Amnesia Read online

  Too late she tried to stop herself from thinking about Cami’s wedding. She wasn’t upset at all that she hadn’t been invited; she wouldn’t have flown to Fort Collins anyhow. No, it was her present state of “unmarriedness” that pulled at her. Maybe she should just accept Darrion’s offer and be done with it. Her mother would be happy, her marrying such a successful and handsome young surgeon, even if it weren’t in the temple. But regardless of her mother’s attitude about the church, Lissa just didn’t feel that she would ever be happy as Dr. Stanton’s bride. She’d even tried to break off the relationship time and again, but he was an aspiring man who would not be deterred. Secretly she felt he only wanted her as a token wife that he could show off at community and hospital events as he climbed the social ladder.

  “Doctor Brandon?” She heard her name through a shroud, the sound muffled yet shimmering like heat waves off the desert floor. “Doctor Brandon.” This time she started as she realized she had dozed off.

  “Yes? What?” She stood and smoothed the conventional white smock covering her turquoise scrubs before facing the person behind the voice. “What is it?”

  She heard the low chuckle as she turned, seeing the smiling broad face of Doctor Cliffe. “Been a few years since residency for me as well,” he confided, attempting to soothe the embarrassment. “Now what do you have for me?”

  She sighed, grateful for the caring demeanor of the older man. She had always liked David Cliffe although there were several on the staff who snubbed his caring, open ways of doctoring. Instead she admired that quality, and many others, about the soft spoken physician. The man’s average height and full frame epitomized the quiet grace of the southern gentleman, from the soft lilt in his voice to the red suspenders and matching bow tie. She tried to emulate many of his attributes in her own practice, although working with kids was much easier than his work at the Mountain States Tumor Institute. She couldn’t quite understand how such a caring man could watch the suffering that cancer could wreak on its unsuspecting prey, yet not become inured to it, or burned out. She had only worked with MSTI with one of her patients and it took a terrible toll on her every time she met with the family, or even reviewed the charts.

  Starting with the patients at the end of the antiseptic hall, she worked her way through to the front entry, describing the condition, prognosis and treatment for each of the patients still under her care. She ended with the curious man at the end of the row who had just arrived from Cascade.

  “Nothing at all to tell us who he is?” Doctor Cliffe queried. “No tattoos, piercing, scars? What about dental records?”

  “Nothing,” she rejoined. “Nor do we know where he is from, only that he was found by a fisherman on Lake Cascade out surprising some sleeping fish. He pulled him into his boat, by the light of his battery operated lantern and took him to shore while calling 911. Other than that, we have no idea.”

  “Interesting. Have you tried to wake him at all?”

  “Not really,” Lissa responded. “No point, not with him in a coma anyway.”

  “You know, I always wonder what they must be thinking,” Doctor Cliffe continued. “Some say that coma patients hear everything that goes on, just barely out of reach, while others see it as simply dreaming. I had a coma patient once, when I was working down in Phoenix, you know.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard that,” Doctor Brandon said, stifling a yawn. As much as she wanted to hear the story, the past thirty-six hours had taken its toll, and she still had a long drive ahead of her.

  Doctor Cliffe didn’t miss the cue and kindly took her arm leading her to the door. “Another time, my lady,” he conceded. “You need to get some sleep. You may still be the proverbial spring chicken, but everyone needs rest. Will you be okay to drive home?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll roll down the window and turn on the music. I’m only headed out toward Parkcenter, a quick trip over the new connector, and I’ll be in bed.”

  “Then good night, or good morning, or whatever it is,” the grandfatherly figure bid farewell. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite!”

  “I won’t,” she giggled. “You know if I were just a little older….”

  “Doctor Brandon, my wife would be turning over in her grave if she knew I had even considered it.” He mockingly scolded. Then with a twinkle in his eye he added, “Did you hear something spinning underground.” He laughed out loud then turned back through the emergency room doors, just as an ambulance siren was heard barreling down the street.

  * * *

  Lissa Brandon stretched her long arms, rolling her head to loosen her stiff neck, bouncing the brown locks framing her lightly freckled complexion. She squinted her light blue eyes against the glare of the harsh sunlight which seemed intent on blinding her with its reflection off the myriad parked cars surrounding her. Not bothering to hide the yawn showing her straight, even teeth she made her way through the parking lot to find her little Honda Accord. It was the same car that had seen her through college, medical school, and her residency, and now into her private practice. Of course Darrion had chided her about the small older vehicle, trying to get her to indulge in getting a fast new shiny “doctor car.” Seeing his brand new Pewter Metallic H2 Hummer sitting next to her vehicle reminded her, however, that it just wasn’t her style. She liked “Old Faithful,” as she was beginning to refer to the machine, and didn’t want to go into debt for a brand new car. Besides, she reminded herself, she still had enough student loans to cost her three or four new cars and she would rather put her money towards those.

  Again she started thinking about what life with Darrion would be like. Flashy cars, big homes, perhaps even with maids and cooks. With Darrion Stanton the sky was the limit. Of course he didn’t have student loans to pay off, had never gone hungry and had never worried about finding a place to live. Lissa learned early in life how to be grateful for simple things, like a working car and nice apartment. True, if she were with him everything would be handed to her on a silver platter. Everything, that is, except her beliefs, self-worth, and the closeness that a marriage should promise.

  She started the car, threw it into reverse out of habit, backed away from the glittering hulk beside her, and headed down Broadway towards Parkcenter Blvd. She opened her window wide to the early morning breeze, but it was already hot enough to promise another sweltering day. At least her apartment had air conditioning, she thought. She reached down to the old standard Kraco radio and turned up the volume determined to drive the drowsiness away for just a few more minutes. She tried one station after another, finding nothing but vulgar DJ’s trying to hook their listeners with crudity and humiliation. Disgusted she flipped over to AM, looking instead for news.

  “…there are no survivors, and no telling why the plane went down. Authorities are swarming to Cascade to find some clue as to who was on the plane, and why it crashed. So far it appears to be a charter plane out of Boise, but we cannot verify that. Keep it tuned here to 610 AM KBID for any further developments.

  “Other stories we are following here in the Treasure Valley include the disappearance two days ago of young Beverley Windham, the daughter of Senator Gregg Windham, who was last seen running the greenbelt opposite BSU campus. Apparently she often jogged after her classes. Sources close the Windhams have indicated that while they feel this to be a kidnapping, they have heard nothing as far as a ransom notice, or anything to indicate foul play. Boise Police have not ruled out the possibility that the teen simply took off for an early weekend with her boyfriend Peter Frindle, who is also missing.”

  “I did that once when I was in college,” the female counterpart joined into the speculation. “My parents just about went nuts, but I was young and wanted to taste all that life had to offer.”

  “I think that was how my first wife and I started our marriage, come to think of it,” the male anchor came back on, his greasy smile all too evident through the tinny speakers. “Although, I must say that particular part of my life is still a little hazy
. Amazing what chemicals can do to the brain. Now out to the Traffic Center to see what the morning commute has to offer. Ben, how do things look for the Friday morning commute?”

  “Well Frank, it’s gonna be another roaster of a day, the mercury already pushing 90. So far we have no accidents, but there is quite a bit of sunshine slowing as the glare down there is as bright as the channel 8 studio lights during a political debate…”

  Lissa turned the radio off. Better to listen to nothing than to listen to that. She was incensed that the radio personalities were so quick to judge what had happened to that teenager. They had already decided what had happened and who was to blame, even though they had no idea what was going on, if anything at all. She wondered again about what was keeping her in Boise and why she just didn’t leave the city to get away from all of this. Then she reconsidered and decided to just call the radio and give them a piece of her mind. Realizing too that this was probably what they were hoping for, she contented herself by just leaving the radio off. It wasn’t much of a statement, but at least she wasn’t endorsing their rubbish.

  She pulled into the apartment complex, down the lane, and then into her assigned covered parking where she pulled to a stop and cut the engine. Quickly she rolled the windows back up leaving a crack at the top, hopeful that the heat wouldn’t be too unbearable when she got back in, locked the doors and stepped out into the blazing sunlight. Walking over to the stand of mailboxes she inserted her key and opened the door. Not surprising it was stuffed full, mostly with ads, trying to woo the new doctor into spending all that glorious cash—money that was still a long way off for her.

  She closed and locked the mailbox door and turned right into the face of short greasy man. Surprised, she jumped and backed a few steps away, fighting to control her breathing, grateful that the yelp building in her chest didn’t escape her throat.

  “Mornin’ Doc.”

  “Good morning Mr. Dall. You surprised me.”

  “Sorry ‘bout that Doc, I was just checkin’ on the mail,” the thin man drawled. “Looks like you’ve been gone awhile. Come to think on it, I don’t remember seein’ you around for a few days. Ever’thin’ okay?”

  “I’ve been covering at the hospital for a friend. Thank-you for your concern Mr. Dall.” She started to walk away, hoping to escape before the conversation got any further along.

  “No prob there Doc. Jus’ keepin’ an eye out for my tenants. An’ please, call me Ernest.” She simply smiled back at him and hurried to her apartment door.

  Inside, she flipped the deadbolt home and leaned her back against the door, taking a deep breath. Home at last. She tossed her bag, the mail, and her keys on the table just inside the door and noticed that the digital answering machine had six messages on it. She pressed the play button as she kicked off her shoes, the thick carpet soothing her aching arches.

  “Hey Babe, just checkin’ to see how your doin’. Call me. Dar.” She pressed delete then walked into the kitchen to pour a bowl of cereal for breakfast/supper before heading off to bed.

  “Lissa, I got a call from that sweet Doctor Stanton today. I just don’t understand why you are being so insensitive to him and his needs. Now I want you to call…” she let her mother’s voice drone on while she got her food, then returned to the entry and hit the delete key, not bothering to listen to the rest of her mother’s message.

  “Hey Hon, still haven’t heard from ya. Talked to your mom again, such a great old lady. Call me. Dar.” Delete.

  “Just Dar again. Call me.” This is getting old, she thought. Get a clue. Delete.

  “Sister Brandon, just wanted to remind you of the service project on Saturday. We are doing some gardening for Sister Halton, who can’t get around anymore. We meet at the church at ten. Hope to see you there!” That one she would hold onto. She wasn’t due back until Monday morning, and it would be good to get together with the ward again. True, she was a little old to still be in a single’s ward, but the Bishop didn’t seem to mind, and she didn’t relish going back to a family ward as a single twenty-something sister.

  “It’s me again….” Delete.

  She knew she should be flattered that Darrion Stanton wanted to spend time with her. Most of the female staff and almost all of the nurses lapse into semi-consciousness anytime he walks into the room. But she knew that life with him would be miserable. Then again, she was pushing thirty, and there were no other prospects. The brothers in the ward were all recently returned missionaries, who had their eyes set on the young, vivacious, and much less intimidating girls.

  The problem is, she told herself, is simply loneliness. Someday she probably would consent to Darrion. It was the logical conclusion and nearly everyone expected it. Maybe she would call him when she got up. Right now—sleep.

  She finished her light meal and quickly changed into her nightclothes. She knelt briefly at the bedside, concluding her day with her Maker, and slipped beneath the warmth of her electric blanket, still thinking about how nice it would be to have someone there to snuggle up with.

  “Then again,” she said out loud to the walls and pictures, “maybe he is just out there waiting for me to reach out and grab him.” She giggled, closed her eyes, and fell quickly to sleep, oblivious to anything but the blissful comfort of her wonderful bed.

  CHAPTER 2

  Scardoni smashed the smoking cigarette butt into the already overflowing ashtray, oblivious to the scattering of ashes onto the filthy desk. His light complexion enhanced the scarlet of anger painting his face, nearly turning it purple. He seethed at the accusation and tone that flowed across the telephone line, the white knuckled grip a further indication of how truly enflamed he was becoming.

  “I lost three men in that crash, Marcuse, and they were some of the best!” he shouted into the receiver.

  “Then obviously your ‘best’ isn’t good enough for me and my money!” came the hot retort. “Don’t forget, Rudolph, that you were the ones that messed up in the first place. It was a simple request to help someone disappear. You were the one that decided on such a grandiose adventure.”

  The voice paused for effect, and then added icily, “Next time it might not be your men that suffer for your disgrace.”

  He was infuriated at the attack on his ego and the threat to his life. “Listen, Marcuse, I’m not used to being talked to that way. The ax swings both ways. Next time the corpse falling from a plane may be yours.”

  Laughter filled the angry ears of the German-American thug, forcing more blood into his mottled checks. But the words following that laugh drained the blood back out. “I have killed more men than you have probably even met. Dozens of lives are either preserved or taken at my whim each day. Death to me is nothing more than another occurrence, like using the toilet or falling to sleep. I have no use for such idle posturing from a man that can barely tie his own shoes.”

  Then the voice became nearly friendly, although the near tangible chill would not be dispersed. “But I do still have use for your talents, and for that you still have my companionship—and money. The girl is alright then?”

  “Yeah, she’s fine. A lot like her papa, proud and obnoxious. Her boyfriend is fine too, just like you said, although his bladder could use a little stiffening,” Rudy chuckled. “I swear the kid wets himself every time I walk into the room. It’s good though, gives me more control.”

  “Good,” Marcuse answered affably. “Her father is getting to the point where he is almost ready to start listening. A few more days and he will do as I tell him. Just keep everyone safe and secure and I will let you know what I need when the time comes.

  “Oh, and Rudy, I may need you for another small favor. It may pad your nest egg nicely. Interested?”

  Scardoni started to relax, looking forward as much to more action than more money. He hated being a nursemaid and wasn’t an ideal babysitter. At the moment he was wishing he had never gotten into this mess. Yet everyone liked money and he had his habits to keep up, even in Boise, Idaho,
you could feed those habits for a long time on the cash Marcuse was handing over.

  “We’ll talk about it when you’re ready, but we may be able to come to an arrangement.”

  “Then I shall look forward to it. ‘Til then, my friend, adieu.” Then as if simply an afterthought, “Please don’t screw up again. I would hate to see this budding friendship of ours terminated.”

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  The storm ravaged his unclothed body and he shivered violently in the cold. He couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction in the wind driven snow and he was completely lost. Pure white extended around him in every direction with no break. No line could be discerned to demark the edge between horizon and drift. His straining ears heard nothing but the angry roar of the whipping wind which drove shards of snow and ice painfully into his exposed skin. Yet still he trudged on, hoping, praying that something or someone would come to his aid, if nothing more than to give him a glimpse as to where he was.

  He had no idea how he had gotten there or how long he had been wandering. He looked up again, hoping to determine the direction of the sun, which must surely be hiding somewhere above his head. He figured it must at least be daytime, for there was light, although he couldn’t say if that light were dimming or brightening, or if it had changed direction. Again, as he searched what should be sky, all he saw was white sheets pouring from above. Surely he couldn’t keep going through all of this.

  He started trudging ahead again, lifting one bare foot high into the air to clear the snow pack, and then setting it down again mere inches from the last hole. Once more the foot would sink below the surface until nothing was showing beneath his upper thigh.