The Incredible Life of Jonathan Doe

by Carol Coffey

  Brendan waited a full five minutes but he did not hear any more sounds coming from her room. He sighed and descended the stairs before entering the kitchen where his aunt was cooking dinner and his uncle was reading at the kitchen table. He leaned back against the counter that wrapped around the lower end of Coleen’s kitchen.

  “You have a good day, honey?” she asked.

  Brendan nodded and looked briefly at his uncle who had not acknowledged his presence.

  “I tried to talk to Eileen but she won’t talk to me. I don’t know what to do.” Caring for someone, he realised, caused pain and made him feel exposed and vulnerable. These were feelings that he felt he could do without and he briefly wondered if they had been a worthy exchange for the loneliness he experienced before he came to Dover and let his cousin into his life. He fixed his eyes on his uncle whose attention he seemed to have gained.

  “Leave her alone!” Frank bellowed.“She’ll talk when she’s good and ready!”

  “Uncle Frank, I justwant her to talk to me . . . so I can sort it with her.”

  “Sort it?” Frank sneered.“It can’t be sorted. Eileen cannot be sorted, no more than your mother can. They are the way they are, so accept it.”

  Frank stood up and pushed his way by Coleen as she tried to get something from the refrigerator. He thrust a piece of paper into Brendan’s hand as he made his way out of the kitchen. It was another letter from his mother. This time it was on one page. A brief note telling them the date and time she would arrive into JFK. The note was cold and businesslike and used none of the normal greetings a person would put in a letter. Brendan checked the arrival date. It was only three weeks away.

  “So that’s what’s bothering him?” Brendan asked Coleen.

  Coleen gave him one of her dolefulsmiles and shrugged. “He’s just worried that . . . you know . . . there’ll be trouble with your mom.”

  So am I, Brendan thought to himself.

  Brendan took out the large notebook that he was recording Jonathan’s stories in and laid it flat on his small table. He had two diagrams on opposite sides of the page. On the left, he entered all the details of the life Jonathan said he’d had on an orchard with several fair-haired siblings and two parents. On the other side of the page he had Cassie, Nella, a possible politician family member and a quiet father who may have been a writer. He scanned the ages that Jonathan said he was during the memories he had so far recalled. Jonathan had lots of stories at age four and his memories of that life with Cassie and Nella were remarkable. So far, he had not recalled any memories of Cassie and Nella which linked up with the periodwhen he reported living with two parents and with his brothers, Virgil and Clay and twin sisters named Mackenzie and Tyler. What could possibly be the explanation for that? Brendan quickly wrote down the few scant pieces of information Jonathan gave him that day. He undressed and went into the tiny ensuite bathroom to shower before dinner.

  When he came out, he was surprised to find Eileen standing at his table, looking at the information he had collected. He wrapped the towel tighter around his waist.

  “Ei-Eileen!”

  “What’s this?” she said, pointing at the table.

  Brendan could see her chest rise and fall quickly and her voice, usually so soft and meek, was shrill and urgent.

  “You promised you wouldn’t meddle!” she shrieked.

  Brendan looked away from her accusing eyes and swallowed.

  “Eileen . . .” he started but she lifted the notepad and threw it across the room.

  “I trusted you!” she said as large tears sprang in her grey eyes.“You’re . . . you’re just doing this to fill up your own empty life. You need the adventure . . . you need his stories but you’ll hurt him, Brendan. You don’t realisewhat you’re doing.”

  “I won’t hurt Jonathan,” he replied.

  “You will. You just don’t realise it yet,” she gulped.

  She opened the door to leave but Brendan rushed forward and slammed it shut. He placed his back to the door and blocked her exit. She tried to push him out of the way but his broad frame was too much for her tiny body and she relented, sobbing uncontrollably into his bare chest.

  “I can’t lose him,” shesobbed.

  Brendan wrapped his arms around her and tried to soothe her. He pushed her hair away from her face and dried her eyes. Slowly her breathing settled andwhen she calmed Brendan led her to a chair and sat her down.

  “I’m going to get dressed in the bathroom,” he said. “Please don’t leave. I want us to go out.”

  She nodded, blew her nose loudly into a tissue and looked down at her shoes, embarrassed now by her outburst.

  When Brendan returned, Eileen was dressed in her heavy green coat. He looked at it and she blushed.

  “I ran into the house to get it. In case . . . it was cold.”

  Brendan glanced out the window. There were at least two more hours to go before the sun set and it was still about sixty degrees Fahrenheit outside.

  He opened the door and led her down the side entrance.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To the park.”

  The pair walked in silence to Hurd Park which was a fifteen-minute downhill walk from Watson Drive. When they arrived at the entrance gates, a large crowd had gathered by the gazebo where a brass band was warming up for a summer concert. They found a bench by the river and sat looking into the water. Brendan hoped that, like Jonathan, being outdoors might encourage his cousin to open up to him about what had happened to her.

  She apparently sensed this and her chin began to tremble.

  “When Dad went to New York to get you, I was excited that you were coming. More excited than anybody else in the family.”

  “Why?” Brendan asked.

  Eileen shrugged. “Lots of reasons. I felt . . . connected to you . . .that we had things in common . . . but, mostly, it would be like I had a fresh start with someone who . . .”

  Brendan looked at the ground. He knew what she was going to say.

  “With someone who didn’t look at me like I was crazy.”She blew out a puff of air and focused her eyes on the bandstand. “Before you even arrived Dad had plans to keep you busy and that included replacing him each day to walk me to and from the centre. I begged Dad and Mom not to tell you anything – not to tell you why but they thought you should know all about me. It was only when I went into one of my depressions that they eventually agreed.”

  Eileen stopped talking as the band began to play loudly. She leant towards Brendan.

  “Can we walk by the river?” she asked.

  Eileen resumed her story as they walked along the river’s edge. She stopped to pick up an apple blossom that had blown down from the trees above her. The narrow pathway was quiet except for an occasional person walking a dog or couples out for an evening stroll. They crossed a narrow wooden bridge and stood looking into the water as it washed over stones lodged on the bottom of the shallow stream.

  Brendan tapped on the wooden rail and looked about himself, waiting for her to speak. She looked up from the water and turned to face him.

  “I was an exceptional student in college,” she said. “I worked hard and kept to myself. I wasn’t wild or headstrong or remotely like . . . like Patricia. Oh, I know I look just like her and that’s fine . . . but . . . I was not the same even though Dad would claim that I am. In my second year there I befriended a shy scholarship student. I noticed that he worked two jobs on campus to keep himself in college and I felt sorry for him. Orlawas in first year in the same college by then. Victor was in my class studying English literature, my favourite subject. By the second semester, he was struggling so I offered to study with him a couple of evenings a week.”

  Eileen paused and bit down on her lip. Brendan reached forward and touched her arm lightly.

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  “After a while, he became . . . infatuated with me. I was different then. More outgoing and . . . just a regular girl. He w
anted a relationship but I just didn’t see him that way. I told him that I was flattered and that was true. He was a real good-looking boy. Also, I was seeing Doug at the time.”

  Brendan interrupted her. “Orla’s husband Doug?” he asked, astonished.

  “Yes,” she replied faintly. “We were high-school sweethearts and . . . it wasn’t serious or anything but when it happened and I was so distant . . . we drifted apart. Doug was at the same college studying law and Orla stayed on there. I guess they . . . drew together for support and in time it turned into something different.”

  “Jesus!” Brendan said. “You weren’t upset?”

  She sighed and returned her gaze to the cold water running under the bridge.

  “At first and, yes, maybe even now a little but . . . it wasn’t even like we were in love or anything . . . it was just that . . . the life she had, well, some of it had been my life and I was left with nothing.”She took in a deep breath and continued.

  “Anyway, I went to Victor’s dorm and tried to explain to him that I wasn’t interested. I had already stopped doing grinds with him and I went there to beg him to stop sending me letters. Also, I felt that he’d been following me at night when I went to the library. But he thought . . . he said I wasn’t interested because he was poor. He said I thought I was too good for him. I told him it wasn’t true and then . . .”

  Eileen put her hands to her throat and began to breathe heavily.

  “He wouldn’t let me leave his dorm room. I shouted for help and he put his hands around my throat.”

  Eileen’s eyes widened as though she could see the horrible event unfold before her eyes.

  Brendan, knowing what she was about to say, banged the railing of the wooden bridge in temper.

  “Then . . . he beat me so badly that for weeks I didn’t recognise my own face in the mirror and he . . . he . . . raped me.”

  Brendan let out a loud moan and tensed his back as her words cut through him. He unfurled his fingers that had been wrapped tightly around the rail.

  “Where is he now?” he demanded. He could already visualise himself beating the bastard to a pulp.

  “It doesn’t matter where he is now, Brendan. What he did was not the worst thing that happened to me. Dad said it was my fault,that I had led him on, made him think that I was interested in him. He asked, what did I expect would happen going into men’s bedrooms? That hurt more than any of the cuts on my body. It still does. Two days later Orla called him from the hospital and he drove down, discharged me and took me home and I’ve been here ever since.”

  “Eileen . . .” Brendan said softly.

  “There’s no need to say anything, Brendan. Nothing can change what happened.”

  “When did you . . .” Brendan struggled, unsure how to pose his next question.

  “When did I try to kill myself? Two whole years later when I could no longer live the life my father expected me to. Trapped in the house like I was the criminal. My every move being watched. He wouldn’t even let me file charges. He said that there was nothing to be gained from bringing it into the open, that it would bring shame on him and on me. I could have gotten on with my life. I could have finished my degree and managed to put it behind me as far as possible but instead I was caged up in the house and that seemed to me to be worse than what Victor did to me. It seemed like I was the one being punished. Then one morning I woke up and it was a beautiful spring morning. I looked out of my window and thought, there is so much beauty out there, so much life and I couldn’t touch it or feel it. I could just look out my window or go shopping with Mom. I knew then that I couldn’t go on living that way anymore. I ran a bath and got in fully clothed. I took Dad’s razor and I . . . I cut my wrists.”

  Eileen instinctively rubbed her wrists together and then clasped her hands in front of her. Brendan took them and turned her palms upwards. Two jagged silver lines ran across the width of her wrists. He wondered how he had never noticed them before. He ran his fingers softly over the scars.

  She looked up at him and smiled through watery eyes. “Now you know why I never wear short sleeves.Anyway, after that, things got much worse with Dad. When I left the psychiatric hospital in New York, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Once he found a book on dying in my room and he forbade me from buying any more books. It was just one of those spiritual books but he didn’t understand. Little by little my world closed in until all I did was sit in my room. It was the parish priest who suggested that I do volunteer work at the shelter. Dad only gave in because Father Guinan was a friend of his. And . . . here I am . . .”

  Brendan took his cousin by the shoulders and turned her towards him. He unbuttoned her heavy coat, slipped it off her shoulders and folded it over his arm.

  “You don’t need to hide away anymore, Eileen,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the park. In the distance they could hear the band playing and the sounds of people singing along to the music. They crossed the street and began the slow climb together back to the house.

  Chapter 12

  “D’you like fishing, Brendan?” Jonathan Doe asked as he steadied Brendan’s rickety ladder on the ground.

  “No,” Brendan replied, distracted. He rummaged around in his nail-belt as he looked for a screw to fix another shutter onto the window at the front of the old house.

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Well, I got to tell you, you’re missing out. There’s nothing finer than catching a trout for dinner. Momma would be real pleased with us and Daddy too. He didn’t have much time for fishing so I’d take my brothers after school and we’d sit by that lake for hours. Sometimes if we caught something early we’d have time to jump in and swim in that deep lake until we were almost waterlogged. Wasn’t usual to see Virgil or Clay sitting so quietly but they would cos we’d have ourselves a competition to see who could bring home the largest fish for supper. My momma could fry fish better than anyone I knew. We’d have it with some fried tomatoes and potatoes.”

  Brendan nodded and smiled. “Sounds tasty.” He was remembering the burnt offerings his mother used to dish out each evening after she closed the shop. By the time he reached the age of twelve he was cooking for them both and would have the evening meal ready when she’d creep up the stairs each night.

  “Oh, it was. I can still smell the aroma of spices coming from my momma’s kitchen. Yes, she could cook.”

  Jonathan smiled wistfully at Brendan.

  “I enjoy talking to you, Brendan. And I’m feeling especially happy today.”

  “Because Eileen’s back? I saw you two catching up this morning in the garden.”

  The smile faded from Jonathan’s face and he looked into the distance. “She told me that you know what happened to her. I want you to know that I’d never hurt Eileen.”

  Brendan climbed down off the ladder and stood close to Jonathan.

  “I know that,” he said. He reached forward to pat Jonathan on the back but his friend hunched down and raised his hands to his head if to protect himself.

  “I wasn’t going to . . . hit you,” Brendan said, surprised by Jonathan’s strange reaction.

  “I know,” Jonathan said quietly. “I don’t know why I do that.”

  “What else did you eat?” Brendan asked, changing the subject.

  “Oh, my favourite, apple pie!” Jonathan replied. “Boy, they were somethin’ else! She’d put a row of pies to cool on the windowsill of the kitchen and we’d sneak around the back and take a pie, run off behind the barn and eat it. Oh, she’d be so mad. She’s start holleringand speaking so fast we’d pretend we didn’t understand her and keep running.”

  “Did your mother speak Spanish?”

  “No.”

  “Then what did you mean about pretending not to understand her?”

  Jonathan frowned and looked at his upturned palms as though the answer lay in them. “Why, I don’t know,” he replied
.

  As Jonathan raised his hand to his head and scratched it, a wave of pity flooded over Brendan as he watched his friend try to make sense of a hazy memory.

  “It’s the darndest thing,” Jonathan said.“I can see it but then I don’t.”

  Brendan climbed back up the ladder and drilled the last fixing to the wall.

  “There. I can’t do anymore for today. Alice ordered some more supplies but they won’t be here until tomorrow or the next day.”

  “But it’s only twelve o clock!”

  Brendan climbed down again. He stood and thought for a moment, then looked at Jonathan.

  “Why do you use the name John Doe?”

  “I don’t. Everybody else does. They’ve got it wrote in big red letters on my file.”

  “Why do they do that then, when you can remember your own name?”

  “Cos they don’t believe me. Dr Reiter, he says there’s no such person as Jonathan Wyatt Nelson. He said the police checked and that there was no such person. They said it wasjust a name that I chose. Can you believe that?”

  “But . . . why pick that name?”

  “I didn’t pick it!It’smyname!”

  “Okay. Calm down, Jonathan. I believe you.”

  “Besides, I couldn’t prove it. I don’t have any paperwork. No birth cert. Nothing.”

  Brendan thought about this for a moment.“I have an idea. Do you want to go for a walk?”

  “Where to?” Jonathan asked.

  Brendan could hear the apprehension in his voice. “Just into town.”

  “I’d have to check with Pilar cos Alice won’t be here until later.”

  “Come on, Jonathan. You don’t need to ask for permission. You’re a grown man.”

  “I guess,” Jonathan said uncertainly as he looked back at the house.

  “How old are you . . . roughly?”

  “I was born somewhere between 1965 and 1968. Least that’s what Dr Reiter wrote on his report.”

  The records office in Dover’s healthdepartment was housed in a small squat building on the corner of Sussex Street. It was more modern than most of the town’s buildings and was made of concrete columns and tinted glass that prevented passers-by from looking into the cramped offices inside.