by Bill Noel
There was an audible sigh. “Chris, is Charles rubbing off on you?”
“What’s that mean?” I said, knowing exactly what she meant.
“Are you going to start playing detective like you half-wit friend?”
“Of course not. Barb and I found her and so I wanted to see how she was doing.”
“Yeah, right. To answer your innocent sounding question, yes, she can have visitors.”
Cindy gave me the room number and a warning that if I started nosing in police business, she’d have me arrested for impersonating an officer, for gross stupidity, and for giving her ulcers. She hung up before I could thank her for being so kind to one of her constituents.
4
Barb said she felt a connection to Joyce and offered to accompany me to the hospital. She also hinted that since we’d be in Charleston, it would be a great night to have supper at one of the city’s many fine restaurants.
Joyce was barely recognizable as the person from the beach. Her hair that had been mixed with sand and in a state of disarray was now combed and while not styled, was passable. She looked to be in her forties and had healthy color in her cheeks as opposed to the white with a blue tinge they had on the beach. The look of confusion she gave us when we entered the room was replaced by a radiant smile of recognition.
“They tell me that you saved my life,” she said, before we could speak. “Thank you.”
Barb moved close to the bed and rested her hand on Joyce’s shoulder. “We were worried about you. It’s wonderful seeing you doing so well. I’m Barb and my friend is Chris.”
I moved beside Barb and reached out and shook Joyce’s hand. She let go and grabbed the television’s remote and muted a game show that had an infuriatingly loud studio audience.
“Nice to meet you. Please have a seat.”
There was only one chair, and I motioned for Barb to take it. I stood beside her and leaned on an over-bed table at the side of the room.
“I hope you don’t mind us visiting,” Barb said. “We were wondering how you were doing.”
“Heavens, no. It’s great seeing familiar faces. I wasn’t at my best the last time I saw you.”
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Fortunate. I have scrapes and bruises but nothing to complain about. They did an MRI on my brain, so I suppose I have one, although it’s a bit scrambled. The main problem was hypothermia, and they had me drinking hot tea and wrapped in warm blankets. I’m fine now and told they’re going to kick me out in the morning unless I take a turn for the worse.”
I said, “Your name’s Joyce?”
She lowered her gaze and in a faint voice said, “That’s what they say.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“It’s none of our business,” Barb said. “You don’t have to tell us anything if you don’t want. I was wondering what you remember.”
“Like I told that lady police chief and a psychiatrist who visited me right before you got here, all I remember is being on a boat. Don’t know where, what kind of boat, or who else was on it. There was a storm and the next thing I remember was being in the water. Freezing water. I was holding on a surfboard for dear life. I remember seeing the words Ocean Pacific on the board. They said that’s the brand. It’s funny that I remember that. The next thing I knew was you leaning over me.” She shook her head. “Barb, Chris, that’s all, I mean all, I remember.” She closed her eyes and whispered, “I didn’t know my name was Joyce.”
Barb said, “Was the psychiatrist helpful?”
“She was nice and listened. Helpful, I don’t think so. She said I have amnesia, she called it a word I can’t remember.”
Barb said, “Retrograde.”
I glanced at Barb and didn’t say anything.
“That’s it. Said it was caused by a trauma.” She closed her eyes and Barb nodded toward the door.
“Joyce,” I said, “we’d better let you get some rest. It’s great seeing that you’re doing so well.”
Her eyes opened. “Thanks for coming. That was kind of you.”
Barb and I patted her on the arm.
Joyce smiled up at us, and said, “What now?”
I wish we had an answer.
Barb was unusually quiet as I maneuvered through downtown Charleston on the way to Fleet Landing Restaurant and Bar, one of many nice restaurants in the city known for fine dining. Barb had never been there, but I’d been twice. The restaurant overlooked the Charleston Harbor and is near the Historic City Market with half of the eatery over water. Christmas lights decorated the entry and from our table we could see other seasonal lights from buildings along the waterfront.
Our server asked if we wanted drinks and an appetizer. We each ordered the house Cabernet while Barb scanned the menu. She added, “An order of Fleet Landing Stuffed Hush Puppies would be good.”
Barb had the metabolism of a hummingbird and could out eat people twice her one-hundred-twenty pounds while never gaining a ounce. It was irritating. I had no idea what was stuffed in the hush puppies despite the menu saying it was a veloute of lobster, rock shrimp, and leeks. The server left, and I asked Barb what a veloute was.
“Clueless. Figured anything with hush puppies has to be good.”
Her ignorance made me feel better, sort of. It was good hearing her speak after being unusually quiet since we’d left the hospital.
It was dark outside, and Barb nodded toward a row of lights from across the bay as they reflected on the calm water. “That’s beautiful. I’m glad we came here.”
I agreed, and in a lesson learned from Charles, she changed direction on a dime. “What do you think of her story?”
“I know little about amnesia. After Cal got hit on the head back in the summer he forgot recent events for a few days. The doc called it amnesia, but he could remember things from his past.”
Cal Ballew was a friend who owned Cal’s Country Bar and Burgers.
Barb said, “That was anterograde amnesia, where the person can’t remember current information. His was caused by a brain trauma, the blow to the head. Joyce has retrograde amnesia which is the opposite of anterograde. There are several other kinds of amnesia, but those are the two most common.”
I nodded like I understood, which was partially true, and said, “You sure you didn’t go to medical school rather than law school?”
She chuckled. “I had a client whose husband suffered from retrograde amnesia resulting from his mother’s sudden death. The father died a few years earlier. There was a ton of money involved and my client had been told by her mother-in-law that the bulk of it was to go to her grandchildren and the humane society. The husband with amnesia said he couldn’t remember but knew that wasn’t true and that he was to inherit, and it was up to him to decide what to do with the estate. This is the kind of legal crap you step in when there’s no will.”
“They didn’t have one?”
“No. My client’s in-laws were in their fifties and thought they had plenty of time to worry about things like wills. Wrong. Anyway, I researched amnesia to represent her. One of the hardest things I did as an attorney was become an expert on oodles of things in which I had no interest.”
“What happened with your client?”
“Other than me using my superior Penn State Law training to win a victory?”
“That goes without saying.”
“Perhaps, but I like saying it. The other critical development was when my client’s husband regained his memory and found a notarized letter he’d hidden that his mother had given him telling that he would get everything.”
Thinking of Joyce, I said, “How long did it take for him to regain his memory?”
“Four months of legal wrestling and delaying depositions.”
I smiled and turned serious. “Cal’s amnesia was caused by the smack on the head. Joyce didn’t have any apparent physical injury other than a few bruises and scrapes. What caused hers?”
“Most l
ikely, a form of retrograde called psychological amnesia, also referred to as dissociative amnesia. It can be caused by a multitude of things, being the victim of a crime, child abuse, witnessing a traumatic event, on-and-on. Basically, any intolerable life situation that causes psychological stress can cause it. It’s rare.”
“Thank you, Doctor Barb. Any idea how long she could’ve had it?”
She smiled. “No. I missed that class in law school.”
Our drinks arrived along with the appetizer. The server said the bar was backed up or we would’ve had our drinks sooner. Barb told her it wasn’t a problem. Barb ordered shrimp and grits for her entrée. Grits were on my list of least favorite foods and I stuck with the chicken piccata. The server left, and Barb took a bite of the appetizer.
I thought about the causes of psychological amnesia, and said, “The first thing Joyce said she remembered was being on a boat, so wouldn’t it make sense that whatever she suffered from occurred around that time?”
Barb held up a finger and pointed to her mouth. Talking with a mouthful of food wasn’t unheard of among my friends. Barb had more class than most of my them, so I waited.
She finished chewing, took a sip of water, and said, “Don’t know.”
I’d waited for that.
“Cal’s doctor said that time was the best cure for his amnesia. It was a week before he regained most of his memory. It was scrambled at first, but finally returned to his pre-traumatic head bashing. What treatments are there to help Joyce?”
“Time is the best. If there are underlying physical or mental disorders, psychotherapy could help. Family support is also critical. Orientation aids such as photos, familiar smells, and even music can speed up remembering the past.”
“That’s if the police find her family.”
“That could be awhile unless someone reports her missing. She could be from anywhere.” Barb turned to the large windows that overlooked the harbor. “Look how beautiful the flickering Christmas lights look on the surface of the water.”
That was her way of saying we’d talked enough about Joyce. We spent the next hour enjoying the scenery, each other’s company, and a wonderful meal. She told me about Troy and Nate, two men from Canada, who’d rented the condo next to her for a month and how much they were enjoying the “balmy” December weather on Folly. She crossed her arms and made a shivering motion as she said it.
Several units in Barb’s condo complex were vacation rentals, and she never knew from week to week who some of her neighbors would be. That would bother me, but she said it was interesting seeing who was staying there, and besides, the high turnover meant the more books she’d sell in her store.
The ride to Folly was peaceful and quiet, and I couldn’t help smiling at the brightly lit crab, dolphin, turtle, and sand dollar decorations that adorned light poles at each intersection along Center Street. I also couldn’t stop thinking about the first or last name woman named Joyce. And, that she was going to be released tomorrow. Released to go where?
5
I sat up in bed and wondered why I hadn’t thought of it earlier. I’d slept later than usual, and the low December sun filtered through the blinds. Was it too early to call Chief LaMond? Over the years, I’d called her several times before eight o’clock and she’d berated me for pestering her before her work day began. I smiled, picked up the phone, and recalled that she’d also berated me for calling during work hours, after her work day, and on weekends and holidays.
“What in the Elf on the Shelf are you pestering me about before I’ve had time to enjoy a hot brew of hazelnut coffee with my adorable hubby?”
“Elf on the Shelf?”
“You know, Santa’s danged scout elf that parents use to trick their kids into being nice rather than naughty before Christmas. Hate that thing, hate ads for it, hate seeing it sneaking around the house.”
I was vaguely aware of the Elf, but never considered it a four-letter word. “Did Larry put one in your house?”
I didn’t think she was going to answer. She finally said, “If I hear one word about it from anyone other than you, you will not live long enough to get a lump of coal from Santa. Now, in case your feeble mind forgot, you called me. Would it be rude to ask why?”
After the elf talk, I’d almost forgotten the reason. I stifled a chuckle, and said, “Any word on who Joyce is, or what happened to her?”
“Double no.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Barb and I stopped by the hospital to see her. She was doing well and said they might release her today. Where will she go?”
“For being such an infuriating pest, you occasionally come up with a good question. That’s one of them. My answer is one I give more and more. I don’t have a freakin’ clue. The hospital has a case worker who’ll work with her. Joyce isn’t in medical distress, so the options are limited.”
“What if I have a possible solution?”
“Hence the reason for this ungodly early call?”
“An astute observation, Chief LaMond.”
“Any chance you would share it?”
“Yes.” And I did.
She said my idea wasn’t horrible, which I took to mean she thought it was great. She asked me to let her know the results. I said I would, and she asked if she could get back to her coffee and peaceful morning. I said yes, and she hung up before I could add anything to spoil it.
My next call was to Preacher Burl Costello who answered in a better mood than had Cindy. I asked if it was too early to call and he laughed and said no that his residents were up and clanking around all hours of day and night. I asked if he was entertaining visitors and he said he was if I was the visitor.
Fifteen minutes later, I pulled in the gravel parking area in front of the large, wood-frame house. A massive live oak butted up to the house on one side and smaller trees and shrubs were grouped on two other sides. The structure was at least fifty years old and its north-facing wall was covered with moss. Despite its unkept appearance, the house had weathered many a storm and was sturdier than most of the houses surrounding it. White, LED Christmas lights were strung around the door frame and along the roofline.
The front door was open and a man in his mid-thirties and cut-off jeans despite the temperature in the forties was on his knees and working on the lock. I asked if the preacher was available and he said for me to go in and yell.
I stepped in the narrow hallway and didn’t have to yell. Preacher Burl saw me, shook my hand, said he was waiting for me, and asked if I wanted coffee. Chief LaMond could learn hospitality skills from the preacher. He led me through a long, center hallway. The wallcovering reminded me of a rainforest with its various shades of green and a dark overcast feel. It was ripped in a couple of spots and gave a depressing feel to the house. At the end of the hall, Burl turned left, and I followed him to the large kitchen, the kind in country farmhouses.
A woman was taking something out of the stove and was startled by our entry. “Sorry, Sister Adrienne,” Burl said, “Meet my friend, Brother Chris. Brother Chris, Sister Adrienne was the first person to move in when Hope House opened. She’s a great cook and we’re fortunate to have her.”
Adrienne was probably in her fifties, paper thin and wore her graying black hair in a bun. I told her it was nice meeting her, and she said likewise although I didn’t detect a great deal of sincerity. Burl poured two cups of coffee while I was having my awkward conversation with Adrienne, and suggested I follow him to the living room.
“Adrienne’s not great with people, especially men,” Burl said, as he pointed to the brown vinyl-covered sofa with chrome legs that’d look at home in a doctor’s waiting room. He lowered his voice. “Her husband left her for his massage therapist. Poor Adrienne took solace in alcohol before finding the Lord and First Light Church. She now works for a landscaper and by the grace of God, will be moving to an apartment all her own come summer. The move will be wonderful for her, bad for our quality of meals.” Burl patted his stomach.
> The waiting-room-style sofa was out of place in a residence, but various Christmas decorations warmed the room. A seven-foot-tall pine tree stood in the corner and was wrapped with colorful lights, and adorned with silver and gold ornaments, plus a few homemade, cardboard decorations. A dozen or so colorfully wrapped packages rested on the tree skirt. I smiled at how cheerful the room was. Burl took a sip from his mug and leaned back on the sofa. Adrienne’s story was interesting, but time was important, so I wanted to share the reason for my visit.
“Preacher, the other day when you were in the Dog, you said you had four residents and six bedrooms. Has the number of residents increased since then?”
“No. The house was not created to be a permanent home for its residents. Since I’ve opened, we’ve had several come and go. In addition to Adrienne, we have Taylor Strong, the gentleman working on the broken lock on the front door, Rebekah Leachmen, she’s at work at Black Magic Cafe, been there going on six months and doing well. You just missed her. Then there’s Bernard Prine. You’re the reason Brother Bernard is here.”
I’d met Bernard a year ago. He was homeless, and I learned he’d been a war hero, had received a serious head injury in Afghanistan, and suffered from PTSD, or PTSS as it’s now called. He’d been kicked out of several homeless shelters because of his temper and when I told him about Preacher Burl, Bernard sought him out and the two were good for each other. I thanked Burl for all he’d done for Bernard.
“Brother Chris, I don’t suppose you’re here to take an inventory of my residents.”
I told him no, and that I was there to see if he could provide lodging for Joyce.
He said that it would be his Christian duty, and that, “It would be a joy to do so. In fact, if acceptable with her, I will call her Joy.” He made an exaggerated nod. “Tis the season of tidings of comfort and joy.”
She didn’t remember her name was Joyce, so I told him I doubted she’d mind him calling her the shortened version. I also said I didn’t know if the hospital would release her to him. He smiled and said one of his flock, which is what he called members of First Light, had been in the hospital, and he got to know someone in the discharge department, and would call her. After he brings Joy to Hope House, he said he’d contact Chief LaMond and tell her, so she would know where to reach Joy if her identity was discovered. I appreciated that he was willing to take-charge of these tasks and asked that he let me know what happens. I also told him how admirable I thought it was for him to have opened the house and asked if it was too much for him to shoulder alone.
