Chapter 3
The Stranger
For a guy with no memory of the man he used to be, I spend a hell of a lot of time in my head. After I park my car in the small gravel lot, I take off my lanyard and glance at the ID badge.
Elliot Trevor.
I toss it into the center console and stare at the busted gray door through the windshield.
I’m on a month-to-month tenancy-at-will agreement with the company that hired me to clean vacation rentals on Maverick Key.
The room’s cramped, and the bathroom reeks of mildew, but the bed is soft, and there’s not too much noise at night.
It’s a short walk to the beach. Not bad for someone who only has a few dollars to his name and barely had the means for the car ride here.
One thing I am is resourceful.
I’ll get something a little nicer when I can.
I spend a few more minutes thinking of every place and face I’ve seen since I got to the island.
Wondering whether any of them hold a clue about my past. Not finding any answers, I get out and grab the cleaning caddy to restock it for tomorrow.
The crumbling quadplex must have been built a hundred years ago.
I open the door and walk in—there’s no lock.
Inside, I put down the caddy and spend a few minutes fiddling with the door to get it to close.
There’s a trick I’ve been using that’s been working well.
But this time it’s just done. I give up, move a chair in front of the door, and head straight to the bathroom.
As far as first days on the job go, this one wasn’t bad.
My first assignment was a beach house. Renters hadn’t used it in years.
There was a lot of dust and square footage, but not much else to worry about.
Still, I’m filthy, and my bones ache. I ignore the scratched, peeling mirror and toss my dirty clothes into a basket near the door.
After I brush my teeth, I step into the shower and turn the handle.
Frigid water trickles over my head. The pressure sucks, and there’s no hot water.
But I don’t care. I like the sting. It makes me feel something.
I tug on the leather band around my neck, making sure it’s still there. I never take it off.
Stop it, Elliot. Stop fixating on that dream. On her.
I’ve been on Maverick Key for a few nights.
I’m not sure what I expected, but I thought there’d be…
something. When I read that newspaper article about the Key back in Miami, I felt…
recognition. I was so certain I’d been here before.
But when I crossed over the Castle Light Bridge causeway and saw the island’s tranquil landscape, nothing seemed familiar—or even real. A beautiful mirage.
I towel off and pull on a clean pair of boxers, checking my phone. There’s one message from Karen.
Elliot! How was the first day on the job? We miss you so much. ??
Karen misses me. The rest of my friends in Miami? I doubt they’re too worried about me. I like Karen, but I’m too fixated on my problems to be a good friend to anyone right now.
Went well. Just tired. Going to bed.
I watch the cursor blink for a few seconds. She wants to chat, to be the supportive friend, but she knows me well enough to let it go.
K, rest up! You know I'm here if you wanna talk.??
Relieved to be off the hook, I put away the phone. But not without a pang of guilt. I should care enough to be more grateful. But I don’t care enough because I’m empty.
I opened my eyes almost seven years ago.
Waking up and feeling intact, able to recognize what was going on around me, only to find my mind fractured.
As much as I searched, I couldn’t find anything.
No name, no memory. Early on, I tried to reclaim my life.
The hospital staff helped me heal, but had no information about where I might have come from.
My only belonging was the leather band I wear around my neck.
An anchor to the past that I lived and lost.
My nurses explained to me I’d been pulled from the sea and stripped.
Admitted to the hospital for weeks, I was treated for severe sun exposure, dehydration, and muscle deterioration.
Investigators suspected drug runners conducting illicit activities might have found me in the water and dumped me near the shore as a mercy instead of getting involved.
The police fingerprinted and interviewed me, labeling me a John Doe, but nothing ever panned out.
My social worker helped me for months—then years—working with the police to search for any sign of who I was.
When that hope faded, they helped me establish a new identity.
I got a delayed birth certificate through the courts, enabling me to get all the documentation I required to function. Everything I needed for a fresh start.
Being Elliot Trevor was 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 you you is 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 use it 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.
The sand is unrecognizable, a charcoal landscape lit by the stars in a moonless sky and a few stray lights from distant buildings. It’s nearly impossible to tell where the shoreline meets the sea.
Three a.m.
No one else is out here. Most insomniacs are plagued with racing thoughts and fear. For me, it’s a beautiful dream.
Her.
I’m terrified one night I’ll fall asleep and she won’t be there.
But if I can get to the point of pure exhaustion…
I jog. The sand is firm. Great for running.
At first, it feels good. Numbness and fatigue melt into a pleasant, warm heat that flows through my body, and all my senses awaken.
I can taste the salt, feel the breeze, and smell the ocean.
Exhilarated, I push harder, letting the crash of the waves help me find a rhythm to my strides.
Pebbles of sweat form at my temples. They’re tactile, cool—proof I’m still awake.
Go harder!
Okay. Let’s do it.
My lungs are burning now, and my short breaths hurt.
The pain screams at me, reminding me that I need oxygen to live.
Warning me not to push too far. I ignore it and run harder.
As hard as I can. There’s the lighthouse ahead.
It’s about four miles from the motel. Have I climbed the stairs and looked out over the ocean? I really want to do that.