Judy Duarte: Under The Mistletoe With John Doe

Thanks to Dr. Graham’s prodding, she stayed long enough to join them for lunch, a simple fare of grilled cheese sandwiches, chips and fruit. They made small talk while they ate, then she excused herself and went home.

John was sorry to see her go, although he knew she needed some rest. It might be her day off, but working nights had to be rough. He figured she could stand to catch a little shut-eye whenever she had a chance.

A nap wouldn’t hurt him, either. He might be feeling better and getting stronger each day, but his body was still recuperating from the beating and he didn’t want to push it. Not when he needed his brain to heal as quickly as possible. He was eager to get on with his life-wherever that might be.

After Betsy left, Doc said he was going to sit on the porch and read a bit.

“Do you want to join me?” he asked. “I’ve got a good-size collection of books you can choose from in my den.”

“Maybe later, thanks. I think I’d rather lie down for a while. It’s been a few days since I’ve gotten this active.”

John followed Doc into the living room, where the old man stopped by the lamp table closest to an easy chair and picked up a hardbound Dean Koontz novel.

Before slipping off to the bedroom John had been given, he scanned the cozy living area, noting the stone fireplace and hand-carved mantel, where several framed photographs were displayed.

Figuring Doc had meant for his guests to check out the photos of his friends and family, John eased closer to the mantel and took a look at them.

There was a black-and-white snapshot of a young Dr. Graham wearing a military uniform and standing next to an attractive blonde. John assumed the woman was his wife, and as he found an older picture of the couple near the Eiffel Tower, he decided his assumption was correct.

There was a photograph of Betsy with a smiling gray-haired couple seated by a decorated Christmas tree. John guessed they were with her parents, even though he didn’t notice a resemblance. Then he remembered that she was adopted, so that would explain it.

He wondered if she’d ever looked for her biological family. Some people felt compelled to do that. And if she were one of them, then maybe that’s why she’d taken him under her wing. She understood how lost he felt without having a sense of his roots.

As he thought of Betsy and their commonalities, he glanced at the door she’d walked out of earlier, wishing she was still here.

But there was no need to stew about that. So he replaced the frame on the mantel, then walked to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

As he slipped into the privacy of his room, which was simply decorated with a dresser and a double bed, his eye was drawn to a picture hanging on the wall. It was just a print of two curly-haired cherubs, nothing remarkable or expensive. He’d glossed over it before, yet he was drawn to it now.

It looked oddly familiar, as if he’d seen it before.

For a moment, a vision flashed before him of a silver-haired woman wearing a floral-print apron and a warm smile.

The scent of tomatoes, cilantro and spice.

Children’s laughter.

The sound of a screen door slamming.

But the wisp of a memory faded before he could wrap his mind around it, leaving him grasping for mental straws.

What did it mean? Was his life coming back to him?

God, he sure hoped so.

As if he could hurry it along, he kicked off his shoes and climbed on top of the bed, which was covered with a calico quilt. The old-fashioned box springs squeaked from his weight as he settled into the comfort of the mattress.

He closed his eyes and tried to recall the disjointed recollection-the sight, the scents and the sounds that had disappeared as quickly as they’d formed. But the vague memory was lost to him, along with his past.

The clock on the dresser ticktocked, lulling him to sleep. He awoke hours later to the sound of a knock at his door and the aroma of chicken baking in the oven.

“Dinner’s ready,” Doc said.

“I’ll be right there.” John climbed out of bed, straightened the quilt he’d been laying on and the pillow he’d been using. Then he went into the bathroom and washed his face and hands.

When he finished, he joined Doc at the kitchen table. “It sure smells good.”

“Doesn’t it? It’s a chicken-and-rice casserole. Betsy came by earlier and put it in the oven for us.”

“Does she cook for you often?”

“Whenever she gets the chance. She thinks I need someone to fuss over me.”

“And you don’t agree?”

“Who doesn’t like a little TLC?” the old man said with a wink.

John agreed, especially if Betsy was the one providing it. “Is she going to eat with us?”

“No, not this evening.”

John wondered why, but he didn’t ask. There wasn’t any need for Dr. Graham to think he was hoping for a little tender loving care himself. Or for him to think John was crushing on the pretty redhead who lived only a few footsteps away.

While they ate, Doc chatted about his life as the only physician in the valley, about some of the miracles and mishaps he’d been a witness to.

John found the man and his stories more than a little interesting, and each time Doc grew quiet, John asked him a question, just as he’d done with Betsy earlier. He’d spent too many lonely days in the hospital with only the television to keep him company. And because he had nothing to offer in terms of his own past, he enjoyed getting to know the new people in his life.

Of course, the one he wanted to know the most about was Betsy.

“Why doesn’t she work days? Is she a night owl by nature?”

“Actually, she’s a real team player and steps in whenever the hospital is shorthanded. And that means she’s got the worst of both worlds. Sometimes she works nights, then she’s back on days. And changing shifts like that is really tough.”

“Sounds like she’s a good employee.”

“And loyal to a fault,” Doc said as he stood and began to gather the empty plates.

John scooted his chair back and got to his feet. “Let me help.”

“Nope,” Doc said, “not tonight. You need to take it easy for the next day or two. And then, at that point, I’ll let you start doing some of the easier chores. We’ll slowly build up from there.”

John wouldn’t argue with the man because this was his first day out of the hospital. But he wasn’t ready for bed, either. So he asked, “Do you mind if I sit out on the porch for a while?”

“Not at all,” the old man said. “It’s not too cold tonight, but you might want a jacket. I’ve got one hanging on the coat tree in the living room. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

John made his way to the front of the house. Then he took the black corduroy jacket from the hook, slipped it on and went out on the porch where two wicker rockers sat.

Once outside in the winter evening, he couldn’t help wishing that the crisp air would clear his mind. He’d been disappointed that no one in the medical field had been able to tell him when his memory would return, but the brief vision he’d had earlier today suggested it was coming-one piece at a time.

He took a seat in one of the rockers and tried to find comfort in the beautiful winter night. But all he could seem to think about was how insignificant he and his amnesia were in the scheme of things.

As he glanced at the empty chair beside him, he wondered if Doc ever sat out here with Betsy.

Just the thought of the attractive woman caused him to seek out her house, to notice the lamp on inside her living-room window. Did that mean she was awake?

And if so, would she like company?

What would she think if he showed up unannounced?

The idea was still in the thinking stage when her porch light went on, her front door swung open and she stepped outside.