Silence.
My mind was filled with the kind I found intensely unnerving. Not the kind of silence from the present, but of the past. Currently, my thoughts churned with questions of course.
Why can’t I remember? Who am I? What happened to me? Where is my family? Did I have a family?
Every waking second I had was consumed with trying to understand how I ended up here—wherever that was.
But that was all. There was absolutely no background music in my head. No memories to fall back on when the answers didn’t come. No general wandering of the mind about my favorite color, what kind of food I craved, or even meanderings about my favorite song or the last movie I saw.
It was sort of like staring at a stark-white wall (which this room had plenty of) and waiting for it to mutter a reply.
There was nothing.
I was frightened, but I didn’t know of what exactly. I supposed it would be everything. If I knew nothing, then didn’t I have to fear everything?
I didn’t even know myself to know how I should act right now. What would my “normal” response be to this kind of situation? Was there one?
I had no idea.
The doctors and nurses said my brain just needed time. Time to heal from the injuries, which I was still unclear on, and then everything would come flooding back.
It had been two days since I woke up and couldn’t tell anyone my name. It might not seem like that long in terms of waiting, but when you’re in the middle of a drought, a flood is your savior.
The longer I waited, the more alert I became, the more anxious I grew.
I wanted answers. From the inside of my head and from those around me. I got the distinct impression I was being handled with care, like a piece of fissured glass showing signs of shattering. I didn’t like that feeling, the first actual tangible sense of truth.
Having the staff tiptoe in and out of my room, the hallways going silent when I was wheeled for testing, and receiving sweet smiles of pity—not my thing.
I embraced those surly feelings. Being grumpy was better than being scared. How was I supposed to ever get better if everyone was acting as if I wouldn’t?
I would.
Something became abundantly clear: I was strong. I was a fighter. I didn’t know the full extent of my condition when I was brought in, but to have been in a comma for almost three months and basically had my mind completely wiped and still survive? That made me strong.
So although the stillness in my mind as I searched for something, anything at all, about myself was most certainly unnerving—and so was being in the hospital all alone (why was I alone?)—I would figure it out. Somehow.
The door to my room opened, and the doctor walked in wearing his signature white coat over a set of green scrubs. His gray hair was combed back, his stethoscope around his neck, and he carried a clipboard.
I groaned. “Please tell me I don’t have to look at more flashcards.”
He smiled. “Not a fan of the cards?”
“Maybe if I was in kindergarten,” I said grudgingly.
The doctor laughed. “Ah, should we add sense of humor to your list of traits?” he asked as he pulled up a rolling stool near the bed. He was in here so much (along with a slew of other doctors), they actually just kept the stool in the room.
“I think it’s too soon to tell,” I muttered.
I wouldn’t call what I said humor; it was more like angry sarcasm with a hint of prayer. Since I’d woken, I’d been subjected to test after test and a ginormous pile of flashcards. We spent quite a bit of time holding up cards with pictures on them and me saying what I saw. They weren’t pretty pictures either. It was images of things like a cow, a hamburger, a car, a man, a woman, etc. Basically, the doctors had to figure out the level at which my brain dumped all its info.
So far, I knew everything except any single thing about myself or how I got here.
And my name?
Still didn’t have a clue.
I started telling everyone to call me Amnesia. It’s what I was. Who I was. They all thought I was joking (ah, maybe that was also why the doc wanted to write down sense of humor), but I wasn’t. They had to call me something.
“No flashcards today. I think it’s pretty safe to say you know about the general world around you.”
“So then…?” I asked, wondering what fun new things were waiting.
“I was hoping you could tell me about yesterday,” he said as if we were having a friendly conversation.
“Yesterday?”
He nodded. “What you did, what you ate, who you spoke to. That sort of thing.”
“It should all be there in my chart.” I frowned. “Everything I do here is written down.”
He smiled briefly. “Yes, I’m well aware. I want to hear it from you. It’s so I can ascertain some details about your memory loss. See if you can recall things that have happened since you woke.”
I went through my extremely exciting day yesterday, even adding in the part about not liking bananas. The nurse said they were good, but she lied. Those things were mushy and nasty. I wouldn’t be taking food advice from her again.
For extra bonus points, I added in the details I remembered about right after I woke from my coma. As he listened, he jotted down notes on the top sheet of paper. It was a little strange to realize everything I knew about myself was literally right there in a stack of papers.
How could I have so little sense of self?
“Miss?” the doctor said, and I jerked my head up.
“Amnesia.” I reminded him.
He frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good name. I’ll have one of the nurses bring you a book of baby names and you can choose something for yourself.”
“I like Amnesia,” I rebutted, stubborn.
“Why?” he inquired. He sounded like the head shrink that also came to see me.
Shrugging one shoulder, I replied, “Because it describes who I am. A total loss of memory.”
“You don’t think you’re more than that?”
“Sure, but I haven’t figured out what yet.”
“Do you have the desire to figure out who you are? What your likes and dislikes are?”
Slowly I nodded. It was a daunting task it seemed, but really, what choice did I have? My nose wrinkled. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Your current condition is very rare and can be accompanied by a great sense of loss, depression, and overall hopelessness.”
“What is my current condition?”
“Have you had any memories or recollections at all today? Any sort of flashbacks or thoughts that felt more like memories? Dreams when you sleep?” the doctor asked, sidestepping my question.
“No, and when I try, there’s just… nothing.” I spread out my hands as if I were just as confused as he probably was.
“What do you think about?”
“Mostly I wonder what happened to me and how badly I got hurt.”
“Do you think about the future?”
“It’s hard to think about the future when I have no idea where I came from. And also when I have very little idea of what my present is.”
“Do you feel anything at all—anything, no matter how small an inkling it might be—when you turn into your own thoughts? Or even when you try to remember? Pain? Fear? Sadness?”
I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. I felt an inkling of something, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to say it out loud. I couldn’t say nothing, though, because Dr. Beck already picked up on the fact I’d been about to say something. “I am scared,” I whispered. “But I don’t think it’s to remember… Well, maybe it is. I don’t know.”
He nodded slowly. Then he seemed to make up his mind. Adjusting the clipboard in his lap, he glanced up. “I believe you have what most refer to as fugue or dissociative amnesia. As I mentioned, this is a very rare condition, and admittedly, I’ve never treated anyone with it.”
“Why?” I asked simply. It didn’t bother me I was his first patient like this. It was my first time, too.
Well, uh, I thought it was.
“Patients with fugue amnesia forget their entire past but also their identity. They have no idea who they are. Even reminding them who they are, showing pictures, etc. doesn’t jog their memory.”
“Why does it happen?”
“Well, in most cases, it’s because the person has suffered something severely traumatic. So much so their mind wipes out everything as a protective measure.”
“Well, that seems a little overboard,” I muttered.
He paused, scribbled something, and then glanced up. I got the feeling my less-than-freaked-out attitude wasn’t something to be proud of. I didn’t know how else to be, though.
“When you were brought in, you were completely unresponsive. There was a large gash in the back of your head and another lump on your temple. Your body temperature was low, breathing very shallow, and you had quite a bit of water in your lungs. Frankly, I was surprised you were alive.”
My belly twisted at his description. Even though I had no memory of it, I still felt for that girl. “Water in my lungs?” I asked.
Dr. Beck nodded. “You were found in the lake. Nearly washed up on shore. You were lucky he was there to find you. That side of the lake is much less populated.”
I grasped at the information like a carrot dangling before a rabbit. “Why was I in the water?” I wondered, trying to clench onto more detail.
“We don’t know. What little clothing you had on was ripped and bloody. It was clear you were in some sort of accident.”
“No one saw anything? Reported something?”
His face darkened. “No.”
“How is that even possible?”
“You suffered a severe concussion and had twelve stitches in the back of your head.”
Immediately, I reached around, my fingers probing into the thick strands of hair as I explored, feeling for the stitches.
“They aren’t there anymore. They were removed about a week after. The wound is healed, but you probably feel a raised area forming into a scar.”
Just as he said it, my fingers slid over a long bump. It was smooth and raised. I hadn’t even known it was there.
“What else?” I asked, folding my hands in my lap. I ignored the fact my fingers were shaking.
“There were several lacerations on your body. Most of them appeared to be from rocks in the lake. You had an infection in a cut on the bottom of your foot, one that didn’t appear as fresh as the others. You also contracted pneumonia.”
I didn’t know what to say. It was like he was reading off someone else’s chart. Why did I feel so detached? “Is that all?” I asked, wanting to know all of it.
“Your body was badly bruised and…” He paused, hesitating.
“I want to know. I have a right to know,” I said, firm.
“You have some scarring on your body. On your back and legs, some on your chest. The kind of scars that are consistent with regular abuse.” My stomach dropped, and he cleared his throat. “You were also very malnourished and dehydrated.”
I took a moment, focusing on my breathing. I admit it was a technique the head shrinker mentioned when I met with her that morning. When things get hard or seem impossible, take a deep breath.
“And now?” My voice was shaky.
He smiled as if he were relieved to say something positive. “Clean bill of health. Your body healed very well while you were in the coma. I don’t see anything to indicate you won’t make a full physical recovery.”
“And my memory?” I pushed.
He sighed. “The brain is a very complex thing. There is still so much we don’t know. The data on patients with fugue amnesia states that your memory could come rushing back all at once or piece by piece over time. There is also a chance you may not ever remember everything, more specifically, whatever it is that traumatized you.”
I wouldn’t ever know if I remembered everything. I would always wonder. Always in the back of my head would be the thought, What did I permanently forget?
“Where is my family?” I asked abruptly.
“I think you should get some rest, take things slow.” He stood from the rolling stool.
“I want to know,” I intoned.
“We haven’t been able to find your family. No one has come forward to say they know you.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. “What?”
“I know this must be very hard—”
I cut him off, slicing my hand through the air in front of me. “You don’t know,” I growled. “How could you possibly?”
“You’re right.” His voice was contrite. “I couldn’t.”
“Not one person in nearly three months has come looking for me? No one?”
His eyes slid toward the floor. He didn’t want me to see the pity they held. “The police are still working on it. They haven’t given up.”
Had I been a horrible person? Was that why no one came for me? Was everyone glad to see me go?
“I don’t understand.” I sank back against the pillows, defeated.
“Get some rest,” Dr. Beck said gently. “I’ll ask Dr. Kline to stop by before she leaves for the day.”
I turned away, looking at the blank wall. Another visit from the shrink. Should I be glad someone wanted to see me?
“Not one person,” I murmured, kind of shell-shocked. A real sting of pain sliced through my middle. It was the first intense feeling I’d had. I felt abandoned and not as strong as I’d convinced myself I was.
I had no one. No name, no thoughts, no people.
“There is someone,” the doctor said, almost as if he knew he shouldn’t, but couldn’t help himself.
I turned to look at him. “Who?”
“The man who pulled you out of the lake. He comes every day to see you. He sat by your bed when you were in your coma. Sometimes he read to you.”
“He knows me?” Hope bloomed.
“No. He just…” The doctor’s words fell away. I could practically hear him picking and choosing his words. What was he not saying? Who was this man who sat by a stranger’s bedside on a daily basis?
“He came every day?” I asked, wanting to actually be sure.
“Every single day. We wouldn’t let him in here at first, so he sat in the waiting room.”
“Why?” I questioned, so incredibly curious.
“Because he’s the one who pulled you out of the lake.” The doctor opened the door, ready to leave.
“He didn’t come today.” I hurried to call out. “Or yesterday.”
The doctor glanced around, half out of the room. “He was here. He’s here now.”
Fear shot through me. How quickly the curiosity turned to something more sinister. Why would he come here every single day? He claimed to not even know me.
But he still came.
“I want to see him,” I announced.
My words were met with a swift shake of the head. “It’s best you wait.”
“Wait for what? Memories that might be gone forever?”
“Until you’ve had time to process everything I just told you.” He paused. “Perhaps tomorrow.” With those words, he shut the door behind him, leaving me alone.
I was tired of being alone. Apparently, I’d been this way for months… And before that? Well, the picture Dr. Beck painted wasn’t exactly of some idyllic life.
He’d asked me about the future, if I thought about it. I hadn’t, but I was now. I didn’t have the past, but I was damn sure going to have a future. The silence in my head was going to be replaced with thoughts, faces… knowledge.
Starting with the man who came every day but didn’t know me.
Gripping the covers on the bed, I threw them back, revealing my pasty, thin legs. My body was wobbly and weak when I stood, but I did it anyway. I was getting stronger. I’d walked more today than yesterday.
If the staff wouldn’t bring this mystery man to me, then I was going to have to find him.