Memories Of You

by Bobbie Cole

  “And the other problems?” Charlie prompted.

  “Paranoia,” he said with a small, sad laugh. “Missing pieces of a puzzle and not knowing what the entire picture was supposed to look like, just knowing there were parts that belonged that weren’t there. Agoraphobia—I was afraid to leave the mansion for several weeks. I had a driver, a butler, two men who for some reason I trusted, even though they looked at me like I was some creature from outer space.

  “Even my damned clothes bothered me.” Then he laughed, this time with real humor lacing the sound. “The night before I met with you, I had a bit of a tantrum, for lack of a better word, smack in the middle of my clothes closet. I couldn’t find anything to wear in a room that held probably three dozen suits, twice as many shirts and innumerable pairs of shoes. I flopped onto my back on the floor and stared at the ceiling, trying to get a handle on what bothered me, and I realized I had no jeans. Of all the crazy things. Pretty lame, huh?”

  Charlie grinned. “Not really. You—that is, when I knew you, that was what you wore most of the time. Levi’s 501, button down. You had the best butt in those.”

  Why on earth would you say that, Charlie? She was immediately self-conscious.

  Seth took her arm and steered her toward her shoulder bag on the dining room table. “Let’s go before I grab you and thank you properly for that compliment.”

  Chapter Five

  The drive into Guadalajara was short, but the winding road definitely triggered all manner of responses from Seth. He tried to relax, to trust the driver with directions, to trust himself sitting close to Charlie. Her casual words at the hotel had instantly put him at ease while also making him realize how standoffish he must seem. What she must be going through, being so close physically yet at the same time so far removed from a former lover who couldn’t recall anything of what they’d shared.

  And he knew instinctively that they had been lovers. He could sense it in the way he caught her looking at him, warily yet longingly. Seth wanted to reassure her that it would all come back to him, but there were no guarantees.

  Most of his mistrust lay within himself, not for the hope of the brain’s power to heal itself, but for his heart not to override his cognitive process. He couldn’t afford to get swept away in a relationship with Charlie until he knew who he was, how he was capable of dealing with things, with himself, his situation, his family…if he had one. How to manage the one he supposedly had, when he knew they were lying to him, that he wasn’t truly an Aldridge.

  Now and then he’d get flashes that had to be memory, but the scenes and still shots in his mind were random, and they made no sense. Him holding a gun, pointing it at someone or something just beyond the mental boundaries his mind constructed. Marjorie Lawson’s face, as if he knew her prior to the wreck, which was ludicrous unless they were in the same car…and the reports said otherwise.

  None of it made sense. If he had memories of any woman, wouldn’t they be of Charlie?

  She stirred next to him, crossing her legs as she leaned toward her side of the car, peering out her window. He looked at her profile, feeling a stirring in his groin. He didn’t remember being with her before, but he sure wanted her now. If they hadn’t been traveling toward information to clarify his past, he’d have worked on their present relationship, what little there was. She was lovely. Small but willowy, with short blond hair, amazing brown eyes and a pert confidence. Deceptive, he was certain, because he’d sensed a well-hidden vulnerability when he’d kissed her at the police station.

  Now her face was serene, and for all their driver knew, she could be a woman touring his country, taking in the wild countryside now, and later the bustling city with its centuries of history and perfect blend of modern technology and old-world charm.

  Charlie may have been the one wearing a gun, but Seth felt a strange protectiveness toward her, and not because of her stature. Dynamite indeed came in small packages, and he had no doubts that the spitfire beside him could handle herself in any situation, but he wanted to guard her, have her back, be with her.

  “You are staring at me.” Her voice was quiet, calm, with a hint of amusement. She hadn’t turned to look at him, but continued looking out her window.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” Seth felt flustered. “I’m trying to remember…things.”

  Charlie nodded. “Time for that later. Concentrate on what you’ll say to the doctors and the medical examiner, if we can find him.” Then she did look directly at him. “Assuming you wish to know more about Marjorie Lawson.”

  Again, he nodded. “I figured with your credentials, you could gain an audience with him easier than I could.’

  “You’d be correct. Just don’t expect much. He’ll be reluctant to say anything, and he’ll most likely notify the police as soon as we’ve left. They don’t like our government interfering with their work.”

  “Understandable.” He accepted her assessment, knowing she was right. He’d be lucky if the doctors gave more than cursory comments echoing whatever was written on their reports. Not like they’d have American car crash victims every day, but their workload had to be horrendous in such a busy area of Mexico. They might not even remember him.

  Soon their driver stopped outside the glass doors of the hospital, and Seth and Charlie exited the car. Signs were primarily in Spanish, but they soon located a hospital directory and the elevators. Seth pressed the correct buttons to take them to their floor.

  A clock on the wall at the nurse’s station indicated the hour, still early afternoon, but if their hospital shifts were anything like those of their American counterparts, the staff would soon switch, so they had to work quickly.

  Dr. Juan Murrieta was still a resident, and he was making final rounds before his shift ended. One of the nurses ushered them to a waiting area on the floor and told them to wait, that she would send him in as soon as he turned in his reports. Seth hated waiting, but he did as she suggested. Charlie, however, made excuses to go to the ladies’ room. Something about her voice suggested to Seth that she had plans to do more than visit the lavatory. He watched as she strode confidently back to the nurses’ station and motioned for one of the nurses to speak with her.

  What is it about women, he wondered, that they could draw a stone into a conversation? Many of them were chatterboxes who needed an audience or to share information. Men, he’d noted, were nothing like that. Men said their piece and moved on. They went to stores, purchased what was necessary, then left. Women…could talk and mingle and chat for hours. Charlie hadn’t struck him as talkative, but it was obvious she was good at getting others to trust her because the nurse she’d beckoned hadn’t stopped talking since being called over.

  Soon Charlie, the nurse and a short, spectacled man in hospital fatigues moved toward Seth. Once they stood before him, the man in hospital whites held out his hand and introduced himself as Dr. Murrieta, the resident on duty the night Seth had come into the hospital.

  “Dr. Murrieta says you were brought in by ambulance,” Charlie told Seth, “but the nurse—this is Mercedes Gómez—was on duty that night, and she says two police officers had you in the back of their car, that they were patrolling the area that night and saw the vehicle that slammed into both your car and that of Ms. Lawson.”

  “Sí,” Gómez interjected. “It was raining that night, and there were other accidents. No ambulance available until much later to drive to the cliffs.” She lowered her head when Murrieta cut her a sharp look. “No disrespect, Doctor, but you were very busy that night. I know the policemen who brought this man inside.”

  When it looked as if the nurse wasn’t challenging him, merely correcting a misconception, the doctor’s face brightened into what looked like a false smile. He nodded. “Yes, I was very busy, as I am now.” He glanced at his watch in an obvious attempt to get rid of them.

  “What about the other doctors who worked on me?” Seth asked, afraid Murrieta would leave before divulging any more information.

  �
��You had severe head trauma, and we did not know if you would live. Once you were stable, I saw your condition and recommended reconstruction, of course,” Murrieta said. “We are a small hospital, but we have a fine plastic surgeon on staff.”

  Seth took the opportunity, before Murrieta could leave, to ask yet another question, this time about his medical records, of which the doctor claimed no knowledge. “You’ll need to speak with someone downstairs who handles that sort of thing,” he said.

  As if on cue, Charlie touched the doctor’s arm gently. “Would you be a gentleman and show me the way?” she asked. “I’ll walk with you.”

  “What of Señor Aldridge?” asked the doctor, who all but sputtered. He obviously didn’t like being tag-teamed by the Americans.

  “I believe he has other questions for your nurse. He’ll meet us in a few minutes.” Charlie smiled pleasantly, but Seth could see irritation rising in Murrieta’s face and mirth in the nurse’s. Murrieta glanced down at his arm, leaving no doubt as to his displeasure that the foreign law enforcement officer had dared touch him, even briefly.

  Mercedes Gómez turned her head and coughed gently to hide her laughter, and Seth held out a hand to her, taking Charlie’s lead.

  “While Detective Vargas walks with the doctor, do you think you could direct me to the coroner’s lab?” he asked of her, emphasizing Charlie’s title for the doctor’s benefit, in case he thought he’d dodge the request without hassle. “I’m afraid my Spanish isn’t so good, and many of your signs are only in your language. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  Her eyes met his in silent acknowledgement, and she led him in the opposite direction.

  Charlie called over her shoulder that she’d find him and meet him in medical records since he’d have to sign for them.

  Once they were out of earshot of Murrieta, Gómez stopped and faced Seth, her dark eyes troubled. “You should know something.” She looked about nervously before continuing. “Dr. Murrieta was not the one who suggested the plastic surgery you had. Your sister did. What Dr. Murrieta recommended was reconstructive surgery that didn’t require breaking your jawbone and realigning it, but your sister insisted.”

  Seth was shocked. “She wanted my face reshaped?”

  At Seth’s puzzled frown, she proceeded, her head and voice low, obviously so as not to cause distraction. “Dr. Murrieta didn’t even know you had a sister until she came to him. There was a storm, and we had many accidents that night, so the hospital was full. I saw her outside your room one night, and she was reading your chart. Then she slammed shut the folder, grabbed the man with her—her husband I believe—and told him they needed to talk.” Gómez shrugged. “The next day she approached Dr. Murrieta. Within two days a doctor in California flew down here, and he was assisted by Dr. Martínez, who has a small clinic for those who can’t afford medical attention.”

  “What do you mean?” Seth asked. “My sister… California… I don’t understand. How long after the accident before my…before she read my chart?”

  “Maybe a week? She’d been here about that long and was to be released the next day.” The nurse gave him a don’t-you-remember-anything? look. “Three cars involved, with you, your sister and your brother-in-law supposedly in one car.”

  “Supposedly?” Seth felt stupid for echoing her and asking so many questions.

  The nurse shrugged. “So she says. My brother is a police officer. I read his reports, and the reports say there was a third car involved and that it looked as if you had been in the car with that woman who died, not in the same car as your sister.”

  Seth rubbed his temples. “She was my sister but never went to my room until a week after we’d been here?” What a convoluted mess. “And she claimed I was in her car, when the police think I was in Marjorie Lawson’s car?”

  The nurse nodded then sighed impatiently and began again. “When you get your records, unless someone has altered them, you should see the name of the doctor from California. Your sister called him and told Dr. Murrieta to work with him.” Her eyes fluttered open. “Your sister was bossy and treated us like peasants, and I do not forget people like that. You were a good patient and very polite. That woman…forgive me, she was a bitch.” She looked apologetic, but only for a moment.

  Seth bit back a smile. “Thank you. I appreciate your honesty.” He held out his hand for hers then kissed her fingertips, making her face flame with embarrassment, but he could tell he’d done the right thing. She had met enough rude Americans of late. It was time one of them treated her like a lady and gave her praise for her candor.

  “One more thing,” she said. “As a favor to me, for helping you, señor? Please, don’t file charges against Dr. Martínez if he should not have operated on you. He donates his time to helping children who can’t afford medical services, and he sometimes takes pregnant women who have no place else to go. If he and that doctor from California did anything they shouldn’t have done, I don’t know that other man, but I’m sure Dr. Martínez only meant to help you.”

  Seth watched her lips moving, and it was as if no sound came out of her mouth. The only thing he heard at first was a muffled sound…then nothing. She touched his arm, and Seth barely registered the sensation. “What?”

  The nurse pulled him closer. “Are you okay? Did you hear anything I’ve just said the past few minutes?”

  “Sure.” Seth blinked. It’s happening again. Why can’t I control the blank moments?

  Gómez indicated the elevator at the end of their walk. “Basement, turn right, the sign says Pesquisidor.” She spelled it letter by letter to make certain he had it. “Have you had headaches lately?”

  Seth shook his head. “Not really. Why?”

  The nurse touched his forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s the short-term memory, isn’t it? I’ve seen this before—the patient talking with someone or walking somewhere, and all of a sudden they don’t know what’s going on or where they are for a moment.” She smiled sadly. “You need to see a doctor. Maybe more imaging would help address the problem.”

  Seth thanked her again, then left, pulling Marjorie Lawson’s photo from his pocket, ready to confront yet another official, hoping this one was more cooperative than the last and wondering how Charlie fared with the doctor.

  Once he discovered how to reach the coroner’s lab, Seth made his way to medical records to meet Charlie.

  “What do you think?” Charlie asked when she met up with Seth outside the doors of the autopsy lab.

  “I think we’ll find an inaccurate summary of events fashioned in police vernacular,” he replied grimly. He repeated what the nurse had told him. “It’s in somebody’s best interest not to be entirely truthful. Wonder why?”

  Charlie held an innate need to defend police procedure, even if that of a foreign country, but she knew his skepticism was well founded. “I’d say somebody didn’t want it to get out that they’d performed plastic surgery on the wrong man and that your accident may have been no accident.”

  She pulled out the pages they’d had copied of Seth’s medical records. “If not for the badge and a phone call from Houston to Guadalajara, you realize we’d still be standing up there arguing, right?” She held out the forms for Seth to read.

  He scanned them quickly, his body tensing. “It’s as the nurse told me. Murrieta wasn’t the one who requested I get my face overhauled—Dorinda did. But why? Knowing I’m not her brother, why would she go to the expense, for one thing?”

  “You have no idea just how expensive,” Charlie told him. “I pumped Murrieta for information about both of your surgeons, then phoned the office while I was waiting for you, and Julio got back to me with a brief profile on your chief surgeon, the California guy. He’s one of those doctors to the stars, everything from breast implants to nose jobs, and he doesn’t come cheaply.”

  “We’re missing something,” Seth murmured. “How do we prove I’m not Aldridge if I was the one on the operating table?”

  Char
lie had a thought. “You mentioned having a fit of sorts in your closet. How new are the clothes?”

  “All of them brand new, some still with tags. Why?” Then he brightened. “Pink, my butler, told me that before I came home, Dorinda and Doug went through that closet and tossed everything in it and ordered new clothing. Pink said he just thought it strange.”

  “When did he tell you this?” Charlie asked in surprise.

  “Not long after we’d arrived in Houston. He was setting out clothes for me to wear one day, and I commented on how nothing looked familiar. He said one reason was because everything had been replaced.”

  “As if they’d bought clothes for a guy who couldn’t wear the ones that were in the closet, someone who didn’t live in that house,” Charlie said.

  “Exactly!” He scoffed. “That still makes no sense. Why not simply hire someone to impersonate him?”

  “It makes sense if they’ve killed Aldridge,” she told him. “Think about it. An accident, a man in a nearby room with no memory who has just come out of a coma, and he has no identification, no face, no memory. The perfect solution would be to convince him he’s someone he’s not rather than hire a third party, one who might talk later and maybe blackmail them.”

  “Pardon my ego for being offended that anyone could brainwash me. Besides. That’s pretty thin,” said Seth.

  “Yeah, but ‘thin’ is my middle name. Not surprising according to my new partner who thinks I have terrible eating habits.”

  Seth frowned. “Which reminds me, we haven’t eaten since we left Houston.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make you pay for starving me.” She winked. “Right now, we need to get Marjorie Lawson’s autopsy report—my captain has already spoken with the chief of police in Jalisco, so we should get out of here within minutes.”

  She was right. The state’s medical examiner wasn’t in, but his staff was quick to hand them the documents they wished for, almost as if getting them out of the hospital was more imperative than arguing with them. The documents were already copied and ready to hand over upon Charlie’s signature. It was too clean, too quick and aroused Charlie’s suspicions.