Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Trevor
Islept most of the flight and during the medical transport from the airport. Turns out recovering from a head injury—not to mention all the other stuff—is no walk in the park. I’m tired a lot. And cranky. And frustrated as hell over… everything.
The strangest thing I’ve begun to realize over these past days is that I’m apparently pretty damn smart.
At first I wasn’t even aware that I knew more than the average Joe.
But the more interactions I have with people, especially those who aren’t doctors, the more I feel like there’s this encyclopedia in my brain where I can go to retrieve just about any information.
Medical knowledge aside, which still astounds me, I found I can do complex mathematical calculations, recite all fifty states in alphabetical order, name almost every European country and their capitals, and for some reason, I seem to know a lot about cars—something I realized after watching some cable show called Wheeler Dealers.
The one thing my brain can’t seem to figure out, though, is who the fuck I am.
As I’m offloaded into a wheelchair at the entrance to the hospital, I reflect on what I’ve learned after spending most of yesterday on the internet researching Trevor Criss. As my discoveries triggered nothing, my quest to find out who I am turned out to be more frustrating than helpful.
I got a few hits concerning college and medical degrees. Another hit about ownership of the coffee shop Colonel Sharp told me about. There were some links to Dawn and Chuck Criss since the last name is so unique.
Other than that, he—uh… I… don’t seem to have engaged much on social media. I did find an Instagram account, but it was set to private so I can’t see any posts. There was no picture of a person, just an old cherry-red Dodge Charger.
Ava Criss seems to have a more active social media presence.
Her accounts had been set to private as well, so I couldn’t see much, but there were many pictures she’d been tagged in by others.
She’s beautiful, I’ll give her that. Long honey-brown hair, striking light-brown eyes, and a very friendly smile.
I came across a few photos of us. Images that I didn’t even realize were us until I thought about it and looked at myself in the mirror. The pictures paint a story of a happy, dedicated couple. So how come I felt nothing when I looked at them?
And that’s the problem—there was no spark of recognition, no emotional connection. I might as well have been looking at pictures of complete strangers. Because that’s what she is to me. What I am to myself.
Maybe when I see her in person, hear her voice, it will all come back. That’s what the doctors in Germany are hoping.
Being one myself—a fact that still blows my mind—I know all TBIs can be different.
There is no specific timeline for how they heal.
It could be weeks or months. And the amnesia, which is most likely temporary, could abate at any given time.
Memories could come back all at once, or slowly over time.
There’s just so much we still don’t know about the human brain.
I shake my head. I know all this shit, I just don’t know how I know it.
As I’m wheeled through the hospital, I think of the one public social media account that gave me more information than all the others.
The one for her coffee shop—The Criss Coffee Corner.
Photos of Ava out front, behind the counter, interacting with others.
Pictures of Dawn and Chuck Criss, the original owners.
Snapshots that included me that I have no recollection of whatsoever.
“Major Criss?”
“Dr. Criss?”
“Trevor?”
The orderly who pushed my wheelchair into the hospital room touches my shoulder. “There’s someone here for you.”
Finally, I look back at the doorway realizing I haven’t yet learned to respond to my name. In Germany, I stopped asking people not to call me Major or Doctor when it dawned on me that when they still called me plain old Trevor, I didn’t associate with that either so what was the point.
“Sorry, what?” I ask.
“I’m your nurse, Kate.”
I raise a brow at the attractive blonde. “Not Major or Lieutenant or Brigadier General?”
Okay, it seems I have a sense of humor.
She chuckles. “I’m a civilian nurse. So Kate is fine. Your wife and parents have arrived.”
“They’re here?”
I try to figure out how I feel about that. Am I about to get my memory back when the three people I was probably closest to walk through that door? Or am I going to see them and feel nothing as I’m relegated to remain in this purgatory.
“They arrived even before you did. They must be eager to see you. I’ve been told what happened.
I can’t imagine what they must have gone through.
” She walks across the room. “Let’s get you situated in bed and hooked up to the monitors.
The doctor will want to assess you before any visitors are allowed. ”
I stand with a little help and get into bed. The orderly leaves as Kate goes about her job.
She puts the blood pressure cuff on my arm. “You should know you’ve already been established as somewhat of a celebrity around here.”
“Why exactly?”
“You’re the man who came back from the dead.
The doctor who seems to have retained all his medical knowledge but knows nothing of his personal past. The sole survivor of a terrible accident in a combat zone.
Dr. Criss, your name has been all over the news.
If you’d been transferred to any other hospital, there probably would’ve been reporters waiting in the ambulance bay when you arrived.
Walter Reed is protected by security gates. ”
“Jesus, really? All that has been on the news?”
“Not the medical details. Just news of the mistaken identity and the accident. But you know how things go. Someone somewhere will talk to a reporter and then the whole world will know about your amnesia. Hopefully you’ll be back to normal by then and can simply bask in the limelight.”
I scoff at the notion. I don’t want to bask in anything.
“What does my family know?”
“Probably not much. They’re in a waiting area down the hall. Dr. Wheeler will talk to them after he assesses you. They’ll be apprised of your medical condition before you see them.”
“So they will be told I might not recognize them?”
“They will indeed.”
A slow rush of air escapes me. A tiny sense of relief. I’ve been trying to put myself in the position of Dawn, Chuck, and Ava. People who have known me my whole life. What it might feel like for them if I have zero clue about who and what they are to me.
Two doctors come into the room.
The tall, Black man approaches first. “Dr. Criss, I’m Dr. Wheeler, the chief of neurology. This is Dr. Cranz, the hospitalist overseeing your general care team.”
I nod my greeting.
Dr. Cranz does a physical exam, palpating my abdomen where my sutures were, examining the healing burns on my legs, and poking around the bony structures of my face.
“Physically, you seem to be healing quite well. It’s my understanding your facial injuries rendered you unrecognizable following the accident. ”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“That being the case, I’m quite pleased with your progress.”
“Good to know somebody is.”
Dr. Wheeler steps in. “We fought over you, you know. Your case is unlike any we’ve seen here. I won, of course, as I’m head of the department.” He chuckles. “I hope you won’t mind indulging me with a few questions that I’m sure you answered a dozen times during your stay at Landstuhl.”
Thirty minutes later, both doctors are staring at me like I’m a medical marvel.
“Okay then,” Dr. Cranz says. “We’ll make sure your family is brought up to speed and then, well, then you can meet.”
“Meet,” I repeat, not missing his choice of words. “I’m so grateful for the vote of confidence in my recovery.”
“Sorry,” he says at my sarcastic tone. “Bad choice of words. I should have said reunite.”
I nod. “Just tell them…” Tell them what? I’m not really sure what to even say. “Tell them not to expect much.”
After they leave, I call the nurse and ask to be removed from the monitors so I can use the bathroom.
I relive myself, then wash my hands—maybe a little too obsessively.
Old habit? Or am I avoiding looking up and seeing my face in the mirror.
When I finally look in the mirror, I scrub a hand across my scruffy jawline and wonder if I should shave.
In every internet picture I could find, Trevor was clean shaven, not even a hint of a five-o’clock shadow.
Is that who I was? Who I’m supposed to be?
Several minutes of contemplation leads me to decide against it. I’m kind of partial to the beard. It helps hide some of the fading bruises along my jaw. And it seems befitting of someone who’s seen some shit. I like this face the way it is. If they don’t, it’s their problem, not mine.
I get back into bed and stare at the door. Waiting.