Chapter 7
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. I have no 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.
Hours later, I’m eagerly awaiting the arrival of Jenny.
Not in any emotional way, but because she’ll be able to fill in the blanks.
My real hope is she won’t even have to. That when I see her, my memory will come flooding back in an instant, and all this not knowing and living in this perpetual state of purgatory will simply vanish.
My heart thunders with anticipation when the door opens and a woman walks through, trailed by one of the nurses.
Tears well in the woman’s eyes as she approaches. “Jimmy!”
I study Jenny as she inches near, waiting for the flood of memories, straining into the farthest reaches of my mind to remember the girl who is my sister. My twin. Don’t all twins have some ethereal connection to each other? Shouldn’t that alone have me snapping back into place?
But there’s nothing. Not a single twitch, twinge, or flicker.
Her arms are outstretched by the time she reaches the bed. She’s about to hug me, when she stiffens and retreats a few steps, studying me the entire time.
She turns to the nurse. “This is the wrong room.”
“No, ma’am,” the nurse says. “This is room 512. James Davis.”
Jenny’s chin quivers as her head shakes over and over. She collapses onto a chair in the corner and closes her eyes. Then she announces with complete and total devastation, “This man isn’t my brother.”
I’m staring out the window, but I’m looking at nothing. My fists are clenched so tightly my short fingernails are digging into the palms of my hands. I try to relax to no avail. Because if the past few days weren’t enough of a shitshow, now even the medical staff have no idea who I am.
There is such a clusterfuck of emotions swirling through my head right now, I can’t figure out which way is up.
After Jenny left yesterday, a dozen new people came in to have a look at me and interview me, pouring over me like I’m some newly discovered animal in the rainforest.
I look at the whiteboard that has all the information on me and my care team. The name James Davis has been erased and replaced with John Doe.
Erased. Just like my entire goddamn life.
The door opens and three people come in—my two doctors and a third man wearing fatigues. He marches straight over to me and looks me right in the eye. Then he smiles.
“Yup. I’d recognize that ugly mug anywhere, even with the lumps, bumps, and bruises.
” He puts his left hand on my shoulder. “I’ve been told I’ll need to re-introduce myself since you took a good thwack to the skull.
Ha! There’s a good ol’ medical term for you.
” He holds out his right hand. “I’m your direct superior, Lt.
Colonel Lance Sharp. And you, my friend, are Major Trevor Criss. Or, if you prefer, Dr. Trevor Criss.”
I’m too stunned to shake his hand, even though it would be impossible with my casted arm. He doesn’t seem too put off by it though.
I look around the room. “I’m a… doctor?”
“One of the best trauma surgeons I’ve ever had the pleasure of mentoring.”
My jaw is in my lap. “Seriously?”
He might as well have told me I’m an astronaut.
Dr. Schulz approaches. “Makes a lot more sense now, you seeming to know so much about medicine.”
“A trauma surgeon,” I say hesitantly. “As in I carve people up and look at their insides?”
“As in you save lives,” Lt. Colonel Sharp says.
“How…?”
I can’t even complete the question. So much is going through my head right now. I was just beginning to wrap my mind around being a soldier. Coming from Tuscaloosa. Having a twin sister.
“How did we mix you up with Lieutenant Davis?” he asks, verbalizing the thought for me.
I nod.
Lt. Colonel Sharp looks at the other doctors for confirmation. I guess they’re all in agreement that I can know the forthcoming information, because he starts talking.
“What do you know about the circumstances behind your injuries?”
“Next to nothing,” I say. “Only that I was in a vehicle hit with an IED.”
“You were with a team of four going into a hot zone to rescue two injured soldiers. Before you could evacuate them, the six of you were captured.”
“Jesus. As in taken hostage by the enemy?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. And that’s where the confusion likely started.
It’s not uncommon for captives to be stripped immediately of all clothes, personal items, jewelry, and even dog tags to make sure they aren’t hiding any weapons.
What we believe happened is that when your unit found an opportunity to escape, you all scrambled to put on whatever clothing you could find.
Somehow, you procured a vehicle and were racing away, nearing the safety zone when your vehicle tripped that IED.
“Of the six, you were the only survivor. Since you were wearing Lt. Davis’s fatigues, your recovery team assumed that’s who you were, and it just continued from there.
We didn’t know all the details surrounding your capture and escape for a few days.
By then, you’d already been logged into the system as James Davis and nobody thought to question it. ”
It’s strange. I’m stunned to hear what he’s saying, but since I have no memory of it or the people I was with, there’s no disbelief or shock or emotion other than I’m still reeling over the fact that I’m a surgeon.
Suddenly, an emotion does hit me—sadness. I close my eyes briefly as the thought behind it catches up to me. “So the woman who was here yesterday, Jenny Davis. She thought her brother was alive…”
He nods. “She’s been apprised of the situation.”
“Damn. That had to be tough on her.” Then another thought occurs. They know who I’m not, but they now also know who I am. “So exactly who am I, other than a doctor?”
“That I can tell you, as you and I had become close over the past few years. Trevor Jordan Criss. Thirty-five years old. You married your childhood sweetheart, Ava, after medical school right before you came overseas to fulfill your duty as your education was paid for by the military. No children, but not due to a lack of trying. You and your wife have been battling infertility. You’re the only child of Dawn and Chuck Criss, happily married and splitting their time between Calloway Creek and Phoenix after leaving you and Ava their coffee shop.
Your dream was to become a cardiothoracic surgeon.
You were due to complete your active duty on February 11th.
You’d secured a fellowship at your hometown hospital. ”
I look at the whiteboard. The date is February 3rd. I scrub a hand across my face. “You mean to tell me I’ve been serving overseas for years and was heading home in mere weeks when this happened?”
“Terrible stroke of bad luck,” Sharp says.
My mind is racing through all the stuff he just told me as I try to decipher bits of it.
I have a wife. I can’t even think of what all this must be doing to the woman I’m married to.
Because she’s not just my wife, she’s my childhood sweetheart.
Someone I assume I’ve been in a committed relationship with for decades even.
Someone I’d been trying to start a family with.
“You said her name is Ava?”
“Yes. We’re in the process of notifying her and your parents.”
“That I’m alive?”
He nods.
I heave out an explosive sigh. “That means they’ve been thinking I’ve been dead for over two weeks.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s got to be… I don’t even know.”
It’s hard to put it into words. Based on the devastation I saw on Jenny’s face yesterday, I can’t even imagine what the people in my life have gone through.
A young wife believing she’s a widow. Parents who thought they’d lost their only child in such a violent manner.
All of them grieving over such a tremendous loss because of a goddamn mix-up of clothing.
Because I chose to take a job that put me in danger.
“It will be a shock, yes, but a much better one than the calamitous blow to Ms. Davis.”
“Do you have any pictures of my family? Of me?”
“I don’t. Your personal effects were packed up weeks ago.
It takes time to process them and get them back to loved ones.
Weeks. Sometimes months. At this point, it’s hard to say where we could find them.
I’d suggest getting yourself a new cell phone as soon as you return to the states.
If you’re eager to see pictures, you’ll find them on social media.
You didn’t post much of anything yourself.
Doctors like us are usually too busy for that nonsense.
But your bride seemed to be very active, always talking about Calloway Creek and your coffee shop. And you.”
I surmise searching for Ava Criss will produce much better results than my last attempt at finding James. Ava Criss. It’s a unique name.
I blow out a long, deep, frustrated, confused breath.
“We should let you rest,” Dr. Simms says. “This has been a lot to absorb.”
“I’ll be here until tomorrow,” Sharp assures me. “We can talk more later, and I’ll be happy to tell you anything I can.”
One more day to glean all I can from the only person here who can tell me anything about myself. How am I supposed to put my past back together in a day? From someone else’s memories of my life, no less.
As they approach the door to leave, I call out, “One more question.” They all turn and look at me. “Where in the hell is Calloway Creek?”