Sitting in the quiet solitude of the stall, she reviewed her morning to-do list on her iPhone. They
’
d loaded her up with more work than she could possibly handle. Still considered a
newbie
at the Department of Homeland Security, Office of Intelligence and Analysis in Washington, D.C., she huffed out loud. Hell, she actually had more field experience than most of the agents here put together. She
’
d transferred from a five-year stint with the CIA, but she knew the rules. She
’
d have to prove herself all over again. That was fine with her. It felt good to be back in the U.S.
—
she was ready to start her life again and get past waiting to hear from Chandler. She
’
d been staying with her mother in Georgetown for several weeks, but had recently found a flat with rent she could afford
…
barely. She felt her phone vibrate and when she pulled it out, a text message displayed.
“
Hey, Pippa! Just confirming
—
dinner tonight?
”
She
’
d forgotten about the tentative date she
’
d made with Ted Williams, an old flame from college. How she
’
d changed since then, she thought. She knew she needed to get back out there. Start dating. And Ted was certainly no slouch: handsome, rich family and, if she remembered correctly, had the endurance of a racehorse. Pippa smiled to herself, letting her mind reflect back, then replied to his text.
“
Sorry, Ted
—
crazy work schedule this week. Rain check?
”
Chapter 5
My hospital room was clean and sparse. I was in a room with two beds, close to a window. My roommate was a middle-aged man who seemed to be sleeping. There was an older-model TV secured high up on the wall; bright colored cartoons silently jittered across the screen.
I took stock of my condition. I felt disoriented and still had no idea who the hell I was. Looking down I saw that I had both arms—one was bandaged. I had both legs—both bandaged. I had something wrapped around my head, which was throbbing, and there were numerous clear and white polyurethane tubes connected to medical equipment, off to my side and behind me. I could hear a soft, rhythmic beeping sound, which must be coming from a heart monitor. The door to my room was open and I saw pink and blue-clad nurses scurrying back and forth. Then a candy-striper
… is that what they’re called?
carrying a bouquet of flowers walked by. Within several minutes a nurse, followed by a doctor right on her heels, walked into my room.
The nurse made a beeline for my I.V. After checking its fluid level, she looked at me. She was pretty, maybe thirty, with empathetic, caring eyes. She put her hand on my cheek, either out of kindness or to check the temperature of my skin, I wasn’t sure. The doctor was at the foot of my bed, reading my chart. And then I realized something else: I couldn’t read their thoughts. Had I imagined my ability to do that at the accident scene? Of course I’d imagined that! I had been traumatized, physically and mentally.
“Good morning, how are you feeling today?” the nurse asked, leaning in closer to me and checking my bandages.
She had small freckles, which she’d tried to conceal with makeup, and the glint of a tiny pierced diamond on a cute, upturned nose. Her face was inches from my own. Noticing me staring up at her, she pulled away with the beginnings of a smile.
“I’m okay, I guess …” I said, in a hoarse but discernible voice.
“Well, you’ve been through a lot; your body will need time to recover, so don’t push it—sleep as much as you can. My name is Jill. Use this to signal the nurse’s station if you need anything.” She placed a call button within reach at the side of the bed and hurried off. The doctor towered over me from the opposite side of the bed; a beaklike nose supported black-framed reading glasses, and his hair was meticulously combed to cover a balding head.
Looking up from my chart, he spoke in a gentle voice. “Hello, I’m Doctor Madison. I was on duty when they brought you in several days ago. Fortunately, with the exception of some bruising and deep lacerations, you’re in pretty good shape. No broken bones, no internal injuries …”
“How long have I been here? How long was I out?” I asked, confused that he’d mentioned several days had elapsed.
“It’s been three days. You have a pretty bad concussion, so that’s not abnormal.”
“I must have fallen asleep at the wheel …” The memories from the accident were coming back to me.
The doctor gently shook his head. “Let’s not think about that right now, OK? Do you remember who you are … can you tell me your name?”
I drew a blank. “I don’t know, doctor. I woke up in that car this way. I seriously have no idea who I am.”
The doctor must have recognized the concern on my face, because he smiled and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It’s quite common to have short-term memory lapses after major head traumas such as yours. It’s commonly referred to as
Retrograde Amnesia
—where the patient has difficulty remembering things prior to receiving a severe blow to the head. I’m no expert in that field. We’ll need to have a specialist check you out and run some tests … but I wouldn’t put too much into your memory loss right now. One day at a time.” He started to walk away.
“Wait, there was an envelope—the paramedic had it.”
What was his name … Juan.
“His name was Juan.”
The doctor nodded and gestured towards the nightstand. “Are you Rob? You had no wallet on you; they needed to cut away your clothes at the scene … and, unfortunately, a little while later your vehicle, as well as the others involved, exploded—they say there was a fuel leak … ignited by a spark or something.”
“So … anything left in that car which would help identify me is—”
“Pretty much gone,” the doctor said, shaking his head.
I looked over and noticed the cream-colored envelope sitting on the bedside table.
“We opened it and read the card inside, hoping to find out who you were—perhaps someone to contact.” Doctor Madison pointed his nose toward the envelope and shook his head. “We really didn’t get much from the card, but perhaps it will jog something for you. Take a look?”
He handed me the envelope, with
Rob
and the small, hand-drawn red heart on the front … I opened it and pulled out a small rectangular card. Just five words written in that same feminine cursive …
“Okay, I’ll wait for you.”
The doctor was watching me: “… so, are you Rob?”
I shrugged. “Sure, why not. Call me Rob.” I had no idea if I was Rob or not, but I was tired of not having an identity, and the thought that somebody was waiting for me, anyone, was compelling.
* * *
Jill’s afternoon shift had just started and she was back in my room—busy disconnecting me from various tubes and cords. “We need to get you up and moving around, Rob,” she said with enthusiasm.
“Are you always this cheery?”
“No,” she said, eyebrows raised and shaking her head at the question. “I’m just having a really good day. You have to take them when they come—right?”
“Yeah, I guess …” I said. “So what are we doing here?” Jill was in the process of pulling down the covers and moving my legs over the side of the bed.
“We’re going for a walk. Need to get the blood moving, your muscles active again.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit early for that?” I wasn’t ready to face the world just yet. I still felt like I’d been run over by a truck, which I almost had been, and the weight of those other drivers’ deaths clung to me like a black shroud. I looked down at the bed covers and wanted to bury my head beneath them.
“Yeah, well, it’s time for a change of scene; it’ll do you good … up, up, come on!” she responded pleasantly.
Using my I.V. stand for balance, I was able to stand. Everything hurt, especially my head. Jill put her arm around my waist and we slowly walked out of my hospital room.
“So what’s that symbol on your wrist? The tattoo?” I asked, gesturing towards her left hand.
“Oh … that? It’s a birdcage. And see, the little door is open.” Jill released her arm from around my waist and put the tops of her two hands right next to each other. “See here, this is the little birdie that got out and is flying free.”
Less than halfway around the corridor my legs started to throb. As we turned the next bend I asked if we could take a short breather. Leaning against the wall I took a couple of deep breaths. Across from me was a utility door with a sign that read:
MECHANICAL
WARNING: HIGH-VOLTAGE AREA
“What’s in there?” I asked, nodding towards the utility room.
“What does it look like? It’s an electrical room … and that one down there is a broom closet, and that exciting room further down the hall is a bathroom. And if you’re done stalling, maybe we can get back to a little more exercise?”
Once back in my room, all tucked in for the night, with Jill off tending to other patients, I tried to watch some TV, but nothing held my interest. The guy in the next bed hadn’t said much. And from what I could tell, he was most likely Russian or from some other Slavic-speaking country. Even though he couldn’t understand a word of what I’d said to him, from his chortles and giggles, he could understand old Seinfeld episodes just fine. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for several more hours. The floor was quiet; on-duty nurses and doctors had disappeared behind computer screens or into break rooms.
I quietly climbed out of bed, found my hospital-issued slippers hiding under a chair, and made for the hallway. The lights had been dimmed, and a feeling of calm and quiet permeated the floor. I retraced my steps from my walk with Jill and located the door marked Mechanical. I just stood there in front of the door, hoping it would be unlocked.
With a quick check of the knob, I found it was indeed locked.
How do I get in?
Then I remembered Jill had mentioned a broom closet. I shuffled down the corridor and found the door labeled Utility Closet. Luckily, this door was unlocked, so I let myself in, closed the door and, after searching in the dark for a few seconds, found the light switch. Just as I’d hoped—several rows of keys hung from little metal hooks screwed onto a plywood plank. Someone, presumably the maintenance person, had nicely handwritten the various names of rooms the keys belonged to.
Here we go …
Second row, third one over—the MECH ROOM key … I snatched it up and let myself back out to the corridor.
I made my way back to the room. Someone was coming. I could hear low murmurs of a distant conversation getting closer. I inserted the key.
Crap!
Upside-down. The voices were mere feet away now from just around the corner. I tried the key again and the knob turned. Two nurses came into sight before I had a chance to duck inside, but, fortunately, they made a right turn down the opposite hallway and didn’t see me. Once inside I really didn’t know what I was looking for. Earlier, when walking with Jill, I had felt the pull … the undeniable hunger to reconnect with
whatever
I had tapped into on that accident-scarred highway three days ago. Even now, standing several feet from the large metal breaker cabinets, I could feel the energy.
The song was there again, just faintly, but there just the same. The room was covered with wall-to-wall long gray metal breaker cabinets. One cabinet in particular was bigger, and the words High Voltage were stenciled above it. I found the release lever and pulled open the panel. My mind flooded, bonded, and merged with the energy. I needed more. I stepped in closer to the cabinet, letting my face come forward closer still. I rested my forehead against the cool metal surface and tapped in. The music filled my consciousness. It was like coming home, and then, just as quickly, I was spiraling up to new levels of consciousness; others were there with me—connecting to me at a personal, intimate level.
* * *
The police arrived in the morning. Two of them, both black and both all business. Like twins, they wore dark gray suits, white shirts, and thin, striped ties. One tie had blue and yellow stripes; the other one was blue and maroon. The only other discernible difference was that the cop closest to me, surprisingly, had light hazel eyes. They flashed me their badges and got right down to business. Hazel-eyes spoke first: “I’m Detective Whittier, and this is my partner, Detective Barns. Would it be all right if we asked you a few questions about the accident?”
“Sure, go for it,” I replied without enthusiasm. I knew exactly what was on Whittier’s mind. My late night visit to the High Voltage Mechanical room had reignited my mind-reading capabilities again. Whittier was convinced I not only fell asleep at the wheel, but had also been drinking. He was angry, at a personal level
—
for reasons I hadn’t deciphered yet. He had every intention of bringing me to justice—at the minimum, for vehicular manslaughter. Meanwhile his partner Barns, on the other hand, was primarily thinking about a woman named Bambi. Apparently, when not swinging from a pole at Jerry’s All Nude Girls, Bambi wasn’t adverse to bumping and grinding in the back of his 2008 Chevy Malibu.
“What can you tell us about the accident that occurred on Arizona State Highway Route 60, near Kingman, three days ago?”
“Only that I woke up hugging a telephone pole and later witnessed a big rig careen into another car right in front of me. I really don’t remember anything prior to the accident. Although, I think my name may be Rob, if that helps …”
“Don't you think it’s awfully convenient … you suffering from some sort of amnesia … not remembering what went down prior to the accident?” Whittier wasn't even trying to hide his distaste for me—or what I had done. And to be honest, I didn't blame him.
But there was something Whittier wasn't telling me.
Why?
Or something else …
He’s hiding the fact there weren't two fatalities at the scene, just the one—the truck driver.