Chapter 3

Shawn

I cough and squint.

It’s difficult to see much in this dimly lit place. Thick smoke fills the air. It takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust.

It’s late afternoon, and the run-down joint is filled with the regulars. I know they’re regulars because I’ve come here every day at the same time for the last week or so.

You get a feel pretty quick for who comes to a joint like this all the time. They’re down-and-outers. Some of them might even be a bit like me—or should I say, some of them might even be a little bit like I am now.

I’m sure I wasn’t like this before—before the accident, before I suffered from this amnesia.

My life has split into before-the-war-injury and since-the-war-injury.

Who would have thought that serving your country could have such drastic effects on your life, maybe even ruin it?

Of course, since I’ve got no fucking idea of who and what I was before the accident, this could very well be a fucking improvement.

“Whiskey, straight,” I order and sit at a bar stool far to the left of everyone.

I don’t want to talk. I come here to have a drink, catch up on a bit of television, and get my fucking bearings.

The last thing I want is to start talking to one of these losers in here, share my life story—oh, wait a minute. I don’t have a fucking life story.

And that’s what makes it worse.

I have to tell people I served in Afghanistan, or so I’ve been able to piece together. When I first came to after the accident—not even sure if it’s right to call it an accident—my mind was a total blank.

No fucking idea who I was, where I was, or how I got there. Fucking scary as hell, I can tell you that.

There’s been one thing that has stayed with me, though. All this time.

I see the most beautiful woman in my mind’s eye. She’s there, day and night. She’s fucking gorgeous, and she whispers something about coming back.

“Hey, you got any spare change?”

My head snaps up. I’ve been in another world and didn’t see the man approach me. His coat is ripped, his pants are too short, and his fingernails look as if he’s been digging in the dirt all day.

“Sorry, no,” I mumble and keep my head down.

Hopefully, he’ll keep going without picking a fight.

He does.

I pick up my glass and take a sip. Fire rips through me.

For a while, I keep the glass in my hand and swirl the liquid, staring at it. The face of the woman looks at me through the amber liquid.

She’s so damn beautiful. If only I knew how to find her.

After seven years, I’ve found my way back to the USA. But now what?

I’ve got an address of where I apparently used to live. Fucking fantastic.

Every time I think of going to the address, my heart starts to beat faster in my chest, and I feel beads of sweat trickle down my back. All kinds of images come and go, none of them clear.

I squint in this dim smoky light.

The television across the room, one of those massive oversized ones, is flicking to a baseball match.

Baseball.

Absentmindedly, I stare at the screen. Strange kind of game, honestly.

For a few minutes, I wonder if maybe I used to be a star player like the ones talked about by the commentators.

But I soon realize this is a fucking stupid thought. If I indeed had been a super player, I would hardly have ended up as a SEAL.

Over time, as I recovered from the worst of my injuries, I learned I had been in Afghanistan with a troop of SEALs. Why the rest of my troop escaped and I didn’t is unclear. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.

At first, I was reluctant to return to the US. I mean, what fucking for? There was so little information I could get, it seemed I might as well stay and be useful in a country torn apart by the war.

Doctors Without Borders put me back together, and so I stayed and helped them with security.

Eventually, though, it was time to try and work out who I am and who this woman is. I need to find her, find out who she is and what she is to me. But so far, I’ve made very little fucking progress.

Private Ripper from admin gave me an address and told me that’s where I’d been listed as living at the time of leaving for Afghanistan.

“Shh, look,” a few patrons shout as a general hubbub erupts in the bar.

Without joining in or paying much attention, I bring my glass to my lips and gulp down the rest of my drink.

Through the amber liquid I see a woman. In front of her kneels a man. He’s holding a small velvet box out to her.

As I process what I’m seeing on the giant screen in front of me, people around me are now shouting, “Say yes!”

This can’t be. No fucking way.

It’s her. The woman I’ve been seeing in my mind.

My throat tightens, and breathing becomes difficult.

There’s no doubt about it. As my eyes zero in on her, there’s only one thing I know.

I have to find her.

She’s the key to my prior life. If she can’t tell me who I was and what significance she has in my life, no one can.

She seems to be shaking a little as she says, “Yes.”

Then the screen erupts in fireworks, and the words “Congratulations to the Happy Couple” appear in the background.

Will they give her name?

I hover on the edge of my seat as I wait for the critical information. But the next picture shows a close-up of a baseball player.

My fist slams onto the bench.

Fuck.

“No violence, buddy,” the barman calls over to me, obviously misreading my gesture.

Without another word, I leave the bar.

I practically run from the place.

Without thinking things through, I jump into my car and drive. Briefly, I put my hand into my pocket to feel the little scrap of paper with the address on it.

It’s still there.

Not that I need it. I know the address of the place I have to go to by heart.

It’s not a long drive. The closer I get, the slower I drive.

Suddenly, doubt is creeping through me.

Is this really a good idea? What if this woman doesn’t want to see me? What if she hates me, for a reason not known to me?

I brake and pull over.

With my head rested against the steering wheel, I run through possible scenarios, each one worse than the last.

After a while, I lift my head and take some deep breaths.

It dawns on me that the only way to find out what’s going to happen is to go through with it.

Slowly, I pull the car back into traffic and vow to just go to the address and knock on the door. Nothing can be worse than not knowing who I am, who she is, and what she means to me, if anything.

With the sun setting, the house I approach is bathed in a golden light. It looks like a nice place.

There’s a large green front lawn. Small hedges surround the outside edges, and in the middle of the right side of the property sits an ornamental tree.

No doubt about it, it looks like I lived in a pretty good neighborhood.

I breathe a sigh of relief; I’ve not ended up in an overcrowded part of the suburbs.

And then I see it.

I can’t help but furrow my brow when my gaze zeros in on the object. It takes me a little while to register what this means.

Once I park the car, I walk up the white pebble garden path, stopping at the “For Sale” sign.

A young man’s picture with his mobile number invites me to call for further inquiries.

I pull out my phone and dial the number.

By now, I’ve reached the front door, and I knock.

Nothing happens.

I knock again. Still nothing.

“Evan speaking,” I hear in my right ear.

“Evan,” I say and try not to let my nerves show through my voice. “I’m calling about the property for sale on Fifth.”

I listen for a minute before I can’t wait any longer to ask the one burning question.

“Can you tell me the name and address of the owner before this one?”

“Sorry.” Evan’s voice is loud and clear. “Privacy reasons. I can’t.”

With some thanks and no problem, I hang up. No point letting my disappointment and frustration out on this man who can’t help what’s happened.

Time to call Private Ripper and ask him to get me more information. If anyone can get me what I need to know, it’s him.