Back off, she thought. Les and Les. What could she have been thinking? That kind of talk was for others, not her. Alex had seen to that, when he sentenced her to live alone. Alex would have taken Coleen, too, if he could have, just to hurt. And it would have hurt. What would she have done without Coleen.
She pulled her mind back to his question. “That's a responsibility I'll turn over to your wife,” she said crisply.
He looked quizzically at her. “Sure, but if there is no wife...?"
Her stomach knotted in anticipation at that thought. She hugged herself, her mind filled with misgivings, with thoughts of danger. However, her heart was wiser than her mind. She spoke the only answer her heart allowed. “Then you may take me to dinner."
Chapter Four
The trauma center surgeon was cheerful and optimistic about patient John Doe's injuries. “There,” he said when he finished his stitching, “I think that should do very nicely."
Leslie had seen her man-with-no-name clench his hands as the doctor had pushed in the hypodermic needle to numb the scalp before beginning his needlework. Too, from the closed eyes and tight jaws, it was clear he hadn't enjoyed the sound of the thread squeaking as the surgeon had sewed away on the splits in his scalp. And he hadn't been any more thrilled when the doctor had insisted on a tetanus booster.
"It'll be tender for a while,” the surgeon added.
They always say that, Leslie thought. Their way of saying it's going to hurt like crazy.
The doctor continued. “You have some bad bruising, and it'll take a while for the swelling to go down. You'll probably experience some itching as the cuts heal. Try not to scratch too vigorously for a few days.” He handed back the cap the man had worn into the hospital. “For the next few days, I want you to keep wearing this. Keep the cold off your scalp. You'll heal faster."
Nodding, the man eased on the cap, and listened glumly as the surgeon continued.
"I suppose you want to know about your memory. It's really a question for a neurologist, but here in the trauma center we see enough to know what happens. Your memory will probably return ... but there are no guarantees. If it does return, it will probably come back on a spotty basis—a scene, a face, an event—over a period ranging from hours to weeks. Perhaps months.” The surgeon held his patient's eyes with his own. “Perhaps ... never. With post-traumatic amnesia, you just can't tell. Chances are, you won't ever remember what happened just before you were hit.” The surgeon had shrugged. “But then again, maybe you will. Now, your brain scan looks good, but I'd advise you to stay where you can reach us in case something nasty happens. One of the more likely prospects is a subdural hematoma.” He switched his gaze to Leslie. “If he becomes unconscious, or begins to see double, get back here at once. We'll need to move fast. Okay?"
Leaving the hospital, Leslie and the man strolled across the square in downtown Lebanon. “I guess you could see how I hate being stuck with needles,” he said. “When I die and go to my just reward, I expect to spend eternity with nursing students taking blood samples with dull, oversized needles, and sadists giving me rabies shots in the belly."
She grinned, banging him lightly on the arm. “You big sissy. Admit it, you didn't feel a thing."
"Yeah, his stitching was okay,” he admitted without enthusiasm. “Maybe even better than most, but I just—"
"Don't like needles. I hear you. But they don't give rabies shots in the belly any more."
"Humph,” he said darkly “They will where I'll probably end up."
&n
bsp; "Come on, it's over now,” she soothed. “Leslie will buy you a cup of coffee as a reward for behaving so bravely when the bad doctor was doing all his mean things."
"It's no better in the dentist's office,” he said. “The thought of opening wide so he can stick an enormous needle in the hinge of my jaw. My secretary absolutely has to force me to go—” He stopped suddenly, turning excitedly to face Leslie. “Hey, I've got a secretary."
Leslie smiled in delight. “See? Already you're remembering things. What's her name?"
"Uh ... I don't know."
"Okay, what's she look like?"
He gazed vacantly at her for an instant, then his shoulders slumped and he shook his head.
Leslie linked her arm with his. “Let's get that cup of coffee."
Later, seated in a booth, he sat turning his cup around and around in its saucer.
"Did you know you have a habit of playing with your coffee cup,” she asked.
He paused. “I do, don't I?” He threw up his hands. “But what's that mean?"
"It means you're a real man, with likes and dislikes—needles, for example, and playing with your cup. You may have other habits that we can use for clues as to who you are."
"But no name."
"Yes. No name.” She cocked her head and stared at him for a moment. “It's funny you should say that. That's how I've been thinking of you. As the man-with-no-name, and it's been giving me trouble. Throwing road blocks into my—into the way I think.” She pursed her lips, tapping a nail on the table as she considered him. “How's this for an idea?” she said. “We'll give you a name.” Enthused with the idea, she leaned toward him. “Sure, why not? A first name we both like, until we uncover the real one."
He looked at her for a moment, then stared out the window. “I don't know."
"Come on,” she said. “I want to call you something besides ‘you.’”
His smile was faint. “Names are serious, you know. It takes parents forever to pick the right name."
"Tell me,” she said. “I was days naming Coleen."
"Coleen?"