by Ross Elder
“Morgan!” My eyes are open, and Toni is frantically shaking me. Her eyes are huge! She’s scared. She shouldn’t fear the blackness. I should tell her that. She should join me there and…she’s still talking to me. She’s so pretty, even when she’s distraught.
The fog is lifting. I know where I am. Words are rushing forth, desperate to escape. I can’t stop them. “She’s not a slut!”
“Wha…what? Who…the…” Toni looks befuddled. She’s shaking her head and squinting at me. “Are you calling me…a…HEY! What the hell?”
Her hands shove against my chest, and she stands up, removing herself from the bed where she had been seated.
“Slut? Seriously? Is that what you think of me?” She’s going to cry. I don’t understand. I said the words. I heard… oh. There was only one word. The other words were in my head, but only the final word escaped my mouth.
“Not! Not a slut. She’s not a slut! Not you! Amanda.”
“Who the fuck is Amanda, Morgan?”
“Harris! Mrs. Harris.” I’m still trying to walk out of the haze that is my mind. Now she looks even more confused. Upset, confused, and her cheeks are wet with tears.
“Why would you think she was a slut, Morgan?”
“I had visions in my head. Images. Images of her having a relationship with someone here in the complex but not her husband. I couldn’t remember her husband, but somehow, I knew the images were not of her husband. I thought she was having an affair.” I tried to be very careful about what I told her. I determined to never tell her it was a relationship with me.
“So, it really was her husband, or…” she trailed off.
“No. Not her husband. Her husband…he’s…deceased. She’s a widower. Died in a helicopter crash a few years ago. Tragic. He was a pilot for one of the local television stations. I don’t remember which one. There was a malfunction, or a pilot error, or something. It went down during a live broadcast.” My neck is aching. I’m trying to rub the kinks out of it, but it isn’t working.
“Oh, my God! I remember that. That was horrible. They cut the feed. It was a high-speed chase thing.” She’s sniffing back the tears and trying to regain her composure. “I was in high school. The kids were watching the video on YouTube. Horrible.”
“Horrible.” It’s all I can say. Toni is telling me that, although she was shocked by what I said and misunderstood, this is an important breakthrough. My mind solved the puzzle and eventually the memory returned. She thinks this is a good sign. I suppose it is. But, it is also bad because I have spent the last week, or so, believing something that wasn’t real. There were blank spots in the memories and my mind attempted to put them together. It succeeded, but the result was false. The amnesia had created a false memory, of sorts, by stringing what was known, at the time, together. The individual events were real, what existed of them, but the missing parts were important. Now, I am left to wonder how much of what I think I know is legitimate. I thought I was improving. That may not be the case.
“I’m sorry I…you know, overreacted. It isn’t every day a woman is greeted by her waking lover with insults. Okay, presumed insults.” She is back at the bedside now, reaching for my hand. I open my arms and invite her to lay with me. She does.
“Wait.” There is something else pushing against my forehead now. It is important and urgent. Relax. Just let it flow out of you.
“What?” She asks. I’m rolling out of bed, leaving her laying there. “Hey! Come back here.”
“Where is my computer?”
“I…I don’t know. I haven’t seen one in here,” she says.
“Exactly! It’s freakin’ 2016. Everyone has a computer. Hell, we carry smartphones that are more powerful than the computer that put humans on the moon, but everyone still has a computer. Home computer, a PC, or a laptop, something. Where is it?”
“Maybe it was with you when the…you know…whatever it was, happened? Maybe you lost it?” She’s leaning up on her elbows. It would be nice if she was naked. Very sexy. Sexy enough as it is but it would be sexier if she was laying there in the buff. I’m wandering. Stop it!
“Okay, that’s a possibility. But!” I wave my arms around the room for effect. “Computers generally have an area within the house; a desk, or even a place on a countertop. There’s nothing here. There are no chargers or Ethernet cables. No docking station or mousepad. Nothing. It’s like I’ve never had a computer in this house. Why is that? Isn’t that strange? Especially, considering the fact that I am supposedly some sort of consultant and make a lot of money doing it. There’s no way you can run a business today without a computer of some kind.”
“I suppose it is kind of strange.”
“Very strange!”
“Maybe you are one of those paranoid types who stays off the grid and thinks everyone is watching them?” She’s giggling, but I wonder how much suspicion is present. I have to think about that for a moment. Considering my bookshelf, it wouldn’t be out of the question. So, why the super-phone?
“Naw, I wouldn’t have a smartphone, if that were the case. Smartphones are a nightmare for COMSEC, PERSEC, and OPSEC.”
“Seck…what?”
“Security. Never mind. That can’t be it. I’m not like that. So, there must be a computer somewhere. I wonder if it was stolen. No, see, there I am again, putting pieces together that don’t make sense! There’s no evidence of a computer ever having been in this house.” I’m frustrated. My chest is beginning to feel heavy. My pulse is racing. She can tell. She sees it.
“Hey, Morgan, calm down, baby. Come here and sit down, or lay down. You must calm down. It will come back. You’ll figure it out. Just don’t push yourself too hard right now. It is too new. You have to take it slow. You are solving little mysteries with every new day. It will come back.”
I want to believe her, I do. Desperately so. I hope she is right. I pray she is right. I ask her to give me another magic pill. She agrees because she wants me to sleep more. She believes sleep will help my mind and body heal more quickly. She’s right about that. She’s a nurse, after all, but I want to sleep for my own selfish reasons. I want to return to the blackness. I want to be there, where I am superior and a vapor and free. I find peace there. I find answers there. I want to exist there. I do exist there.
The pill is offered, and I surrender to it.
Chapter Twelve
September 15, 2016
“He agreed to meet you. Will you let me bring him in?” Dr. Sanjir is asking. He’s been talking to me for over an hour now. He’s the psychiatrist recommended by the hospital. Some sort of memory specialist. Apparently, my case has been quite the talk of the medical community as of late. Alerts went out, and calls were made across the country seeking input and guidance, just for little, old me. There is another doctor, a local guy, who thinks he may have some insight he can offer us. I don’t see any harm in it. The more help, the better. I just nod, though. I don’t want to seem too eager to be mentally poked and prodded yet again. He steps out of the room and tells me he’ll be back in a moment.
Sitting here all alone, I begin to realize just how attached I have become to my nurse, Toni. I mean, other than the physical attraction and pleasure she represents, she is also a very good caregiver. I don’t think I would have made it through the last couple of weeks without her. Is this love I’m feeling? Is that even possible? Do I remember what love even feels like? Have I felt it before? Could just be another anxiety attack. Who knows? I don’t like being alone. Not here, in the waking world. Only there, in the black.
“Hi, Morgan. I’m Ralph. Ralph Henderson. I’m a psychiatrist. Thank you for letting me visit with you.” He’s an older man of maybe seventy. He is still fairly fit but showing his age, as one would expect. Balding, but not completely bare atop his head. He has a firm grip; the grip of a man accustomed to greeting other men who believe themselves to be strong. He’s wearing those annoying, little spectacles that sit at the end of the nose.
“It’s…n
ice to meet you. I guess.” I don’t think meeting yet another doctor is very good. He’s asking me how I’m “holding up” as he visually examines my head, neck, and shoulders. He’s doing that thing doctors do, where they make noises and muffled grunts, attempting to make you believe they are really listening to what you are saying, but they aren’t.
“Hallucinations?”
“No, I…”
“Flashbacks, then?”
“Someti…”
“Traumatic, or soothing?”
“A little bit of both I gue…”
“How are you sleeping?”
“Fitfully.” I’ve resigned myself to offering one-word answers. He apparently has a short, or very short, attention span.
“Drug user?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“How is that good, Doc?” He finally stopped and looked me in the eyes.
“With that many drugs in your system, I don’t think it is safe for anyone to say, even yourself, you see, whether you are, or are not, into drugs. You can’t remember much of your life right now so even you don’t know if, perhaps, you partake in some of the more, shall we say, esoteric forms of entertainment?”
“Ah.”
“Ah, indeed, Morgan. Indeed. Now.” he’s pulled up a rolling stool so he can sit face to face with me. “I’m here because I want to tell you something. I want to tell you something that I would like to remain just between the two of us. Can you agree to that, Morgan?”
“I…I guess so, yes.”
“Good.” He is taking a deep breath now, looking up, toward the ceiling, contemplating his words carefully. “I’ve seen this before. Well, something very similar, at least. Similar enough that it brought me here today.” I nod because that seems to be the right thing to do. “I’ve been in this field for more than forty years, Morgan. For some of that time, I was employed by the government. First, in the Navy, and then, for other departments. What I’m going to tell you isn’t classified, per se, but it is fairly sensitive, you understand.”
He’s telling me his life story. Well, just the last forty years of it. I’m nodding and making the occasional grunting sound in hopes of convincing him, as well as he convinced me, that I am listening. After his time with the Navy, the good doctor worked with the Veterans Administration and with the Pentagon, helping war veterans come to terms with their traumatic experiences. Eventually, and after a thorough vetting, he was asked to fill the role of mental health professional for America’s most elite military forces. He worked within the Joint Special Operations Command, doing mental evaluations, and treatment, for members of Delta Force, Seal Team Six, and others. On occasion, and this, he assures me, is the important part, he was farmed out to other organizations, such as the CIA and the DIA.
“Twice during that time, I encountered recovered intelligence officers who had been captured by the Soviet Union.”
“The Russians?”
“Yes. Well, it was the Soviet Union in those days, so we assumed it was the Russians, but it could have been others who had captured these officers. I wasn’t given all the data. My job was to evaluate them and determine if they were fit to return to duty, or not.”
“I see.”
“Yes, so, that’s where you come in.” Ralph, as he instructs me to call him, has his left hand on my right shoulder. It isn’t comforting. “I’ve seen this before.”
I half expected to hear some sort of ominous music, but nothing happened. “Amnesia? I wasn’t aware it was such a rare thing.”
“Oh, it isn’t. Not exactly. There are various forms of it and varying degrees of it, varying duration, depth of loss, etcetera, but not entirely what one would call rare. No, that isn’t my point. I mean, I’ve seen very nearly your exact condition before.”
“Exact…”
“They were the victims of chemical interrogation. You see, the old Soviets didn’t care what it took to extract information from someone. In most cases, if you were caught, following your interrogation, you were immediately executed. Smiert Spionem, and all that sort of thing.”
Somehow, I knew the reference – Death to spies – from a James Bond film, I think.
“The drugs were different at that time, of course. Similar in effect, but today’s drugs are more advanced. And, toxicology wasn’t nearly as precise as it is today, either, so some of it was guesswork on our part. But, the basics of it are that they would pump their victim full of all sorts of drugs – stimulants, depressants, hallucinogenic, narcotics. They would break the person down mentally. I would guess the victim wouldn’t even know they were giving up their secrets by the time it was all over. There were also things they referred to as truth serums, experimental mostly, but there was evidence of their use.
“The two men I examined had nearly identical symptoms to yours. Drug-induced coma, gaps in memory, both long and short term, complete amnesia regarding the interrogation itself. No memory of it. None.”
His words are not encouraging, really. I’m fascinated, but that doesn’t help me at all. I’m twisting my neck, and the muffled, cracking sound must be audible in the next room. I’m tensed up, and my breath is quickening. But, wait, this could be encouraging, though. Maybe he was able to help them. Maybe he has the answers? So, I ask those very questions.
“Sadly, no. Neither of them ever fully recovered, emotionally or mentally. Their physical wounds healed, but the rest… not so much. One was put out of the service with a full disability. He eventually drank himself to death, even though it took a decade to do so. The other…well…”
“What? What happened?” I snapped the question at him. I regretted it, but I couldn’t say so.
“Suicide. He struggled to return to life at home. It didn’t go well. Loss of his career was too much for him. It was his life. When we took that from him, he had no desire to go on.”
“Awesome. Thank you for that, doc. You are a giant ray of sunshine.”
“I think you are missing the point, Morgan. I…”
“What point? That I should just get used to the idea that I’ll never recover from this? That my life as I knew it is over? I think I got that point quite…”
“No! Morgan, I think you were interrogated! Someone filled you with drugs, tortured you, both mentally and physically, and then dumped you on the side of the road. Why would they do that? Why would someone go that far to extract something from that brain of yours?”
“My…I don’t…how would I know? I can’t remember. I don’t remember anything like that happening, let alone what they might have wanted. There’s no way for me to know! I’m a damn consultant, for Christ’s sake. I do…business…stuff. Boring business stuff!”
“Yes? So, tell me, Morgan, what kind of business stuff do you do?”
He made those fucking air quotes with his hands. I hate that. At least I remember hating that. I think I only hate it when people do it to me. I probably don’t hate it otherwise. I hate it now. In this moment, I hate it with all my being. I also hate this psychiatrist. In fact, I’m thinking just how easy it would be to rip this electrical cord from the digital telephone and wrap it around his old neck. Unconscious in twenty seconds. Dead in about sixty, if I do it right.
“Well? Tell me, Morgan. What do you do for a living?”
Holy crap, I was just thinking about murdering you, and you’re still talking. I don’t say that out loud, of course, because that would probably ensure my one-way ticket to the looney bin, which may be inevitable, but I want to put it off as long as possible. So, instead, “I don’t know. I just… don’t know. I know I apparently get paid very well for it, though.”
“Figuring that out may be the key to this whole thing. It’s the missing piece, at the moment. If we can figure out your occupation, we may be able to determine if there was at least a risk of what I have described. We need to know. If not, the only answer is that you went on a bender and jacked yourself up forever. I hope t
here were at least some women involved or the whole thing just wasn’t worth it.” His creased, aged face twitched into a small smile. It made me laugh.
“So, what should I do, doc? I’m struggling. I am lost and confused and frightened, and I just don’t know what to do.”
“Well, if you think about memory, you already know a few things about it. When you walk into a room and smell freshly baked bread, it can trigger a memory of grandma working in the kitchen. A sunrise or a landscape can remind you of another place and time. Taste, touch, anything can trigger a memory, even another memory. One triggers the other and, before you know it, you remember things you hadn’t thought of in years.
“I think you should go do things. Anything. Get out of the house and the medical offices and start living! Something will trigger a memory and then you are one step closer to putting that puzzle piece into its place.”
He wants me to go out and try to act like a normal person? In my condition? What kind of quack is this guy? “Between the blackouts and the short-term memory lapses, I don’t even know if I can make it to the grocery store and back without falling in a hole or winding up back in the hospital.”
“There are risks, but the alternative is to insulate yourself from outside stimuli and possibly never recover some of those memories. Take someone with you. I wouldn’t recommend driving, of course, not at this stage. And make the experiences brief. Don’t go flying off to Argentina, or something. Just brief, controlled experiments.”
He ended our meeting by handing me his business card and asking for follow-up sessions as I progress. He is convinced I will, in fact, progress. Toni agrees while she is zipping in and out of traffic. Luckily, she was hungry so she stopped at a local eatery so we could eat something before going back to my place. The break gave my nerves a chance to calm a bit.
Parked at the complex, Toni was asking what I wanted to do tonight when I saw Mrs. Harris. Amanda. She walked out of the clubhouse wearing what appeared to be a sports bra and yoga pants. She must have been working out in the clubhouse gym. And, damn, she’s in great shape. Yoga pants were not made for everyone. It seems they were made for Mrs. Harris.
