by Janet Eaves
Of course! That's where he was. Relief surged through him. For a second there his muddled mind had him envisioning aliens performing nasty little experiments on him. But why was he here? And where was here?
He frowned in agitation as much as pain when the nurse returned followed by another woman whose white coat and name tag clearly identified her as the doctor. She looked him over, took a moment to study the paperwork the nurse handed her, then she smiled. “You are one very lucky man not to have frozen to death out there. Though, the snow packed against your head wound was a benefit. You barely bled at all according to the paramedics.
"We're only a small mountainside clinic and have too little equipment to do much more than deal with minor illnesses or injury cases. In the event of a serious situation like a car wreck or a life threatening illness, we mainly do triage type work until we can get the patient life-flighted to a regional hospital.
"So you see, if your injuries had been more severe, we'd have all been in a pickle. The roads are closed and landing a chopper in this storm wouldn't have been feasible under the current weather conditions.” She pulled a tiny flashlight from the pocket over her heart and flashed it in his eyes several times, then frowned at the nurse before turning her attention back to him.
"You could have died out there on a day like this. What the heck were you doing? Even I wouldn't have been here when you came in except that it was safer than trying to get home.” Apparently she didn't expecting any response as she prattled and poked, and poked and prattled. She finally took a breath and tapped on the plastic device at his mouth. “Let's take this out, Nurse.” She glanced down at him. “You're going to be in a lot of pain for a few days, but you are one lucky man. We've got a small pharmacy here at the clinic so you'll survive the worst of it, and in a couple of days you'll be able to start cutting back on the meds."
Within moments he found himself gagging, and then coughing as the breathing tube was pulled from his throat. The doctor chatted on as the nurse wiped at his mouth and held a small cup with a bent straw for him to sip ice cold water. It stung going down, but he didn't attempt to complain. Not that anyone would get a chance with the doctor talking on as if his head wasn't about to explode. The nurse kept smiling at him with big teeth and teetering booger still holding on for dear life, though thankfully she and it seemed less distorted now, as she busied herself releasing his arms where he was strapped to the gurney.
"You have bruised up this body pretty well, Mr...?” The doctor looked at him expectantly.
He stared at her, swallowing against the raw ache of his throat, as he searched for an answer to her question. When none was forthcoming, he shook his head.
She held the flashlight to his eyes again. “Are you afraid to use your voice, or are you telling me you don't know your name?"
He held up three fingers.
The doctor slid a glance to the nurse and snapped off orders for a variety of tests. He listened and endured her continued poking at various sore parts of his body, realizing the moans he was hearing were actually coming from him. “We'll get you scheduled for a CAT scan at Mercy General over in Knoxville once all this mess clears up. Of course, your memory loss could be the temporary result of the trauma to your head. You apparently hit it on something hard. It took seven stitches to close the wound.” She walked to the corner of the curtained room and brought the silver disc to him, which turned out to be a balloon. At the end of the string was a plastic bag incasing an envelope.
"What is that?” he rasped.
"You had it wrapped around your hand when the paramedics got to you. They gave it to my nurse. Do you want me to read it?"
He nodded and she pulled the envelope out of the large baggie, opened it, and unfolded a single sheet of paper.
"Daddy, Mommy needs you. Please come home for Christmas.” She smiled at him. “And it's signed, Lisa. Awww, that's so sweet. I guess it's from your daughter?"
He frowned. A daughter? A wife?
The doctor turned to leave, throwing one last instruction to the nurse. “Take out the catheter. Let's see how his kidneys are working."
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Chapter Three
Christina hugged Lisa tight against her chest, her heart breaking just a little, but she needed the time alone just as much as Margaret needed the time with her grandchild. She looked at the woman who had been her rock through their shared tragedy the past couple of years.
"Thank you for flying out here to get her. I don't know that I could have put her on the plane alone."
"It's my pleasure, Chris. Are you sure I can't buy you a ticket? I'd love to have you, too."
Christina shook her head. “No. I wish I could, but the farm is a commitment, not something you can just walk away from for two weeks."
Margaret took her hands. “He's gone, honey. He wouldn't blame you for selling. Just like his daddy, that was Johnny's dream. Not yours. And I certainly don't ever plan to live there again."
Christina exhaled, relieved she was able to talk to Johnny's mother without them both getting emotional. “I know, Mom. Thanks. I just can't go yet. I want to,” she admitted. “But I just can't. Not yet. Not until I really do get the nerve up to let everything go for good."
Margaret hugged her. “It's time, Chris. Let him go. Let the farm go. Start your own life. I don't fear never seeing you or my grandbaby. I know we will always be family, no matter where life takes any of us.
"I was truly blessed the day my son found you. Even though I lost him, I still have a family."
Christina hugged her back, tight, pulling Lisa in. The three of them were all that was left of the Montgomery family of Legend, Tennessee, though Margaret still had her sister Mary Roberts. The middle-age sisters were still known to the older residence of Legend as the Carpenter twins. Widowed nearly ten years before, and now a full time resident of one of Florida's retirement communities, Margaret Montgomery had been more like a mother and friend than a mother-in-law, and Christina loved her fiercely.
They broke apart as the flight was called over the loud speaker. Christina snatched Lisa to her once more for several kisses that left Lisa giggling. “You be a good girl for Grammy. Promise?"
Lisa smiled, her eyes alight with excitement. “Yes, Mommy."
"And you do all your homework. I promised your teacher you'd turn it all in when you go back after New Years. That's why you got to get out of school a week early."
"Kay, Mommy.” Lisa was all but dancing in excitement to get on the plane.
"I love you, Baby."
"I love you, too, Mommy."
"That's us,” Margaret announced. “She'll be fine,” she promised, taking Lisa's hand. “And we'll be back on Christmas Day for dinner, school work all done."
Christina nodded, forced herself to remain clear-eyed until they departed through the security gate, then watched a moment more until they rounded a corner, taking them out of sight. The tears flowed briefly after that, but she swatted them away and headed back out of the small airport to her car. She was determined to enjoy the opportunity to catch up on all those things she never had time to do, either because she ran a small farm on her own or because every other second of her life was devoted to Lisa.
She just hoped she didn't die of loneliness and boredom until they returned.
* * * *
Once back home, Christina put in a full afternoon, cleaning, straightening, and doing loads of laundry. She headed out to the barn to feed and water the twelve chickens and pour dog food for Mr. Tompkins, the once cute, now rather ugly pot bellied pig Lisa had insisted on adopting a few months after Johnny's disappearance. Mr. T, as she called him, followed on her heels with his little tail wagging as he always did, grunting happily, hoping for more attention than food and water. She stooped down to pet him, smiling as he rolled onto his back, kicking stubby legs into the air in delight.
"You are such a brat,” she told him.
"Is that a pig?"
With a ye
lp, and her hand flying to cover her heart, Christina glanced up, then fell completely down to sit on the barn's dirt floor, certain her heart had completely stopped. She stared at him, too stunned to move, beyond able to speak. Struggling, off balance, she awkwardly rose to stand. She stared, shaking her head in denial. It couldn't be...
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
She advanced cautiously, only now noticing the cane, the cast enclosed forearm peeking out from the sleeve of the thick flannel coat, and the pallor of illness etched on pale sunken skin. “How?"
He frowned. “How what?"
No, it wasn't him. The voice was different. Similar, but different. Maybe. It had been so long ... “Who are you?"
Disappointment etched his tired features now. “I was hoping you'd know."
Christina rubbed her eyes, then looked again, but he was still standing there. His hair was longer than the military cut but the color was the same, other than the few strands of silver here and there. The face was older, but the features were the same as the ones she had once shaped with her own fingertips. The eyes, though filled with a world of knowledge that aged him, were identical to ones she had stared into with love and adoration when she was seventeen years old. Even the mouth, with the plumper bottom lip, looked like the one she'd kissed with girlish enthusiasm. But it couldn't be. Could it? “Johnny?"
A light lit his eyes, instantly shaving a few years from his face. “Yes?"
She shook her head even as the breath seemed to be knocked from her chest. No, it couldn't be. Johnny was dead. His remains somewhere out there, in another country on the other side of the world. She moved closer, looked deeply, as he studied her back. “Are you Johnny?"
He frowned. “I don't know. Am I?"
A gust of wind blew through the barn sending a chill up her spine as it sent dirt and debris from dried straw and alfalfa flying. The rising wind was a precursor of the line of storms WLEG's weatherman had talked about as she'd driven back from the airport. The sudden change in the forecast would have her friends and neighbors at the Piggly Wiggly stocking up on groceries. Something she was planning to do, too.
He trembled so hard she moved forward and took his free arm. “Let's get to the house where it's warmer.” They turned, and she walked with him, adjusting her normally quick step to his slower, almost sliding shuffle. She repeatedly glanced over to study the face she had never expected to see again.
He'd been injured, and injured badly, if the slight intakes of breath each step wrought were any indication. She'd just forced herself to keep moving, and contain all the questions clouding her mind until she got them to a warm fire. And, though she'd never touched a drop of it in her life, she had every intention of downing some of the whiskey she'd never thrown out after learning of Johnny's disappearance.
Once in the house, she led him to the large recliner that had been her husband's favorite, then helped him into it, wincing to herself. As he settled, she opened the hanging chain fronting the stone fireplace and poked at the fire until sparks danced and zinged. She closed the mesh to keep the crackling embers from falling on the small, oval shaped braided rug before the hearth then turned back to find him with his head laid back, his skin tone even paler, as he bit his bottom lip.
"What can I get you?” she asked.
He lifted his head to look at her. “I could use a drink, if you don't mind."
"Whiskey?” It was the first thing she thought of, as it had always been Johnny's drink of choice to knock off the chill. She waited as he seemed to consider.
"No. Water would be best. I have to take pills."
Of course. How stupid, Christina thought, and headed straight to the kitchen sink to pump the cold water from the well. She returned and handed him the glass. Like a man parched, he downed it in one long swallow, then held the glass to his forehead. She followed his gaze to the side where Johnny had installed French doors on his last furlough home.
Mr. T stood up on his hind legs, his tiny front hooves muddying up the glass. “Well, shoot! I forgot to close his pen."
Christina crossed the room to retrieve the pig, took him straight to the laundry room and closed him inside. She returned to find him waiting for her, a slight smile on his lips. She went to the desk Johnny had once used as his office, opened the filing drawer, and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey. Without caring how it looked, she opened the bottle, tipped it to her lips, and took a swallow.
Her eyes stung and watered instantly as her throat screamed for mercy. Coughing, she ran the back if her hand across her mouth, placed the bottle on top of the desk, and, as the whiskey hit her stomach like a ton of bricks, approached the man. “Okay. I know you aren't my dead husband Johnny. So, just who are you?"
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Chapter Four
He wanted to be Johnny. Not because the woman who was Johnny's wife was lovely with her curly dark brown hair and incredibly blue eyes with their long black lashes. Nor because Johnny's wife was tall and willowy like he somehow knew he liked his women. No, he just wanted to be Johnny because Johnny had a name, and he didn't.
"I don't know."
She walked around him as he reclined in the incredibly comfortable chair. He kept his eyes straight ahead, allowing her to inspect him in any way she saw fit. Besides, he needed time to process that he might be Johnny, and that he might have died, or at least she thought he had died. It was all too much to process with the headache starting to form at the base of his skull.
"How can you not know?” she asked, taking the winged back chair facing him. She reached up and switched on a floor lamp.
He blinked as the light hit his eyes, pushing the ache in his head up a notch. “I don't know. I woke up in a hospital a couple hundred miles from here. All I had was Lisa's letter, with this address to go on when I couldn't figure out who I was."
Shock registered in the flashing from her eyes and tightening her lips. “What are you talking about? How do you know about Lisa?"
The last was asked with near hysteria. He raised his uninjured arm and splayed his fingers to halt whatever was about to come from her lips. His head was zinging now, and a screaming woman was more than he could take. “Please. I need my pills. And more water. I'll answer your questions as best I can, but my head is about to implode."
She rose from her chair, took his glass, and returned a moment later with it refilled. “Where are your pills?"
His eyes closed now, he pointed to his chest. “Inside pocket."
She didn't hesitate to pat him down, remove the pills, read the bottle, pop open the non-child proof cap, and hand them over. He swallowed them then chased them with the water, placing the empty glass against his forehead again, allowing the coolness from it to ease the pain that now completely encompassed his head.
"You need to go to bed. Where are you staying?"
He kept his eyes closed, allowing himself a moment to come to grips with the fatigue of getting himself here, dealing with the woman who may or may not be his wife, as he absorbed the pain of a body struggling to heal. He lowered the glass, keeping his lids closed, relaxing to allow the medication to do its thing.
"I don't know. Nowhere, I guess. I was hoping you'd know,” he mumbled, giving in to the fast acting pain pill. “I don't know."
He didn't hear her say anything more so he allowed himself to drift off to sleep, thinking the only words he ever spoke anymore, were, “I don't know."
* * * *
Frustration was something Christina had learned to live with in spades over the past couple of years, so she snagged the home crafted comforter from her couch and placed it over his unconscious body, then took the opportunity to study him closely.
In repose he looked younger, more like the man she'd said goodbye to all those years ago, before the government sent men to tell her that her husband had either been captured and was a prisoner of war—something they doubted since their enemy simply executed prisoners and left the bodies to be
discovered—or he'd deserted. Something they couldn't prove as of yet, but were leaning toward.
It had broken her heart to have those Marines that he'd loved think so badly of him when they should have all known better. His record, his volunteer spirit, his service, should have been enough. The men that had fought with him, that knew him, knew better than to believe the lies. But those who knew him best were all dead. She had never once believed them. Not for a second.
But as she studied the man before her, she couldn't help the questions flooding her mind. He looked so much like Johnny while sleeping. The manly features, the darker colored hair and skin of his Spanish ancestry, the slightly parted, full lips she'd always envied. But this man was older. He had wrinkles indicating additional years, or, she had to admit, perhaps just years spent in extreme dessert conditions. But, no. There were other differences as well. His voice. She knew she would know his voice anywhere ... even if it had been well over two years since she'd last heard it. And his manner. He wasn't the tough guy Johnny had been...
Unless his spirit had been broken along with his body ... No! It wasn't him! It couldn't be him!
Christina made herself leave the room and return to the kitchen where she pumped herself a large glass of water. She couldn't do this. She had to get him out of her house and out of her life. This man was an imposter. A sad, lost, maybe even dangerous imposter. And she was giving him his walking papers just as soon as he awoke.
She returned to him and slipped his bottle of painkillers into the outer pocket of his jacket. Her fingers hit something ... Paper. Curious, she pulled the envelope from its hiding place and felt the thud of each heartbeat.
At the upper left hand corner was Lisa's name in Lisa's careful print, and their address below it. She slid him a glance and pulled the single sheet out, flipped it open, and emitted a cry.