The Incredible Life of Jonathan Doe

by Carol Coffey

  “I can look after him. I need time to think about what I am going to say to my mother anyway.”

  Pilar raised her eyebrows. “He needs more help than just feeding. You’d need to help him use the bathroom.”

  Brendan felt his lunch rush up his throat at the thought of helping the old man, who could not use his arms, to use the toilet. He swallowed.

  “No problem,” he replied.

  Pilar searched his face for a moment. She stood and stretched.

  “You’ve changed . . . for the better,” she said. She reached forward and patted his chest affectionately.

  “What about Jonathan?” he asked.

  “I’ve given him a double dose of his pills. Dr Reiter said it was okay to do that if he was very distressed. He’ll sleep through the day and probably the night too. He’ll need it.” She shook her head, remembering the distressed state in which the man had returned to the shelter.

  As Pilar settled down on a sofa in the lounge, Brendan searched for Rafael Martinez on Alice’s computer, hoping to find a photo of the man. He sighed when over seven million matches flashed on his screen. He began a new search and restricted it to New York which took his hits down to just under two million. He exhaled loudly and bit the side of his mouth as he tried to think of his next move and clicked on several images of Hispanic men by that name but none of them looked like they might be his father. He pushed the chair back from the computer and stared out of the window, aware now that he had no choice but to approach his mother and hope that she would be in a more cooperative mood.

  Brendan shut down the computer and climbed to the attic to check on Jonathan. He crept up to his bed and watched his friend sleep. The attic space, in the increasing dusk, felt more like a prison cell than the man’s home. He stood for a while and recalled Jonathan telling the Hispanic translator that he had been kept in a box. He shuddered at what his friend might have gone through and hoped that if his father was involved in it he had not been cruel to the gentle man sleeping soundly in front of him.

  He went down to the second floor to the dorm where Zeb slept and was thankful that the man did not seem to need any help in the bathroom department. He went downstairs and sat in the dining room to mull over how he would get his mother to tell him what he needed to know.

  When Pilar woke, he made her fresh coffee and took the long way back to Maple Avenue but was disappointed to find his mother was not there. In the kitchen, Frank and Eileen were sittingat the table talking as they tried to forge a new relationship from their tumultuous past.

  Brendan took a seat. He noticed Frank throwing occasional furtive glances in his direction and wondered if he was still annoyed about his moonlighting job as a driving instructor.

  “Everything okay?” Frank asked.

  It occurred to Brendan that Frank might be able to get him a photo of his father from the police computer at the station. He knew his uncle was still good friends with many of the local officers who might be willing to do him a favour. He glanced quickly at Eileen but then looked guiltily away as he began to recountthe story of Jonathan Doe in the apartment block.

  “So,” Brendan said as he finished filling his uncle in on the story, “do you think you could get a photo of him? There must be one on the system.”

  Eileen feigned disinterest in Brendan’s quest and left the table quickly, leaving the two detectives alone to deliberate the next move.

  “I suppose I could ask Guido,” Frank said.

  Brendan raised his eyes in alarm. He did not want Pilar to know about this.

  “What?” Frank asked. “You behaving yourself with that girl?”

  Brendan raised his eyes to heaven. He hadn’t touched Pilar Diaz and was unlikely to ever get near the aloof woman.

  “Is there anyone else at the station you could ask?” he asked.

  “Sure. I’ll ask Joe Novak, he’s a good buddy of mine. I’ll let you know when I get it.So, you think Martinez was mixed up in something heavy like kidnapping?”

  “Well, Jon–” he began and then he looked at the door and saw his mother standing there glaring at him with her pinched, gaunt face. “Mam.” He stood up. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “So behind my back you’re asking Francis for information? I’m your mother and I ordered you to leave it be.”

  Frank stood up. “Now, Patricia, the lad is only –”

  “Mam, please,” Brendan intervened before another row occurred, “will you just look at a photo of someone for me?”The last thing he needed was Frank being carted off to the hospital again.

  “Of who?” she demanded.

  “A boy. Look, it’s important to me.”

  Patricia sat down slowly and narrowed her eyes at her brother as he stared at her from his seat at the head of the heavy oak table.

  Brendan raced to his apartment to get the photos of Jonathan on the day he was found and rushed back, fearful that a row might have erupted in his absence.

  “Here!” he panted as he shoved the photos of a wide-eyed Jonathan with the two police officers towards her. “Did you ever see this boy?”

  Patricia gazed at the photos and shook her head.“No. Who is he?” She looked up at her son, her eyes wild with confusion.

  Brendan sighed and sat heavily on the chair facing her. “He’s a man at the shelter. That photo was taken in 1979. He was found wandering the streets with no real memory of who he was or where he was from. Today he said my father’s name.”

  Patricia looked back at the photo. She shook her head. “He spoke about Rafael?”

  “Yes.”

  “But . . . it’s such a common name.”

  “I know,” Brendan sighed. “I didn’t want to ask you. I know how upset talking about him makes you but I need to know if my father had something to do with this man getting lost . . . disappearing from his family.”

  Patricia looked at her brother who lowered his eyes slowly and kept them fixed on a knot on the old wooden table. Brendan looked from one to the other, his frustration rising with every second that passed.

  “In 1979,” she said, “your father was serving a double life sentence in jail.”

  Brendan’s mouth dropped open as Frank coughed nervously.

  “Frank said . . . I thought . . . I thought he was a petty criminal.”

  Patricia sighed.“He was, once. He . . . he shot a woman and her little girl when he held up a bank in New York. They both died. He won’t get out for another fifteen years.”

  Brendan slumped down in his chair.“He’s a murderer?” he asked as he tried to absorb his mother’s words.

  Patricia looked up at her son in the same way that Eileen did, her head lowered but her eyes raised expectantly like a child.

  “Now you know why I didn’t want you to know,” she whispered.

  Brendan got up and paced the length of the kitchen.

  “And you’ve never seen this boy?”

  “No,” she replied faintly. “Never.”

  Brendan ran his hands through his hair as he tried to think. There was no way of knowing how long Jonathan had been in captivity. It was possible that his father had taken him before he was imprisoned but if that was the case, who had looked after him and why didn’t they bring him back to where he belonged? His only option was to show Jonathan a photo of Rafael Martinez and hope that he positively identified him as the man responsible for taking him from his family. The rest he could figure out later.

  “Frank, could you bring me down to the station to get that photo now?” he asked.

  Frank looked from his nephew to his sister. An exchange seemed to pass between them. Patricia left the room and ascended the stairs as Brendan waited in the kitchen. After what seemed like a lifetime she returned and handed him a small worn photo.

  “This is the only one I have,” she said as she placed it gently into his open palm. “It’s very old. It was taken in Mexico when he was young.”

  Brendan stared at the photo of his father. Rafael Martinez was
an incredibly handsome youth with deep brown eyes and raven-black hair slicked back with hair gel. He had straight, white teeth and a perfectly formed round brown mole that sat a little higher than Brendan’s on his right cheekbone. Brendan shook head, amazed at how alike they were.

  “I told you that you looked like him but that is the only way you are alike,” Frank said quietly from the table.“You’re a good boy, Brendan.”

  Brendan left the house and walked back to the shelter where Henrietta and her volunteer sister were struggling to feed the fifty men who had shown up for dinner. Hegreeted Pilar who looked surprised to see him back so soon. Brendan went to the kitchen and began to stack the dishwasher as he wondered how long he would have to wait until he could climb the stairs to show Jonathan the photo of his father.

  At nine he finally crept up the steps to the attic room and opened the door. A tray of untouched food sat beside Jonathan’s bed where he lay in a comatose state.

  “Jonathan,” he said as he lightly shook his friend.

  Jonathan half-opened his eyes and tried to focus them on his visitor.“Huh?”

  “Sit up. I want to show you something.” Brendan tried to hoist his friend into an upright position.

  Jonathan slumped forward and rested his heavy head onto his chest which rose and fell quickly in heavy, uneven breaths.

  “Jonathan!” Brendan said, slightly louder now. “Please wake up!”

  Jonathan raised his head and his eyes opened slowly. He tried to steady his head as he focused on his visitor.

  “Help!” he slurred as the day’s events returned to his troubled mind.

  “Shhh! Do you want Pilar to hear us?”Brendan whispered. “You’re safe. You’re in your room in the shelter.”

  When his friend appeared calm, he took the photo from his jeans pocketand laid it on Jonathan’s bed.

  “Is this Rafael?” he said quietly.

  “Who?” Jonathan asked.

  “Rafael Martinez, the man who took you from your family. Is this him?”

  “I don’t know any Rafael,” Jonathan replied sleepily.

  Brendan lifted the photo and placed it closer to Jonathan’s half-closed eyes. “Please, Jonathan, focus. Please look at the photo.”

  Jonathan glanced down at the photo and then looked back at Brendan.

  “This is . . . a photo . . . of you . . .” he replied indistinctly.

  “It’s not me, Jonathan. This is Rafael Martinez, the man who took you.”

  Jonathan moved his mouth back and forward and narrowed his eyes at the snap.

  He handed it back to Brendan who stood patiently by the side of his bed.

  “Well?” Brendan asked.

  Jonathan shrugged.

  “Is this the man who you remembered today? You said the name Rafael Martinez. Is this him?” Brendan barked.

  Jonathan slipped slowly down the bed and closed his eyes.

  “Jonathan!”

  Jonathan opened his eyes again and gazed sleepily at Brendan.

  “Please, Brendan . . . let me sleep . . . I told you . . . I don’t know anyone by that name,” he drawled as his head fell forward again onto his chest.

  “Jonathan!” Brendan yelled, his patience finally wearing. “Wake up!”

  He reached forward and pulled his friend back into a sitting position.

  “Concentrate on the question,” he ordered.“Now, is this the man who took you from your family?”

  The door opened and a stream of light sifted in from the landing.

  Brendan looked up to see Pilar standing in the doorway.

  “I thought you might be here!” she spat. “Can’t you leave him alone?”

  Brendan ignored her, focusing on Jonathan again.

  “Jonathan, please look at it one last time. Is this the man who took you?”

  “No!” Jonathan screamed as he jumped from the bed.

  He staggered towards Pilar and pointed at her.

  “She did!”

  “She took you?” Brendan asked incredulously.

  “Yes, she took me! Melibea! Melibea! She took me.”

  Pilar ran her fingers over her tired eyes and sighed heavily.

  “I told you, Brendan, he is sick. For Christ’s sake! I was two years old when he was found and I hadn’t even left Puerto Rico. How exactly could I have taken him from his family?”

  Brendan exhaled heavily and bent forward on the fold-up chair in Alice’s office.

  He knew that was the truth but he also believed that she had evoked another memory from Jonathan’s past.

  “What does melibea mean?” he asked.

  Pilar stood and leant against the window of the office.

  “Melibea? It’s a Spanish name, a girl’s name.”

  “Do you think this is the name of the woman who took him?”

  “No. He has called me Melibea many times when he was upset. But . . .”

  “What?”

  “You must have hit a nerve because he’s . . . he’s never accused me of taking him before. He’s always spoken of Melibea as though she looked after him.”

  “You don’t think she could have kidnapped him?”

  “Kidnapped? Brendan, you are running away with yourself. There is no evidence that John was ever kidnapped. Maltreated, yes, but not kidnapped. I’ve told you before that I think it was his own family that hurt him and that he escaped. Believe me, I’ve thought about it for years and it is the only credible explanation.”

  Brendan sighed and shook his head. “Or is it easier for you to believe that his own family and not Hispanics hurt him?”

  Pilar raised her eyebrows and folded her arms around her body. “What? Oh, so it must have been Hispanics because we are all criminals, is that it?” she spat.

  “Don’t forget that I am Hispanic too!” Brendan retorted.

  “Hispanic? You are not Hispanic, Brendan. So what if your father was Mexican?” she shouted. “Were you ever denied a job because you looked a little too dark or because an employer feared your relatives would come to the premises at night and steal?”

  Brendan thought about the children at school who made fun of his dark appearance but their teasing did not compare to the sort of racism Pilar was talking about. He looked at his feet and shook his head.

  “No,” he said as he stood to leave. He took a step forward to try to comfort her but she turned her back on him and stared out into the darkness.

  “Pilar, there is one more thing that I want to do for Jonathan before I go back to New York. He told me that the thing he missed most was sitting around the table with his family, talking about the day over a meal. Coleen suggested I invite John to Uncle Frank’s for dinner tomorrow night. She’s heard a lot about him and wanted to meet him.She’s invited you too. It’s . . . it’s my birthday and Coleen wanted to do something to celebrate it. You know what she’s like. It would mean a lot to me if you’d come.”

  He watched her raise her hands to her face and knew that she was crying. He moved to her and turned her towards him.

  “Shhh . . . it’s okay,” he said as he ran his hands over her black shiny hair.

  “Will you come?” he asked quietly.

  Pilar moved away from him and nodded. She took a tissue from her pocket and dried her eyes quickly.“I’ll be there.”

  “Do you think he would be fit to come . . . I mean, what with the heavy medication he’s on?” Brendan asked.

  “Yes, I think so. I can make sure he only takes a light dose tomorrow.”

  Brendan left the shelter and made his way to the hospital to see Alice. When he reached her ward, a nurse raised her hand to stop him from entering her room which was directly facing the nurse’s station.

  “No visitors, sir. Ms Turner has had a procedure today and she’s still sedated.”

  Brendan flashed a broad smile. “Please, I’ll only be a minute. I just want to tell her something.”

  “Well, she won’t hear you,” the nurse replied.

  “Alice hears everyth
ing,” he said.

  The nurse laughed and waved her hand for him to enter.

  “Go on then. But only five minutes, okay?”

  Brendan nodded and opened the door to Alice’s room. He walked to her bed where she lay unconscious, surrounded by three huge beeping machines. A large needle fed fluid into a vein in her hand and an oxygen mask covered her mouth. He leant forward and smoothed her hair away from her face.

  “Alice, I know you can hear me. I wanted you to know that I am close to bringing John home. I’m going to come back when I’ve figured it all out so you hang on. Don’t you leave until I come!”

  Brendan waited for a moment but his friend did not stir. He leant in and kissed her forehead which was cold and clammy.

  “You hang on, Alice,” he said as he slipped quietly from the room and headed for home.

  Chapter 28

  “How’s that?” Coleen asked as she stood back from her dining table which she’d dressed in her special Irish linen tablecloth.

  Brendan blushed when he saw the trouble his aunt had gone to.

  “Well, I’m really looking forward to meeting your friend,” she said as she rearranged the flowers for the fiftieth time. “And . . .” she said, taking him by the arm and moving him to the fridge, “I wanted to forewarn you because I know you hate the attention but I got you a birthday cake. It’s for both you and your mom actually.”

  Brendan’s blush deepened. His mother’s birthday was the day before his which was now two days ago and he had forgotten to get her anything.

  “Don’t worry!” Coleen said, reading his thoughts and opening the cupboard over the fridge. “I got you this . . . for her.”

  Brendan opened the small black jewellery box which contained a gold chain with a Celtic cross encrusted with tiny white crystals and green stones.

  “It’s lovely, thanks, Coleen. I’ll pay you back!”

  “Ha, don’t worry! They not real diamonds or real emeralds!”

  Coleen took the cross from its box and looked appreciatively at the beautiful piece.“She had one just like it when she was younger. Your grandmother gave it to her when she left for America. Patricia lost it and I remember she was so upset. I told her it was because she wouldn’t know what to do with her hands if she didn’t have that necklace on. She was always fiddling with it. I remember the day she lost it. She had been out all day with you and when she came back, goodness, you’d think someone had died the way she cried about that cross. She went up to her room and she stayed there all evening and sulked for a few days after that. I tried to get her one like it at the time but I couldn’t. When she said she was coming over for a vacation, I went to the jeweller’s and had them order me one from Ireland.” She beamed proudly.