Amnesia

by Rick Simnitt

  “Sounds good to me,” she accepted. Her week might actually turn out alright after all, she thought.

  “Thursday it is then. I’ll pick you up at 7:00,” he smiled broadly. She decided he looked much better when he smiled, a thought which brought a smile to her own lips.

  She got in the car and started the engine. She put the car in gear and started to back out before she realized that she had wanted to check on the two patients in long-term care. She pulled the car back into the stall, shut off the engine, and then went back in the building and up to the seventh floor. She decided to check on Lenny Marconi first.

  The first thing she noticed was that there was a policeman sitting outside the door to his room; a guard to ensure no one else would try to hurt the patient. She headed instead for the nurses’ station to find out how he was progressing. The floor nurse quietly explained that the man was doing well, but was sedated; the doctors allowing him to recuperate. She was also told that she would be unable to see him, as the police captain had given strict orders on who was able to access the room, and her name wasn’t on the list.

  She was surprised at first that Captain McConnell had chosen to keep her out of the room after she was the one who had saved his life, but then realized that it was actually a smart move. Not including her on the list actually gave the impression that she was an innocent bystander who had simply wandered in at the right time and was a good diagnostician. At the same time she felt a chill course through her at the thought that she had a need to remain anonymous.

  Instead she headed over to her mystery patient, whom she had decided to call Robbie. She walked toward his room and noticed he was wearing a pair of scrubs rather than the typical hospital gown. He was listening intently to instructions being given to him by a physician standing out of view.

  She slowed her step, not wanting to interrupt, and overheard the doctor’s soliloquy. “…it may never come back, and that may not necessarily be a bad thing. Usually the trauma inflicting this type of loss is so significant that the brain simply cannot function with that reality.”

  “So I’m nuts?” Robbie responded, mostly confused, but tinged with anger.

  “Not at all,” was the response. “You’ve simply had a trauma that your reason hasn’t quite come to grips with, and wants to keep hidden from your conscious mind. It should return once you are able to handle it. Or it may never return if the trauma was significant enough. The best thing to do is to get back into normal life, and get your life into a comfortable order. You just need to learn to live with things as they are; take control of what is before you. Perhaps you can look at it as a new beginning, a fresh start. You have a blank slate in front of you that will allow you to be whatever and whoever you want to be. Some would look at this as a gift.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Robbie voiced resignedly. “It just doesn’t feel like much of a gift right now.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t, but if you become bitter and depressed about it, you’ll probably never get your memory back.”

  Lissa decided that this was her cue to enter the room. She glanced over to see Doctor Cliffe standing there, his kind understand face so compassionate it nearly brought tears to her eyes considering the conversation of how this young man’s life was forever changed. She smiled at the elderly gentleman, seeing him again as a gracious grandfather, bestowing love and wisdom on his grandchildren.

  She looked back over to the patient sitting on the edge of the bed, intent to wish him a good morning and determine his status. Instead, as she looked into his worried eyes she found herself again lost in their depths. She had forgotten how wonderfully blue they were, and felt herself being pulled into them, their hearts connecting through that intangible, though very palpable, tie that bound them together in a way neither could understand.

  She yearned to know the man that lived behind those eyes, wanting to know every thought, every desire. Yet in some unknown way she felt she knew him better than if they had spent a thousand years in conversation.

  There was also the feeling that she wanted to blend her own dreams with his, knowing that they would mesh perfectly together, creating a symbiotic union that would strengthen them both, building upon each other’s strengths, supporting each other in their weakness.

  Simply put, gazing into his eyes, she felt that she could touch eternity; that all that had gone on before and all that lie ahead blending into a whole present; that time was meaningless while they were together. She knew it should have frightened her, but instead it left her feeling calm and peaceful, that all is as it should be. It was a gift to be cherished.

  The moment was over nearly as quickly as it appeared. Lissa stood before the man known only as Robbie, her hand stretched out in greeting. He took her hand, intent to simply shake it, instead sending an electric pulse through both of them at the contact. She let her hand remain in his for a moment, unwilling to let the feeling pass too quickly, releasing only when she realized her breath was becoming labored, as if she had been running. Her first inclination was to be embarrassed, but that was quickly dispelled, as she realized the reaction was shared by both.

  Suddenly remembering that they were not alone and, despite the volumes of sharing that had just passed between them, she had not spoken a single word since entering the room, she forced her mind back to reality, but not without a sharp pang of disappointment.

  “Good morning. I take it there is good news?” she intoned to the patient. Her voice still had a slight quiver from the still unsettled emotions in her breast.

  She watched the worry creep back into his expression, realizing only by the contrast that he had worn a look of satisfaction and wonder just before she spoke. She found it odd that she hadn’t noticed when it had altered from the initial look of worry that he affected when she had entered.

  “I’m not sure how good the news is. I’m being released.” His tone was one of discouragement brooking on despair.

  “I thought that was a good thing,” Doctor Brandon responded, concern now creasing her own brow. “Most of my patients can’t wait to get out of here.”

  “Most of your patients have a home to go to when they leave.”

  She turned back to look at Doctor Cliffe, startled that he was still in the room. She could tell that the words he spoke bore testimony to his deep-seated concern for his patients’ well-being, both medically and emotionally. She felt again her desire to be the kind of doctor he was, along with a healthy dose of gratitude that she would be privileged to know and work with the man.

  She turned back to Robbie. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t thought of that. Do you have any idea of what you’re going to do?”

  “Not a clue.” He looked so miserable she felt her own heart breaking. She had to help him, she decided. She drew her chin up, squared her shoulders, and sealed her resolve with her promise. “We’ll figure something out. You’ll be just fine.”

  The look of hope and gratitude on his face proved the correctness of her decision. His independence nearly brought forth a stubborn protestation she could see, but instead he simply said, “Thank-you.”

  She smiled warmly at him, and then turned to Doctor Cliffe. “Will that be okay? Do you have any suggestions?”

  He returned her contagious smile, along with a look somewhat akin to pride. “That will be just fine.” His tone then became more serious and thoughtful as the conspirators sought a solution to their dilemma. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any advice. He doesn’t have any money for a hotel, and we aren’t sure what his job skills are.”

  The older doctor turned back to his patient, whose face registered the blows that had just been delivered, albeit kindly. “Sorry to be so blunt, but we need to understand the situation as it is. No, what we need is some sort of a halfway house, where he can stay while he is trying to get his feet back under him. I’d offer you my place, but it’s in Emmett, and there’s no way back into Boise without your own car.”

  “Thank-you anyway Doctor,” Robbie rep
lied, “I wouldn’t ask that of you anyway.”

  “I have it!” Lissa nearly screeched with excitement as the solution appeared in her head. She felt certain that it would work out, and rapidly explained her thoughts to the two men with whom she felt a growing attachment. They both agreed that it sounded like the ideal plan, and soon the trio were laughing and conversing like old friends reuniting after a period of separation.

  All too soon they realized that their time was spent, both doctors having appointments that needed attendance. Robbie, dressed in scrubs to replace his discarded clothing, stepped up to a waiting taxi, and placed his nearly empty bag of personal items on the seat, then turned to his newfound friends.

  “Thank you Dr. Cliffe. I’m so glad you’re my doctor.”

  “It is my pleasure my boy. You take care of yourself, and come see me in a couple of days. We still have to get the insulin regulated, and I want to make sure amnesia is the only side-effect of your recent accident.”

  “I will,” Robbie promised. He then turned to Lissa.

  “Are you sure about all of this?” he asked, still uncomprehending her willingness to help him, yet hoping she wouldn’t back out.

  “I’m sure. Just hold tight like we discussed, and it will all be fine.”

  He reached out to shake her hand, creating another electric pulse upon contact. Feelings rising to the surface again relegated the handshake to nothingness, his need for inclusion becoming too great, and he threw his arms around her, holding her tightly. She returned the gesture, feeling her own sense of disconnectedness, and for a long moment they both stood there, their worlds disappearing beyond their embrace.

  “Hey Buddy, the meter’s rolling!” The driver’s voice cut through their reverie, ruining the moment and bringing reality crashing back down on the two. They parted clumsily, said their farewells, and the taxi drove off toward town.

  * * *

  Jack McConnell hung up the phone disconnecting the call from the Astoria Police Department. He leaned back in his chair only partially grateful he had posted the picture from Doctor Brandon’s stolen ID. The detective protecting the citizens on the Oregon coast confirmed the identity of the scarred man, having recognized the picture as one Rudolph “Rudy” Scardoni—a mean and nasty thug whose favorite pastime was killing and maiming anyone he came across.

  Police across the country were eager to get their hands on Scardoni for crimes ranging from simple robbery to vicious rapes, torturing, and even several suspected murders. He had dropped off the radar screen several weeks earlier, the detective stated, and rumor had it he had been hired to do some job. Whatever it was, the man assured him it was bound to be nasty. Now he shows up in Boise, Idaho, under the watch of Captain Jack McConnell.

  Jack’s instincts screamed at him that there was something big going on that brought Scardoni here, but he had no clue what it could possibly be. He also surmised that most of the other incidents he was investigating were somehow related, but no matter how he struggled to find the connection, it eluded him.

  First there was Lenny Marconi. What was he doing in Idaho? How did he end up in the hospital? Doctor Clarissa Brandon had said it was a bad fall in the Cascade area. But what type of fall would do that type of damage? And why did Scardoni try to kill him? Were the two in cahoots?

  That led back to Scardoni himself. Why was he after the Brandon girl in the first place? He could see no connection between them. Unless he was simply a hired gun, a mercenary paid to harass her. But paid by whom? For what purpose? They hadn’t found anyone suspicious surrounding her except that creepy apartment manager Ernest Dall. But even if Dall did want to scare her, and Jack doubted the greasy little man wanted that, he couldn’t afford to buy someone like Scardoni. No, there was something else there; he just couldn’t see it yet.

  And now there was the Peter Frindle affair. He had been kidnapped and badly beaten for no apparent reason. That phone call from Lowell had verified that he had been found and was in the hospital now, and that was good news. At least he had escaped alive, which is more than McConnell had thought would happen. But was he the intended kidnap victim, or was it Beverley Windham? If so, for what reason?

  Finally there was Beverley Windham, the good senator’s daughter. The obvious reason for her kidnapping would be for the family riches or leverage on the Senator’s political ties. But for either one of those there would have been some sort of ransom demand, or at least a suggestion of what was wanted. But there was still communication from the kidnappers. Of course he wasn’t part of that investigation. That was under the jurisdiction of the FBI. But he would have heard if anything had happened as the case was being managed out of his office. So why else would someone have taken the girl? The only other possibility he could see would be to physically violate her, but if that had happened the only logical conclusion would be to destroy what was left of her. Yet according to Lowell she was relatively well and untouched, convalescing at Lissa Brandon’s apartment.

  Which led back to Doctor Clarissa Brandon. Somehow all of this seemed connected to her. Or at least to revolve around her. He felt certain that she had no part in any of it, but what else could it be? Perhaps the answer was in someone that was connected to her and the others. But so far no one had found that connection. None of it was adding up yet, but the picture was beginning to take better shape. He just needed more pieces to the puzzle.

  He shook his head again. He hated puzzles. Both jigsaw puzzles and brainteasers like this. It was one reason he had never become a detective, deciding instead to take the route of a beat cop. Perhaps he should have just stayed the course and gone to Law school like he had originally planned. Heaven knows he would have been better able to support Nancy.

  He could still remember telling her of his decision to not become a lawyer. He had been in the 97th percentile on the LSAT’s, but when he started visiting the attorneys that he met while on the force he just couldn’t see becoming one of them. They all seemed so deceptive and hypocritical. It was when his mentor had introduced him to a colleague, a rather successful defense attorney who seemed to be the epitome of all lawyers, that he knew he could never be one of them. When Jack had asked him about his career, he got the advice that changed his life.

  “Son,” he had said, “it doesn’t matter if the man is guilty or not, or if the law is right or wrong. The only thing you need to remember is to watch out for yourself. Nothing else really matters.” That made his decision for him and he had dropped the idea that very moment.

  Jack had been afraid of Nancy’s response at first, after all the working and dreaming of his career choice. But to his surprise she seemed almost relieved. Her only question was about what he wanted to do instead. Already working on the force so he could attend school, they decided to just keep it going. It proved to be a good decision, his natural leadership ability allowing him to rise quickly to the top.

  He shook his head, chuckling at himself. No, he was glad he had taken the path he was on. He again reviewed the salient features of his puzzle, and again came to the conclusion that the solution could be found around Lissa Brandon, with whom he and his wife were having dinner that night. Bill will be there too, he remembered, and he smiled as he pictured the two of them together. It would be a perfect match.

  First things first. He had to make two phone calls right now. The first was to the Windham’s to tell them that Peter Frindle had been found; Gregg should know that there was some news on the case. He decided not to tell him about his daughter just yet, however. He was worried that Gregg might charge in like a bull in a china closet, and McConnell needed to keep him out of things a little longer. He would have to keep things quiet if he were going to bring Scardoni’s plans into the open.

  Yet it was the second phone call that would need to be delicate. He knew he would do fine, but he hated deception in any form. However, lives were at stake, and he had little choice. He just hoped they would forgive him some day.

  * * *

  Marcuse kn
ew now that Scardoni had screwed everything up. He seethed behind his carefully crafted mask, knowing that he would exact a heavy price for the failures. He sat in the library, his sanctuary from the imbecilic world that surrounded him, going through the options that were available. The one option that did not occur to him, however, was to back off his plans—to admit defeat. He could never entertain that eventuality—it was not possible that he wouldn’t win. He would simply revise his tactics.

  Scardoni, however, had become a liability that must be eliminated. Of that there was no doubt. He had made a mistake hiring that buffoon and he would undo that particular mistake without hesitation. He had nearly destroyed everything Marcuse had worked for over these past several years, and he did so in just a matter of days. He would pay dearly!

  Right now, though, the question was how to play the hand Scardoni had left him. He knew the boy had been found and could identify Scardoni. However he couldn’t identify Marcuse, only one person could do that, and he had been taken out of the picture. The Frindle kid shouldn’t prove to be much of an issue, he wasn’t the target anyway.

  No, the problem was the girl. He had no idea where she was, or if she was even still alive. He didn’t really care either way for her well-being, or even where she was, as long as she didn’t turn up. As long as she was out of the picture he could still use her, just not how he had planned. He just had to find a new plan and ensure she didn’t suddenly reappear. This meant she had to be removed from the picture permanently.

  He realized that his tumbler was empty, stood, walked over to the bar, and refilled it from the waiting decanter. He enjoyed his cognac immensely, the warming liquid calming his nerves, the alcohol quieting the roar of voices in his head to mere whispers. He needed the voices to help him find the answers he needed, but sometimes their cacophony was just too overbearing, their clambering for attention too overwhelming to forge distinct thoughts.