David Robbins: Boston Run

Nurse Krittenbauer shrugged. “Amnesia works that way, sometimes.

Just certain parts of the brain are affected.”

“It drives me nuts,” Berwin said. He took the spoon she handed him and began eating, savoring every delicious mouthful, pausing long enough to comment, “This is the best chicken noodle soup I’ve ever tasted.”

She smiled. “I bet your mother makes chicken soup just as good.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Berwin said, eating contentedly.

Nurse Krittenbauer studied his features for a reaction to her remark.

“Because you don’t remember a thing about your folks?”

“It’s not likely anyone could make soup as tasty as this is,” Berwin said.

“Enjoy. I’ll be back for the cart in five minutes,” she told him, and departed.

Berwin polished off the soup, the bread, and the milk in no time flat. He placed the metal tray on the cart and stretched. The meal had barely served to whet his appetite, and he wished he could have the steak then instead of waiting a couple of days. Still feeling hungry and unaccountably restless, he swung his feet to the cool floor and glanced at the door, which was closed. The nurse would undoubtedly be upset if she found him walking about the room, but he needed to get up and move. The earlier dizziness had cleared entirely, and he was confident he could walk around without aggravating his condition.

“Here goes nothing,” he said aloud.

Berwin rose slowly. He tentatively took a step forward, past the cart, delighted at how strong and fit he felt. How soon would they allow him to go outside? he wondered, and turned to gaze out the window situated behind the head of the bed. Something else drew his attention from the window to the left-hand corner.

A closet.

He hadn’t noticed the closet before, and curiosity compelled him to step around the bed and investigate. If his clothes and personal affects were in there, they might jar his memory. Any remembrance would be preferable to the clean slate that mocked him every time he probed his mind. He opened the closet door and blinked in surprise at finding it empty.

Where were his clothes?

His glance strayed to the full-length mirror attached to the inner door panel, and he saw himself for the first time since awakening from the coma. Amazement replaced his surprise. He hadn’t realized how huge he was, easily seven feet in height and endowed with a prodigious physique bulging with layers of rippling muscles. His eyes were gray, his hair dark.

The loosefitting gown added to the impression of size, and the sight caused him to compare his appearance to a tent he’d seen once at…

Where?

Berwin clenched his brawny hands in anger. For a second, a gut-wrenching second, a genuine memory almost surfaced. He waited, breathing shallowly, hoping to remember, but drew a blank.

“What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

The harsh voice startled him, and he turned sheepishly, as if he was a young boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I wanted a little exercise.”

Nurse Krittenbauer stood in the doorway, her displeasure transparent, and pointed at the bed. “Get back in there right now.”

Berwin complied, propping his pillow so he could sit upright comfortably, conscious of her watching him.

“What were you doing in the closet?” she asked as she came over to the cart.

“I was hoping to find my clothes. Where are they?”

“Do you have any idea what shape your clothes were in when they brought you here?” Krittenbauer queried, and gave the answer before he could reply. “They were torn up and covered with blood and dirt. Your shirt was ruined, your pants were split down the left leg, and your boots were in pitiful condition. None of your clothing was worth saving.”

“Oh,” Berwin said lamely.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to tell the doctor that you disobeyed orders,” she admonished him.

Berwin folded his arms and watched the nurse wheel the cart from the room. If they expected him to remain in bed for more than a few days, they were mistaken. He felt too good, too healthy, to stay idle very long. He wanted to get into the swing of things, to return to his job, as soon as he could. The head injury had been sustained three months ago. Surely in…

Head injury?

Berwin looked at the closet. He couldn’t see himself in the mirror from where he sat, but he could recall his image, particularly his hair, and there hadn’t been any hair missing or a scar, no evidence whatsoever of the operation he’d supposedly had. He reached up and gingerly ran his right hand through his hair, his fingers covering every square inch. Not until he touched his crown did he discover the scar. His hair had been shaved in a pencil thin horseshoe shape from near the nape of his neck to the top of the head, with the curved contours of the horseshoe conforming to the shape of his crown. He could feel the slight indentation where his skin had been sewn back together. The stitches must have been removed months ago.

So there had been an operation after all.

Puzzled, Berwin folded his hands in his lap. Why was he so suspicious of Doctor Milton? Why did he automatically assume the story about his operation was a lie? Why did he persist in requiring confirmation of every little detail? Was he paranoid by nature? Or was there a deeper, unknown reason? To continue to doubt the physician and the nurse, without a justifiable motivation, would be foolish. And yet he couldn’t shake a persistent feeling that something was wrong.

Maybe the problem was all in his head.

Maybe the accident had affected his ability to reason normally.

Berwin sighed and closed his eyes. He’d never been so confused in all his life. But then, how would he know that if he couldn’t remember his life? It was no wonder he felt continually frustrated, and his impatience with his condition was growing by the hour. He heard the doorknob turning and opened his eyes.

“What’s this about you being out of bed?” Doctor Milton asked as he entered, a clipboard in his left hand.

“I stretched my legs,” Berwin responded. “What’s the big deal?”

Milton stepped to the side of the bed and wagged the clipboard at his patient. “The big deal is that you could cause a relapse if you overdo it. “I’ll be the judge of what you can and can’t do until I’m satisfied you’re fully recovered.”

“I feel fine,” Berwin said defensively.

“Is all the weakness gone?”

“Yes.”

“Completely?”

“Yes.”

Doctor Milton’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you are recuperating faster than anticipated, but that doesn’t give you the right to defy my instructions. Why are you giving me such a hard time, anyway? Do you think you know more about medicine than I do?”

The question embarrassed Berwin and he fidgeted. “No. Of course not.”

“Would you prefer another physician?” Milton asked bluntly.

“No. You’re doing a fine job.”

“Then let me do my job, please, without having to post a baby-sitter in your room.”

“I’ll try to not give you any more trouble.”

Doctor Milton smiled. “Thank you. I think.”

Hoping to change the subject, Berwin nodded at the clipboard. “Did you get the test results?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied, and looked at the yellow sheet secured by the metal clip. “I have good news and some not so good news. Which do you want first?”

“Good news would be a nice change of pace.”

“Okay. The good news is that there doesn’t appear to be any organic damage. Your inability to remember doesn’t stem from any contusions in your brain or scarred tissue.”

“And the not-so-good news?”

“Is a confirmation of what I originally surmised. The shock of your accident induced your amnesia. Fortunately, the condition is reversible.