Finding Mikayla

by Samantha Christy

  I try to think back to my psych rotation. Can I damage his remaining mental faculties if I tell him?

  “Mikayla . . . Dr. Kay, whatever it is, just tell me,” he begs.

  “Mitch, first tell me the last thing you remember.”

  I sit in stunned silence as he tells me that he remembers flying out of a hot zone with a couple of wounded soldiers. He tells me that one of them, a young man who was only twenty years old, ended up dying from wounds sustained when a car bomb exploded, taking most of his leg off. He talks about a couple of men in his unit that he went out drinking with to toast the young fallen soldier. He tells me every detail, like it was only yesterday, and I didn’t even realize that sometime during his story, he grabbed my hand and is now holding it tight to his side.

  “So, you’re a flight medic?” I ask.

  He nods his head. “Yeah, a Sergeant.” He looks around again. “How did I get to an army base in Florida? Can I please call Kevin?” Then he looks down at the ground and closes his eyes as a frown crosses his face. “Kevin is my CO, but I guess if I’m in the states I should probably call my dad.”

  He reaches up to grab his chest, pinching at the hospital gown between his pectorals, something I noticed a few times when he would come to. “Are you having chest pain?” I ask.

  “No, why?”

  “Because you keep grabbing at your chest,” I say.

  He looks down at himself with his own questioning glance as if his hand has a mind of its own. “No, no chest pain. I don’t know why I did that.” He looks back at me. “Can you please get me a phone?” He’s starting to get irritated with me so I make a decision. Based on his strong vitals and the fact that he’s a medic and probably would understand traumatic memory loss, I decide to tell him.

  “Mitch.” I take in a deep breath and blow it out. “It seems you are experiencing a gap in your memory. It may be from the accident, but without the proper equipment, I can’t be sure if you have any swelling in your brain.”

  “Gap in my memory? What do you mean no proper equipment? Didn’t you do a CT scan?”

  “I’m sorry, no. We don’t have a CT scanner here, but even if we did, it wouldn’t work.”

  “Why not?” he asks, clearly in a desperate state of confusion.

  “Mitch, I’m just going to come out and say it.” I squeeze his hand tight, the hand that has encompassed mine throughout our entire conversation. “You’ve lost two years of your memory.” When I tell him what year it is, he looks at me in utter disbelief so I quickly say, “Most traumatic memory loss is temporary and does return in time. Since you remembered my face from a few days ago, I’d say you have retrograde amnesia that was caused by you slamming your pickup truck into another vehicle at a high speed, causing your brain to keep moving while your skull was held back thanks to your seatbelt. It’s a condition called DAI, diffuse axonal injury, and it’s common in auto accidents. However, if that’s what it is, you are very lucky as most people never wake up afterwards, about ninety percent if I remember correctly.”

  “Two years?” he asks, still trying to absorb the reality of what has happened to him. His hand is holding mine as if he will slip away if he lets go. His bright blue eyes stare into mine begging for answers.

  I pray what I’m about to tell him won’t send his body spiraling into a state of shock. “Mitch, there’s more.”

  He senses my hesitation and must realize that what I’m going to tell him is even worse than the two-year memory loss he is experiencing. He says, “You can tell me. I’m a combat medic. I’m trained to handle stressful situations. I won’t freak out on you. I’m fine. Just tell me, Mikayla.”

  Why is it that I love the way he calls me Mikayla? The way my name rolls over his tongue is sensual and sends a twinge of . . . something running through me. I close my eyes briefly and then I tell him. “It happened about a year ago, on March 31st to be exact, Easter Sunday. As best we can tell, there was a solar flare, one so large that it caused an EMP, an electromagnetic pulse, that took out anything with a semiconductor or microchip, which was virtually everything electronic.”

  He looks around the clinic and realizes what he missed before. There are no overhead fluorescent lights on, no humming of medical machines or beeping of monitors. He looks down at his IV insertion site and then glances up at the IV bag that is infusing on a gravity drip. He notices that the room is devoid of technology, resembling what you might see in an early nineteenth century clinic, not the advanced medical clinic he was expecting.

  “Oh, my God,” he says with a pale face as he realizes the truth of the words I’ve just spoken.

  Chapter Two

  I feel like I’ve explained everything until I’m blue in the face, but Mitch keeps asking questions. I’m trying to be patient. I can only imagine what it must be like to lose two years of your life only to wake up in a different world. It must seem like a dream. I remember when for the first few weeks, even though I lived through it, I still thought I would wake up one day and realize none of it was real.

  “So, how many people are out there? How many other communities like this exist?” Mitch asks.

  “We’re still not sure. It’s taken a long time to get the small amount of information that we have. We know there are other places because we’ve reached them by short-wave radio. Most are small, like we are, but nobody will reveal their location for security reasons. And if the government predictions were right, the general population will have been reduced by seventy to ninety percent after an event such as this. We are lucky, we only lost thirty percent, and that was pretty early on. Most of our casualties were insulin-dependent diabetics, heart patients, people on dialysis, and others with medical conditions that required drugs or equipment that we didn’t have.”

  “How do you get supplies?” he asks. “Surely the army didn’t stockpile enough for this kind of event.”

  “We have a team that goes out every other week or so. Once the obvious places like grocery stores, box warehouses and gas stations were cleaned out, they moved on to housing developments. They were out scouting supplies when they found you. Or, more accurately, when you ran into them.”

  “Did they give you any of my belongings?” he asks.

  I shake my head, knowing how difficult it must be not to have a sliver of information about your past. “I’m sorry, no. When they get back over in the area, they’ve promised to look for anything you might have had. But it will be quite some time before they cover that area again, and they can’t waste any fuel just to look for your things.”

  He doesn’t even put up an argument. Being in the army, he must realize everyone has a task and can’t deviate from their orders. He continues to question me about our camp. “What about food and water?” he asks.

  “Water was never an issue. The camp actually backs up to Silver Springs, a nature preserve with numerous artesian wells that supply water from the aquifer. As for food, we’re lucky enough to be here in central Florida where the land is nearly perfect for farming and ranching. We managed to bring in locals early on who wanted security in exchange for their expertise and resources.”

  “You have farms here on the base?” He looks surprised.

  “Yes, some are where the old shooting ranges resided, but most are on land extending to the far, previously unused, corners of the base’s acreage. When you are well enough to leave, I’ll give you a tour if you would like.”

  Ignoring my offer he asks, “How do you handle security? Surely there are outsiders that want what you have in here. From what I’ve heard so far, you are doing pretty well.”

  I belatedly realize that it’s not my place to divulge this kind of information. But the ease and odd familiarity of him has made me want to keep talking. I shake my head. “I’ve probably said too much as it is. Colonel Andrews will be by shortly to talk to you. I’m sure he will ask you to stay since your medical training will come in handy. That is, if you decide you want to be here,” I say. I want him to stay. Of course I want
him to stay, but as I look into his eyes, I start to question if my desires are purely medical, or if I have other reasons for wanting him here.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Kay, are you even listening to a word I’ve said?”

  I look over to see Holly glowering at me. “Uh . . . sorry,” I say, reaching over to shuffle some papers that didn’t need shuffling.

  She looks over to where I was staring and sees the colonel talking with Mitch. She raises an eyebrow at me. “What’s so interesting in there? Are you worried that Mitch won’t stay on?”

  “Of course I am,” I say. “From a purely medical standpoint. He would be a great addition to our team.”

  “Uh huh . . . and not too hard on the eyes either,” she says, smirking at me.

  I ignore her comment. “I wonder what it would be like to wake up and realize that two years of your life were gone . . . erased . . . forgotten. I didn’t see a wedding ring, but that doesn’t mean he’s not married. Some men don’t wear one. A lot can happen over the course of two years.”

  “Mmm hmm.” Holly smiles over at me.

  “What?” I snap at her.

  “It’s just that of all the things to wonder about—how he survived, where he got a truck, why he was alone—you chose to wonder if he’s married.”

  I roll my eyes at her as Colonel Andrews comes out of Mitch’s room.

  “Dr. Parker,” he addresses me, always being more formal than anyone else, “Sergeant Matheson will be staying on.”

  “Really?” I say, with maybe a little too much enthusiasm.

  I feel a wave of relief surge through my body. I try to convince myself that the sole reason is that he can help us provide better medical care to the masses.

  “Well, I had to promise him a trip outside the gates,” he says. “He wants to see it for himself. It must be difficult not remembering any of it. But even as sketchy as his memory may be, he seems to remember his medical training like it was yesterday. As soon as you see fit, discharge him and show him the ropes. Get him acquainted with the community and take him to the PX to get his allotted provisions. Have him report to me after he decides where to hang his hat. I trust you can help him with all of that?”

  “Of course, Colonel,” I say.

  When he walks out the door, Holly turns to me smiling. “Get him acquainted with the community? Show him the ropes? Well, Kay, what an interesting job for the town doctor.” She winks at me.

  “Give it a rest, Hol.”

  “Mikayla?” Mitch calls from his room.

  “Mikayla?” Holly whispers to me with raised eyebrows. I ignore her stare and go in to see what Mitch needs.

  “So, you’ve decided to stay?” I ask.

  “Where else would I go?” he says. “Anyway, I kind of like the scenery.”

  I furrow my brow at him. “But you haven’t even seen the place yet.”

  He just stares at me until I understand the meaning behind his statement. Then I blush, searching my mind for something . . . anything to say. “Uh, what can I do for you before I head out?” I ask.

  “Head out?” he asks, and I think I see the hint of a scowl.

  “Yes, I have plans.” I check his vitals again as long as I’m standing here. “Girls’ Night.”

  He laughs. “You still do that? Even after . . . everything?”

  “Yes. We have to maintain some semblance of normalcy around here. We have an operational PX, organized activities and sports, even a night club. You’ll see when I show you around.”

  “And when might that be? I’m feeling much better, pretty good in fact,” he says, looking up at me with hopeful eyes.

  “We’ll see, Mitch. You were unconscious for two days. Let’s give it a day or so before you go running any marathons, okay?”

  “But it’s boring here,” he whines. I can’t help but think of my boyfriend, Jeff, who would do the very same thing on his days off from the hospital. That man could not sit still even if I had stapled his ass to a chair. I get the feeling Mitch is one of those guys, always moving, continuously on the go, forever needing to keep his hands busy. Lying here in a hospital bed is probably torture for him. Just one more reason he will be an asset to the base.

  “I hear Nancy loves to play Gin Rummy. Do you play?” I tease him.

  “Gin Rummy? And . . . Nancy? Don’t get me wrong, she’s great and all, but what would I have to do to get you to stay? Maybe you could read to me some more.”

  I look at him, surprised. “You remember that?”

  He nods his head. “It was very soothing—the sound of your voice. It’s the first thing I remember from after the accident.” He looks up at me with those sapphire eyes, begging me to give in to him.

  Dammit, I don’t want to miss a night with the girls. It is one of the things that helps keep my sanity intact in this insane world. I try to think of a way to accommodate him.

  “I have an idea that might satisfy us both,” I tell him. “I could move Girls’ Night here.”

  “Huh?” He looks at me like I’m crazy, and I giggle when I realize that he has no idea what a post-apocalyptic Girls’ Night entails. It’s certainly not limo rides and bar-hopping.

  “Sure, I don’t see why not,” I say. “We just play poker and stuff. You are the only patient here so we wouldn’t be bothering anyone else. And Nancy would probably love me for it, she hates working nights. Me—I can sleep anywhere. It’s something I learned to do pretty quickly when I was a resident.”

  His eyes light up. “You play poker?” he asks.

  “You know this is an army base, right?”

  He laughs at me and the deep rumbly sound coming from him is doing strange things to my body. “Yes, but I’ve just never played with a bunch of girls before. This should be fun,” he says.

  “Oh, no,” I tell him. “You can watch from here. Girls only, that’s the rule. Or no deal.”

  He takes a minute as he contemplates whether or not to argue with me. “Fine.” He frowns. “But will you still read to me after?”

  “Are your eyes broken?” I ask him. “Or did you simply forget how to read?”

  “Are you really making jokes about my memory loss, Mikayla?” He looks hurt and suddenly I feel terrible about my comment.

  “Oh, God, Mitch. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  He cuts me off with his laughter and huge face-splitting smile that just makes those damn sapphires sparkle. “You are way too easy . . . I’m kidding, Mikayla.”

  I shake my head at him. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have any man other than my good friend, Austin, joke around with me. “You’ll pay for that one, Matheson. Maybe I’ll torture you by reading Little Women or Pride and Prejudice later.”

  “Anything is fine with me as long as I get to hear your voice,” he says.

  My insides quiver at his statement. Then I’m startled by Dr. Jacobs’ voice behind me. “Dr. Kay, can I speak with you for a minute?” I turn around to see him standing in the doorway.

  “Duty calls,” I say to Mitch. “I’ll check back on you later.”

  “I look forward to it.” He smiles at me as I leave the room. And I realize that the only reason I know that is because I turned around to look.

  “Dr. Jacobs, what can I do for you?”

  He tells me about his examination of Mitch earlier in the day. He concurs with my diagnosis of DAI. He warns me that with a lack of familiar people and possessions to spark his memories that it may take longer than normal to regain his memory. “How’s his behavior been?” he asks.

  “Normal, I guess. He’s a nice guy, ready to get up and wanting to lend a hand here at the clinic.”

  “That’s good. That’s a good sign,” he says. “No depression that you’ve seen over his memory loss?”

  “Not that I can tell. In fact, he’s been a bit flirty. He seems to fancy me.”

  Dr. Jacobs nods his head. “That’s not at all unusual in these cases. You were there when he was in and out of consciousness, and you were the fir
st person he saw when he woke up so you are the only familiar person to him. It’s natural for him to grasp onto that.”

  Neither of us can come up with any reason to keep him in the clinic after tonight since he’s showing no signs of serious brain injury, but we agree to keep a close eye on him over the next few weeks.

  After my meeting with Dr. Jacobs, I emerge to find Amanda in the front room. Amanda is a nursing assistant. She is wonderful and has been very helpful around the clinic, even taking on some of the more complicated nursing procedures when needed. She is holding her one-year-old daughter, Rachel, who is just about my favorite person in the world.

  “Kaykay!” She toddles over to me with outstretched arms.

  I pick her up and plant a kiss on her full, rosy lips. “Hey, baby girl. You are so pretty today.” I take in her stick-straight auburn hair and brown eyes that make her the mirror image of her mom.

  “Want, want.” She pulls at one of the many hair ties that I keep around my wrist—a habit I got into in med school to always be able to pull my hair back at a moment’s notice. I give her one which keeps her busy for a few minutes while I talk to Amanda.

  “Are we still on for tonight?” she asks.

  “Of course,” I say, “but can we change our location? I’d like to move it here so I can keep an eye on Mitch. That is if you don’t think the others will mind.”

  She arches an eyebrow at me and gives me that look that only a friend can give that says a thousand words without ever speaking.

  “Good God,” I say with an eye roll for emphasis. “You’ve been talking to Holly, haven’t you?”

  “Well, she is our roommate, Kay,” she reminds me.

  “Holly is somewhat delusional when it comes to men. You should know that by now.” I shake my head at her. Amanda puts a gentle hand on my arm. She understands me.

  Holly and I, along with Amanda and her daughter share a little three-bedroom apartment. Pam, my other good friend who works over at the daycare, used to live with us as well, with her two-year-old son, but she moved out to live with her boyfriend.