BeingElliot Trevorwas my key to holding a place in society. But it became a prison, with freedom an elusive goal. It was giving up.
The life I remember has been a journey of discovering all the things I already know how to do. Knowledge and skill without experience. Retrograde amnesia. I can drive. I know how to use cell phones and computers and speak Italian, French, and German. Operating a boat and scuba diving—check. I’m an expert. What I don’t know is everything that came before the day I woke up in that hospital bed in Miami.
That newspaper gave me hope. Now, finding nothing here and being away from the familiar faces and my routines is unsettling. Should I call Dr. Paulson?
I think back to one of our earliest counseling sessions.
“Real men remember who they are. Who they loved. Who they buried,” I said.
“You’re acting like your past disappeared,” Dr. Paulson said. He tapped his pen once on the notebook and pointed it at me. “It didn’t. You did.”
He set the pen down and snapped his fingers. “Instincts. Know-how. The engine that made youyouis still running under the hood. You didn’t lose it. You’ve just lost access to the road.”
I’d wanted to believe him.
He slid a piece of paper across the desk. “I want you to answer some questions.”
I glanced at them and scoffed. “The hell, Doc? Do I sleep with the door open or closed?”
“I know they seem small. But you don’t need memory to answer them. Patterns emerge. Experience. Training. Preferences…”
“What’s the point?”
“The point,” he said, locking his gaze on mine. “Is that you don’t get to decide you’re a nobody. You can build a future.”
“Doc. I know you mean well, but that’s horseshit.” I laughed bitterly. “You don’t know me. I picked the first random name that popped into my head. I could be a drug dealer for all you know. The hospital gave me a job as a janitor that pays for the roof over my head. I’m a fucking charity case.”
Undeterred, he pressed on.
“Then stop waiting,” he said, cutting a hand through the air. “Build something new. Or don’t. Just own it.”
“Yeah…” I stared at the black-and-white photo of the Eiffel Tower behind him. “I’m never getting my memories back, am I?”
He gave me a sympathetic look, but to his credit, didn’t lie.
“The longer it’s been, the lower the odds of a full recovery.” He paused and gave me a small smile. “But it’s still possible. Rare. But it’s happened.”
His brows drew together. “If we can just find the right triggers,” he continued. “You’ve mentioned recurring dreams. Are you still having them?”
“Every night. They’re more like fantasies.”
“There’s a chance they’re connected to your past. Hold on to them. Just don’t let them keep you from moving forward.”
Right. My future.
Dr. Paulson’s a good guy. But he couldn’t help me.
No. There’s a reason I’m here—a reason I read that newspaper article about Maverick Key in that small breakroom in Miami.
The clock on the motel room wall thrums. 2:40 a.m.
I grab the remote and turn on the television. Sometimes watching something helps me fall asleep. Scrolling through the satellite channels, nothing catches my interest, and I can feel myself getting more restless. I pick up my notebook and flip through the pages. Dr. Paulson suggested keeping a diary, but using it feels instinctual. Like I would have done it anyway. I useit to capture and organize all the little things that feel familiar. On good nights, it helps me steady my thoughts.
But not tonight.
Damn it.
I toss it onto the nightstand, then put on some clothes and shoes. The beach is only a couple of blocks away, and I need to see it. I’m going for a run.
