I’m not sure if it’s happy or sad. Because I just realized what your name is.
And while I’m nearly positive you’re a girl, even if I’m wrong, the name will work.
Hi, Jordan. I’m your mom.
Chapter Seven
James…?
Idon’t have any personal items here. Nothing to jog my memory. Nothing to pack up when I leave. A nurse told me my things probably won’t show up until I get home.
I stare out the window.Home. Ihaveno fucking home. At least not one I can remember. I’ve been told it’s Tuscaloosa, Alabama, where I grew up with my twin sister Jenny and our now-deceased parents, Georgia and Ken. No wife. No kids. No significant other.
I guess in some ways, that’s a blessing. I mean, it sucks to be me right now, but I can’t imagine being on the other side of it. The thought of a little kid out there who might come here to see a man who wouldn’t recognize his face? That wouldn’t be good at all.
It’s only temporary,I remind myself for the umpteenth time.
I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’m in the military. Then again, if they’d told me I was an airline pilot, a marine biologist, hell, even a manager at Walmart, I’d likely have had the same reaction. Because when you don’t remember who or what you are, everything is a complete and utter surprise.
Since I have no cell phone, the hospital staff has given me access to a laptop. But honestly, even if I had a phone, who would I call? I mean, what is there to say?“Hey, [insert name here], I have zero clue who you are, but your contact is in my phone so I thought I’d call and see if you can give me one flipping glimpse into my erased life?”
I try to imagine being on the receiving end of that call. Suddenly someone you’ve known for possibly your entire life doesn’t remember you at all. What if the people in my contacts don’t know me well enough to give me any information? What if my contact list is a directory full of acquaintances and random associates? It’s depressing to think that maybe I wasn’t even someone worth knowing. That I didn’t have strong ties to anyone or anything.
I shake my head, grateful I don’t have a phone that might have led to even more self-deprecating thoughts than my online searches afforded me.
I’ve spent the afternoon on the internet trying to piece things together. James Davis is not exactly a unique name. There are hundreds of Facebook and Instagram accounts with variations of that name. The headache I get weeding through profile pictures has me shutting the lid. It’s a wild goose chase at this point.
And truthfully, I’m not even sure I’d realize it if I did come across the right account. I still don’t recognize myself. I’ve looked in the mirror a half dozen times now, but not once have I perceived the guy in the mirror to be me. It feels more like I’m looking at a picture rather than a reflection. I’ve tried hard to find recognition in the color of my eyes. The angles of my face. The shape of my nose. But the disassociation I feel when I look at myself is confusing at best. If I’m being honest, it’s downright distressing.
A knock on the door precedes Dr. Schulz walking in. There’s a bit of relief that courses through me every time I realize I’m remembering names. At least I have the capability of creating new memories, the amnesia seeming to be only retrograde and not anterograde.
I force a lungful of air through my nostrils. How in the hell do I know about the different types of amnesia and not be able to remember my own goddamn name?
“Good afternoon,” he says.
I lift my chin in greeting. “Dr. Schulz.”
I know why he’s here. He’s going to ask me the same questions they’ve been asking me since yesterday morning when I woke up. What’s my name, where am I, what date is it. Where am I from and why am I here. It’s all part of the GOAT, or Galveston Orientation and Amnesia Test. After that, he’ll test my reflexes, check my pupils, and assess my response to sound, touch, and pain in order to monitor my neurological status.
He’s not pleased, I can tell. At least not with the GOAT. My physical progress is on track. It’s my mental issues that concern him.
Join the fucking club.
“I’ll see you again in the morning,” he says, making notes in the chart. “I’ve consulted with Dr. Simms, who is confident your injuries are healing nicely. If there are no surprises overnight, I’ll be comfortable removing the intraventricular catheter in the morning. We may even be looking at a transfer to Walter Reed within a few days.”
“You’re sending me to Bethesda?”
“Yes,” he says with that now-familiar twitch of his cheek that lets me know he’s amused at my ability to recall so many things other than my own personal life history. “Physiologically, you seem to be improving by leaps and bounds, so I see no reason to keep you here longer than necessary.”
“What then?”
“Well, you’ll be on extended medical leave until you’re cleared for duty.”
“And if…?” I point to my head.
“Let’s just give it some more time, shall we? Everyone with a traumatic brain injury heals differently. There’s just no way to predict your timeline.” He heads for the door. “A nurse will be by to change your dressings.”
I nod. I know the drill.
