Chapter Two The Life I Left Behind

I have lost all track of time.   I don’t know if it’s day or night or how long I’ve been in the hospital. 

The same two nurses come to me and move me to another room because I’m better they say.  I am glad of it.  Selfish, I tell myself.  I don’t want to hear that man in the other cubicle begging his wife to return. 

I still dream about him.  I still hear him talking to her, trying to get her to wake up.  Sometimes I think I’m still in the ICU.  I see strangers leaning over me but I can’t hear what they say.  I don’t know who they are.  Faces in a dream, people I knew in my former life I suppose.  I spend a lot of time sleeping.  It seems unreal.        

The nurses help me out of bed and help me to walk up and down the halls.  They chat with me and tell me I’m doing a good job and I’ll be going home soon.

Home.  Yay.  A strange place with a stranger who is my husband.  I stop walking long enough to look out the row of windows that looks out into the hospital parking lot.  It’s dark in the city.  You know, I don't even know what city we are in.  I turn and ask the nurse.  

"Chattanooga."  She says like it's something I should know.  Which I suppose I should.  Maybe they've told me a hundred times already and I can't remember.  

It looks like any other town at night, I shrug and start to hobble away when I notice my reflection for the first time. 

You know, you would think that you would recognize your own reflection when you see it.  Even if you do have amnesia. 

I look at a stranger in the dark glass.  I didn't even know it was me.  

There goes that theory.  I look back at myself and wave my hand at my reflection just to make sure it’s me.

She’s pretty at least.  Or I should say I’m pretty. 

It’s weird though, because I never felt like I thought I was pretty before.  It’s almost like this really isn’t me and through some freakish accident I am in someone else’s body.

For a second I wonder why it’s always dark.  I go to sleep and it’s dark and I wake up and its dark and I do my rehab and its dark and it doesn’t seem normal to me.  At least once, it seems I should open my eyes to sunlight filtering through the windows to the side of my bed.   I open my mouth to ask but three people round the corner, and seem oblivious to myself and the nurse.   She has to step out of the way to let them pass, and she harrumphs about the ‘rudeness of some people’.  The two ladies seem to neither acknowledge our presence or my nurses’ comment.  They continue chatting about American Idol (whatever that is) but the child in the hospital gown between them gives me a conciliatory smile.  Our eyes meet and she seems to tell me that she knows how I feel and for a moment camaraderie exists between the two of us as she walks past.  Her grey eyes leave mine and she stares daggers through my nurse.  I find it both strange and amusing.  She, like me, had been on the pointy end of too many needles lately and she glares at my nurse like she would bite her if she came any closer. 

The nurse doesn’t seem to notice.  It’s close to her break time so she encourages me to finish my walk. 

We walk several times over the next few days or nights I should say… and I wonder again why it’s always dark.  Perhaps I don’t wake up in the daytime or perhaps I do but my mind is so shredded and I’m on so much medication that I can’t remember.   The nurses and the doctor who claims to be my husband tell me that I’m doing much better but I don’t really know because I can’t keep things straight in my head. 

Dr. Doyle comes by often and I begin to feel a little more comfortable with him.  He brings out his iPhone and shows me pictures.  This is us a couple weeks ago.  This is our dog.  This is your friend Marilyn…  I look at the pictures and try to be interested but it’s like getting the wrong person’s vacation photos from the developer.  I know Doyle and I am used to seeing my reflection enough now that I do at least recognize myself but nothing more.  He finally tires of pictures and he tells me to rest.

He leans over to kiss me but I stiffen.  I don’t mean to, it’s more of a reflex than anything else.  I try to relax and he places his lips to my forehead before he leaves.  I see the slump in his shoulders as he walks out the door and I am bothered by my inability to respond to him. 

I can’t make him understand what it feels like in my head.  There is nothing before I opened my eyes except the nonsensical dreams from tidbits overheard from my coma in the ICU.  My memory is gone other than that.  No, not gone.  I know it’s there somewhere.  I know it is, I can feel it, but I can’t get to it.  It’s almost as though my mind is like a jail and the jailer has everything that was me before locked away where I can’t reach it.  The cell door is barred and the jailer holds the key and isn’t about to let anyone in, especially not me. 

I feel so frustrated I just want to scream, but then I remind myself that he must feel the same way as well.

He brings me supper and tells me he has an hour off work.   I ask him things like do we have children?  No. We have decided not to because of Doyle’s “condition” which I never asked about and I don’t really know why.   What about my family?  My family and I are estranged.  Something to do with my marriage to him… it seems they didn’t approve of him.  I wonder why, but he doesn’t go into it.  He says something about them being narrow minded religious nuts… I tell him that I don’t remember them and he says that is a good thing.  I’m a little scandalized by that statement.  I don’t remember but I seem to believe that you shouldn’t talk about other people’s families.  It seems to be a sort of unwritten law in the south.  You can say anything you want about your own family but other folk’s folks are off limits. 

I change the topic because I feel my blood pressure rising and I can see that he is getting agitated.  So what kind of doctor am I married to?  A surgeon, but he works ER because it’s exciting.  Wow.  I’m impressed.  And what do I do for a living?   A hospital social worker.  I help people who have loved ones here. Where do we live? On the mountain in a large stone house that overlooks the city.  We have a pool and a dog- a German Spitz. 

I ask him where we met and as soon as the question comes out of my mouth the answer comes as well. 

Paris.  I met him on the subway and he got off at my stop so he could talk to me. 

Doyle smiles like I’ve just given him a million dollars.  He nods and kisses me.  I don’t remember anything else but that’s a start.  I ask him if he’s French and he says no.  His Grandmother Helen was German and married an American GI after WWII.  His father was English and a doctor so he grew up in Germany, France and England.  His grandfather was from the south and he would spend his summers here with his grandparents.  That is how we ended up in Tennessee.  The mountains remind him both of Germany and his grandparent’s farm.

He spends the night in the chair next to my bed.  This is the first time I notice and I wonder how many nights he’s spent there.  My heart feels like crumpling every time I see him.  I want so badly to remember him… Poor sweet man, I think to myself as I listen to the sound of his steady breathing.  I find his hand and intertwine my fingers with his.  His hands are cold, but this is a hospital, it’s freezing here most of the time.  I wonder if he needs a blanket but he doesn’t seem to notice the chill.  I turn myself so I can see the outline of his face until I fall asleep. 

I dream about that man again.  The one with the wife in the ICU.  He’s crying and talking to her.  I feel so badly for him.  He’s always praying for her to wake up and come back to him.  He makes me feel so lost that I wake up crying.

My husband is gone.  Perhaps he’s been called away on an emergency.  Perhaps he’s got patients to see.  I have no idea.  Nobody else visits me so I doze off or spend time aimlessly flipping channels on the TV.  I wonder what kind of shrew I was before this accident- to have practically no friends to visit me.  Looks like I’d see someone else besides Doyle and my other doctors and a handful of nurses. 

What about my family?   Doyle had said that my parents and I were estranged.  They didn’t agree with our marriage.  But still, I want to talk to someone from my old life… even if I don’t know what to say.  Even if I just listen to them talk about their day.  Something.  Anything to make me feel connected with what and who I was before.  I think surely my parents would say a couple of words to me- given my present situation.  I would apologize and beg their forgiveness for whatever I’ve done.  I want my mother. I want my mother, I want my mother!  It’s almost a primal need for me. 

I start in on Doyle about calling them as soon as he walks through the door.  He tries to dissuade me but I pester him until he gives me a cell phone and a number.  He tells me he is doing it under duress. 

I dial in the number.  My breathing is shaky and I don’t know if I could talk.  A woman’s voice says “Hello?” and familiarity washes over me like a warm shower.  I say “Mom.”  And that is as far as I get before the woman’s voice interrupts me.  “Andrea?”  She says and when I say “Yes.”  There is a click before I could say anything else. 

For several shocked seconds I hold the phone to my ear, not wanting to believe that she just hung up on me.  I swallow hard and hand over the phone to Doyle who has been staring daggers through me. 

“I’m sorry Andrea.”  He says but the tone of his voice is angry as he tucks the phone into the pocket on his jacket.  “But I did try to warn you.  I hope next time you will believe me.” 

I have a hard time believing that anyone’s mother would flat out hang up on their child.

 “Do they know about—the accident?”  I ask him. 

He doesn’t speak for several seconds.  His jaw is set firmly and he stares across the room at nothing in particular.  “Yes.”  He says finally.  “I had a nurse notify them.” He laughs ruefully.  “I knew better than to try to talk to them myself.  I left them my cell number.  They never tried to call.” 

“What” I choke on the words before I can get out the question.  “What did I do to them?”

He laughs dryly.  “What did you do my dear?”  He shakes his head, and I can tell he is having a very hard time with the next sentence.  “You married me.”  

I only manage a strangled “Oh.”  I can’t say any more than that.  My throat is thick and tears sting the corners of my eyes.  Doyle tells me that I need to rest.  He kisses me before he leaves and promises soon we can go home.  I try to pretend that makes me feel better, and I lay my head back.  I pretend to be asleep until he leaves.  When I am alone I cry a little, though I don’t know why.  My mind tells me I’ve lost nothing, I don’t remember my parents anyway, but my heart doesn’t see it that way.  There’s a deep aching hole in the middle of me, and I was hoping that contacting my parents would help to fill in this void. 

He comes back later and tells me he’s taking me home tomorrow as he pulls the chair out beside my bed but I scold him. This is his night off and he’s spending it with me.  I tell him to go home, sleep in a real bed and get a good night’s rest for a change.  He argues with me but I win him over.  I tease him that the house is probably a mess and suddenly he is interested in going home.  I figured I hit the nail on the head with that one.  Reluctantly he kisses my forehead and tells me to call him if I need him.  He tells me he loves me before he leaves my room.  I’d like to tell him the same thing, he seems to be aching to hear it but right now it would be a lie.  I like him very much but in a lot of ways he’s still a stranger to me.  I order him to go home and rest and he ducks out of my room. 

 

I sleep.  

I look around.  I am alone.  The sun is setting and I know I’ve slept through another day.  Doyle will be here soon.  I drag myself out of bed and try to make myself presentable. 

Finally he comes for me with a wheelchair.  His smile is brilliant.  He takes me by the hand and helps me into it even though I insist that I can do it on my own.  I have walked laps around this hospital and I’m fairly sure I can make it to the car without the wheelchair but he waves his finger in my face and tells me its hospital policy.

You don’t mess with hospital policy.

He pushes me down the hall and doctors and nurses I don’t remember speak to me.  I nod and smile and feel a little like I’m on display. 

Doyle leaves me with a nurse who waits patiently with me at the front door.  She looks out into the rainy night and otherwise does not acknowledge me.  Her silence is strange and unnerving.  Nurses were supposed to chit chat and carry on.  I feel conspicuous here in this wheelchair; people walk past me and pretend not to notice me.  Perhaps they wonder what is wrong with me and instead of staring; it is more polite to pretend I just don’t exist.  A janitor pushes a blue plastic cart loaded with buckets and cleaning supplies.  He carries a mop and pauses long enough to give me a friendly smile.  I smile in return and he busies himself with the wet footprints around the door while I wait.

He moves closer to me with his mop and I feel myself drawn to him.  I drop my eyes, but they keep moving to him, seemingly of their own accord.  I am attracted to him, not because he is overly handsome or anything of a sexual nature.  He seems…familiar… achingly familiar in a world where everything is foreign.  My eyes settle on him at last and I decide not to fight it. Perhaps I knew him in my other life.

I am about to open my mouth to ask him if I know him when he speaks.

“Getting out of here, huh?”  He says without ever looking up from the wet floor. 

‘Going home.”  I offer, but my stomach does flip flops.  It ain’t home if you don’t remember it- is it?

“Not your real home.”  He says quietly and I am sure I have misunderstood.

“Excuse me?” 

“You don’t have to go.”  He says to the floor.  “You have a choice.” 

I’m hearing things now.  I lean up in my wheel chair. 

“Do I know you?”  I ask him and he smiles shyly.  He hasn’t looked up at me yet. 

“A little.”  He says.

How do you know someone a little?  I wonder.  “Please tell me who you are.  I can’t remember…”

The man stops mopping just long enough to look up at me. He wears muted blue scrubs over a long sleeved white tee shirt.  I know the color denotes he is an orderly.  Doctors usually wear a hunter green here if not wearing suits, and nurses I’ve noticed- come in a myriad of colors but seem to prefer a maroon.  I know I’ve met him before- I know I know him but I can’t think of his name so I search for his name tag.  Josue Mendez.

Josue. I haven’t said the name since I’ve awakened but surprisingly I know how to pronounce it.  HO-SUE-WAY.  The Spanish equivalent of Joshua and I wonder how I know that and how to pronounce it correctly.  It feels ‘right’ in my mouth.  I can’t explain it but I know I’ve said this name many a time in my former life.

 I notice that his eyes are strange, like Doyle’s. His are blue.  Clear blue. Middle of the ocean blue, which are offset by his dark features.  I study his face when he turns back to his work.  He is dark but not too dark.  Pleasantly brown but not the kind of brown one gets from working out in the sun all day.  His hair is dark and curly and a little long, and he has a close trimmed goatee.  He looks like he would be more at home stepping out of a beat up old Ford pick up truck than in hospital scrubs.  He doesn’t stand out in any way- he could be any one of a million good ol’ boys.  This is Tennessee after all, and he is from the area- his accent tells me that much.  He’s got that soft Tennessee twang that someone from somewhere else can’t fake. 

How does a guy named Josue Mendez get such blue eyes and an accent like that anyway?   

And how do I know him?  The question chews at me like a dog chewing a bone and I’m struck by the irony of it all. I didn’t recognize my drop dead gorgeous husband but I seem to know this woolly hillbilly?  Life is strange right now.

I laugh at the absurdity of it all and he gives me a questioning look.

I throw up my hands, “Okay,  I give up.  I have amnesia.  Will you please tell me who you are?”

“How can I tell you who I am when you don’t even know who you are?”  He leans closer to me.  ‘I’m not here to tell you all the answers.  You have to figure it all out on your own.”  He pretends to be disappointed when I frown.  “Them’s the rules.”  He says playfully and shakes his finger at me.  “But I am just here to tell you… enough.”

“Enough… of what?”  I respond.  My guard dog nurse has not noticed my conversation with Josue the crazy orderly.

“To guard your heart.  You belong to another.”  He’s mopping again.  “Not to rely on your own understanding. All around you is deception.  Listen to your heart. That’s all I can tell you, the rest you’ll have to figure out on your own.” 

That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.  I want to ask if the man is crazy, but I know he’s not.  Somewhere between the twilight zone that is my life right now and the black hole that is my memory it makes sense.  It niggles at the edge of my consciousness, and I feel as if I could just catch it, everything would make sense at last.

He had said “You belong to another.”  A feeling of unease ripples through me as a silver BMW pulls under the canopy outside.   I know it’s the husband I don’t remember.  Perhaps my gut is right and he’s not really my husband.  What if he is a serial killer that kidnaps girls who have lost their memory and…  I lunge at him as he mops and he looks at me with a smile on his face that could very easily be pity or amusement- I’m not sure which it is.  I have to know before it’s too late!  Before he guts me and hides my body in the freezer!

“Belong to another!”  I hiss as I see the silver door open and I grab his arm.  “Who do I belong to?”

“God of course. We all belong to God first.” He says kindly and pulls a slip of paper out of the chest pocket of his scrubs and tucks it in my hand.  “Seek and you shall find.  Have a nice night, Mrs. Bradley.”

I look down at the paper and see it is a gospel tract.  On the back is a label with a telephone number.   I stare at it, not really knowing what to do with it. 

Josue starts to move away from me as the door opens outside.  He stops like he has forgotten to tell me something very important and leans close enough to whisper.

“And the choice has not been made.  As long as you have breath… as long as your heart is beating… you have a choice.”

What choice?  “What are you talking about?”  I ask incredulously and he smiles and moves further away from me. 

“Oh, you’ll figure it out.”  He winks at me playfully.  “You’re a smart girl.”  

Doyle steps into the waiting area and my nurse wanders away without even saying goodbye.  All I get is a disinterested look.  I’m a little taken aback.  Not that I expected much but she could at least have said “Have a nice night.” Or “Take care of yourself.”   So much for bedside manner. The orderly almost gave me a heart attack but he at least took the time to acknowledge my existence.  I resolve to write a strongly worded letter to… my mind blanks… whoever is in charge of the nurses at this hospital…when I get home and I can keep my thoughts straight.  Maybe I just need to rest.

I tuck the tract inside my purse as Doyle approaches.  I don’t know why, but I don’t feel comfortable having it out.   

“You ready?”  Doyle asks as he claps his hands together and rubs them like he’s trying to warm himself.  His voice is too chipper and excited for this weather. 

I nod; eager to get away from the stoic nurse and the cryptic orderly. 

Dr. Blue Eyes almost trips over himself in the rush to push me out the door. I tease him about being in a rush.  Are they going to charge me for another night if he waits around too long?

He laughs and says something like “I just want to get you back home where you belong, honey.”

A voice in the back of my mind whispers.  “So he can stick you in the freezer..”   Nice job Josue.

I turn to give Josue a second look but he’s gone. 

Somehow, I am not surprised.  Perhaps I’m getting to the point in my life where nothing surprises me. 

“Well let’s go Mrs. Connelly.”  He says pleasantly and my eyebrows squish together in dismay.

“I thought he said my name was Mrs. Bradley.”  I say before I catch myself.  I thought I had only thought that but obviously it just came out my mouth.  Connelly sounds strange but Bradley had fit like an old shoe. 

Doctor Doyle looks at me like I’ve just slapped him.  “Who?”  He demands a little too forcefully.  “Told you that?”

I shrug.  “That orderly. Josue. ”  I nod behind me as if he was still there, but I know he’s not. “Surely you’ve seen him.  Dark hair.  Eyes like yours- only blue.” 

He whips around like I’ve just told him I saw a snake in the lobby- his neck craning, his violet eyes startled.  He looks around the almost empty lobby for several seconds before he turns back to me.  His face shows the nearest thing to panic or fear that I have seen since I’ve awakened and didn’t remember him. 

“So why did he call me Mrs. Bradley?” I muse as if I’m clueless.  Which I’m not.  Well, not entirely. 

“Bradley was—“  He seems to be searching for an answer. I can almost see the wheels turning inside his head.   “Your old name.  Before—“

I stop him.  “My maiden name?”  I finish for him and he seems relieved. 

“Yes.  Yes your maiden name. Sometimes I still get words mixed up.  You know.” 

I chewed my bottom lip.  So whoever Josue is- I know him and he knows me.  Not as Mrs. Doyle Connelly- but as Andrea Bradley.  He knows me from before I married Dr. tall, handsome and mysterious. 

“Do we know him?”  I ask.  “Josue?” 

Doyle looks flabbergasted.  “No.  No you don’t know him!”  He spits too readily; and of one thing I’m sure as he pushes me out through the double glass hospital doors. 

He’s lying to me. 

I don’t know why.

I don’t know what about either; but I know Dr. Doyle Connelly is lying about something. 

He scolds me as he helps me into the BMW.  “You should never, never talk to strangers!” He warns me as he climbs in beside me.  “Especially that one!  He is crazy! Never speak to him again, do you understand?” 

Right now my whole world is comprised of strangers and crazy and I are walking hand in hand along this journey.  I feel as though I am never more than five inches from “crazy” and at any moment I could topple over the edge.  I glare at him. 

“In that case I should have never spoken to you Doc.”  I almost spit the words at him. 

He sighs angrily and I feel a little bad for goading him as he drives me out of the hospital parking lot and into the heart of a city I no longer remember. 

We drive through streets that are totally foreign, I peer out the window but am unable to recognize any of the buildings as being the least bit familiar.

It’s as though I’ve woken up on Mars.  I have a husband I no longer know, in a city I don’t recognize.  I have no memory of my home or family or life before a couple days ago. Nothing around me feels familiar or comforting in the least.

Nothing, that is, except for a woolly redneck orderly named Josue who talks in riddles.

C’est la vie.  I tell myself and wonder where I learned French.