Confusion

Everything was glaring white. Cement walls met with tiled floors almost seamlessly. For a minute I didn't know where I was, but then that rushing nauseous feeling came over me again, wave upon wave of sickness, and I realized I was in the hospital still. They told me I had been hit by a car, but I couldn't remember. I wasn’t sure what my name was; Bill sounded kind of familiar, but then again so did Ricky. If only I knew! Oh God, here comes another wave, I thought. My breath came in ragged gasps; I said something, "Doctor," I think, but it was too late. I vomited, and he lead me away so the custodian could clean it up.

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll feel better after the medicine takes effect. No doubt the police will find some form of identification at the scene of the accident, and we’ll have this whole business straightened up," the doctor said.

"Accident?" And suddenly I remembered the car speeding toward me, how I ran for the other side of the street, how the car swerved to come after me, and sped off while I slipped into the heavy, sticky blackness. "It was no accident; it was a hit and run!" I cried. "What are you doing to find the person that did this to me?" I demanded of the doctor. But of course, he didn’t have the answer.

"You shouldn't upset yourself like this. It is not the duty of this hospital to act as a detective! I'm sure the police are doing every thing they possibly can. In the mean time, it is the duty of this hospital to make sure you're okay and find out why you can't remember anything. So, if you'll just come with me, we'll run a few tests. If nothing turns up abnormal, we can safely chalk it up to trauma and wait to see how much of your memory you recover. Right now I see no reason why you shouldn't experience complete memory restoration in no time."

"Gee, thanks, I feel a lot better," I muttered. "Maybe I should talk to the officer again and tell him what I've remembered."

"In due time, in due time. First, I'm going to run those tests I told you about."

So off I went, and those "few" tests Doctor Michaelsen mentioned kept me busy for two days. I had an EEG, an MRI, a CAT scan, and a complete blood work-up. By the time Detective Gray came to check my progress three days later, I was fed up with pokings and proddings and testing and more than ready to leave the hospital. I told him what I had remembered so far, but it still wasn't enough to go on. He needed a face, or a license plate, or at the least a make on the car.

"I'm sorry, Gray, but I just can't remember anything else. I wish I could be more helpful." I laid back against my pillows, tired from mental and physical exertions.

"Okay, call me immediately if you think of anything else. I'll be seeing you."

That night, I tossed and turned in my sleep, feeling feverish and bothered by strange dreams. I awoke in the middle of the night, and looked up to find a man standing next to my bed. He wasn’t very tall, maybe 5’8", with thick black hair and sharp black eyes. I was filled with a sense of uneasy familiarity, the unpleasant feeling that I knew that man. He started when he saw me watching him and mumbled something about how he must have gotten the wrong room. He left quickly, but the light from the open door showed his sharp features clearly for an instant. My head was spinning, and suddenly I called out, "Wait Carlos! Come back!" But he was gone. I knew that somewhere in the fog in my mind I knew him. I thought about it for awhile, but I drew a blank and finally went back to my troubled sleep.

The next morning, it came to me. Carlos was my wife's body guard! Why did he come to see me in the middle of the night, and then stand there watching me in my sleep? Why hadn’t my wife been to see me? I wondered where she was, if she knew what had happened to me, and what her name was. My memory was like an afghan, full of holes. But I had gotten somewhere. I had remembered Carlos, and that I had a wife. It was a start. I called Detective Gray, pleased that I finally had something to tell him. He was glad to hear my memory was coming along, and said he had some news of his own.

"We’ve got some stuff they found in the ditch where we picked you up, can you come down here and have a look at it?" Gray asked.

"Absolutely. I’ll do anything to get out of this damn mental illness ward. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through. I’ll check out this afternoon," I told him, barely able to contain my feelings of relief. I hung up the phone and jumped out of bed to get dressed. The next thing I knew, I was laying in a twisted heap on the cold white floor, staring at the metal criss-cross of bars under my hospital bed. Familiar swells of queasiness rolled over me, and I was unable to get up. Tired and weakened, I surrendered to the blackness that was slowly creeping into my mind.

I awoke several hours later to find myself propped up in bed, a haggard Detective Gray and a frustrated Doctor Michaelsen by my side. I closed my eyes briefly and let out a long, slow breath, accepting the fact that I would not be leaving the hospital that night. Michaelsen nodded curtly, seeing my resignation, and left to finish his rounds. Once he was gone, Gray began to lay out the things he had brought with him on my pale blue hospital blanket. There was a set of keys, a rolled up program from the theatre, with "Les Miserables" printed in bold black letters across the top, and my brass-handled eagle head walking stick. I sat there quietly staring at these objects, my possessions, and waited as my memory slowly pieced itself together. I went to the show alone that night. Lena wouldn’t go with me, she said she didn’t feel well.

"Lena!" I called out.

"Who’s that?"

"My wife. She made an excuse not to be with me. And last night her body guard paid me a little visit." I was beginning to have serious doubts about my wife’s involvement. Gray made some notes, collected his evidence, and left for the night. A police officer was posted at my door, but my sleep that night was fitful nonetheless.

Then it came crashing back, like a tidal wave hits the beach; all my memory came whirling back and my thoughts tumbled over each other like firewood in a flood. Carlos, my wife, her affair, how I had threatened to divorce her and leave her with nothing. It was Carlos who drove the car that almost killed me, my wife's car, Carlos who came to my room last night to finish what he started. I jumped up, dressed, and called Detective Gray.

"Detective, can you pick me up and take me to the station? I remember everything now, but I can't talk here because the person who tried to kill me came back last night. He knows what room I'm in, and he means to end this business by finishing me off."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

It didn't take long to convince the police I was sure of what I was saying. My wife denied everything, but when they picked up Carlos, he exposed everything in hopes of a lighter sentence. The trial was set, and I went home to my house, knowing who I was and feeling confident that my unfaithful wife would get what she deserved. For the first time in weeks, I slept well that night.