David Robbins: Boston Run

“I don’t know,” Berwin said. “I can’t put my finger on it.”

“After what you’ve been through, I’m not surprised you’re disoriented,” Milton remarked. “As the saying goes, though, time heals all wounds. Give yourself time. Lots of time.”

Berwin sighed and looked at the doctor. “Will you have the restraints removed now?”

Doctor Milton nodded and departed. Somewhere a door closed.

The man named Berwin knit his brow in perplexity and racked his brain for a memory, any memory, of his past. A flurry of jumbled images surfaced and promptly evaporated, as insubstantial as the air he breathed, upsetting him immensely. How could he forget everything about himself?

Even his own name! How was it possible for a person to lose his identity, yet remember how to communicate, how to converse and understand others? He didn’t know who he was, but he knew the English language.

What else did he know? Two plus two equaled four. The moon orbited the earth. The Bowie knife qualified as the most superb blade ever constructed.

Berwin frowned, puzzled by his train of thought. Why in the world would he think of Bowie knives at a time like this? he asked himself. Was he a knife collector? He envisioned a pair of Bowies in his mind’s eye and became oddly excited. But before he could reflect on the implications he heard a clicking noise, which he assumed to be a doorknob turning, and a second later a cheery female voice greeted him.

“The doctor just told me the good news. Mister Berwin. I’ll have those restraints off in a jiffy.”

He smiled at a pretty brunette attired in a white uniform who appeared on his right side. Her brown eyes regarded him in a friendly fashion.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello yourself, handsome,” she responded, and gave him a playful wink. “I’m Nurse Krittenbauer, but you can call me Nancy.”

Berwin judged her to be in her thirties, a competent professional who thoroughly enjoyed her work. “I’m pleased to meet you, Nancy.”

“Oh, we met months ago,” she replied as she began unfastening the strap securing his jaw. “I’ve looked in on you several times each shift, six days a week, for the past three months. I’ve taken your pulse more times than I can remember. I’ve bathed you and changed your hospital gown.”

She snickered. “I know everything there is to know about you.”

Suddenly his jaw was free, and he opened his mouth as far as he could and raised his head to discover he was in an immaculately clean room with white walls and a tiled floor.

Nancy went to work on the straps binding his arms. She glanced at him and chuckled. “Are you practicing to swallow an apple whole?”

“My jaw feels as if it’s made of lead,” Berwin replied, and opened and closed his mouth several times, stretching his jaw and neck muscles, relieving the stiffness caused by prolonged immobility.

“I’ll bet it does,” Nancy said. She loosened the restraint of his right arm, then walked around the bed and began to undo the strap on his left. “I can imagine how antsy you must be to get up and move about, but you’re to stay put until Doctor Milton returns. Is that understood?”

Berwin nodded, staring at the loose-fitting green gown in which he was clothed. He saw his naked feet sticking up at the end of the bed. Looped around his ankles were wide black straps.

“After being confined for so long to your bed, you’ll need to recuperate slowly,” the nurse continued. “Don’t push yourself. Take it easy. Give yourself time.”

“The doctor said the same thing,” Berwin commented.

“That makes it official,” Nancy quipped. She freed his left arm and stepped to the foot of the bed.

Berwin propped himself on his elbows and rotated his head from right to left, limbering his neck muscles some more. Suddenly vertigo afflicted him, swamping his consciousness in a flood of dizziness, and he collapsed onto his back.

“Are you okay?” Nancy inquired.

“I’m a little lightheaded,” Berwin admitted.

“Just lie there and breathe deeply,” she directed him.

He obeyed, and gradually the vertigo subsided, leaving a lingering feeling of weakness in its wake. His stomach unexpectedly growled.

“Is there a lion under the bed or are you hungry?” Nurse Krittenbauer asked.

“I’m starved,” Berwin abruptly answered.

“I’ll ask the doctor if you can have solid foods. We’ve been feeding you intravenously since you lapsed into the coma.” she said, and finished unfastening the straps. “There.”

Berwin wiggled his toes and moved his feet in small circles, restoring his circulation. He lifted his left arm and inspected the crook of his elbow.

Several puncture marks were spaced close together over his most prominent vein.

“Did the doctor say anything about notifying your mother and father?”

Nancy queried.

“My mom and dad are alive?” Berwin responded in surprise.

“Sure. They’ve visited you practically every day. Why do you look so stunned?”

“I don’t know. Doctor Milton mentioned them, but for some reason I assumed they were dead.”

“Did he mention your sister?”

Berwin rose onto his elbows again, his mouth slack, flabbergasted. “I have a sister?”

The nurse smiled. “Yep. She’s six years younger than you are, I believe.”

“I didn’t know,” Berwin said sadly.

“Doctor Milton told me about your amnesia. Don’t take it too hard. I’ve seen many patients who couldn’t remember people and places, and they all recovered. You’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” Berwin commented softly, and lay down. He covered his eyes with his left forearm. “I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem,” Nancy said. “I’ll check with the doctor on your food. You may have to take some tests first. Just don’t move.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Berwin assured her.

She walked to the door, glanced at the forlorn patient for a moment, and exited the room, stepping into an immaculate, deserted corridor.

Humming to herself, she strolled to the right, and she was less than eight feet from a junction when around the corner came Doctor Milton. They halted a yard from each other.

“Did you remove the restraints?” the physician asked.

“Yes,” she responded dutifully.

“You talked to him?”

“Yes.”

“And?” Doctor Milton prompted impatiently.

Nurse Krittenbauer smiled maliciously. “You were right. We don’t need to worry. The stupid son of a bitch doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Ten yards from the cabin he heard the low sobs and sniffling coming through the open window situated to the right of the front door and paused. The pitiable crying filled him with sorrow, and he had to force himself to walk up to the door and knock. He pasted a grin on his face and hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt.

No one answered the knock.

He debated whether to try again or leave. She might want to be alone, and the last thing he wanted to do was contribute to her sadness. But he had volunteered to bring her the news. As much as he disliked the notion, he had to tell her.

The sobbing came through the window, unabated.

He knocked louder the second time, using his knuckles to pound on the door. Predictably, the crying ceased.

“Who is it?” she called out.

“It’s me, Jenny. Hickok,” he informed her, and nervously ran his right hand through his long blond hair, then stroked his sweeping mustache.

“Just a moment,” she said.

Hickok could imagine her dabbing at her eyes and checking her appearance in a mirror. He glanced idly down at his buckskins and moccasins, wondering if it was too late for him to head for the hills.