LITMIR.BIZ

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Was he in the medical field? Was he a nurse? A doctor? A medic? Is that why he almost felt comforted by these surroundings?

      Dr. Drager reached behind her and grabbed something from the metal stand that sat next to his bed. “This is your license. At least, we assume it is. Does this help strike up a memory?”

      He took the plastic ID from her hand. Scanning the details didn’t jar anything loose. He shrugged and offered it back to her.

      “You can keep it. We have all the information we need from it. You also had this picture with you,” Dr. Drager said.

      He took it from her hand and glanced at it only briefly. Someone in a graduation gown he didn’t recognize. When he caught the doctor’s gaze, she looked exacerbated, one eyebrow hiked higher than the other—almost as if prompting him for...what?

      Must be frustrating to have a patient show up without any answers when you’re trying to help them.

      Reaching around, his muscles stiff and sore, he placed the items in the back pocket of his jeans. He riffled through his front pockets and withdrew a wadded piece of paper. Once he’d evened out the page—it contained an address.

      “Perhaps we should give that to the police, see if it’s important,” Dr. Drager said.

      “No!” The strength of his conviction surprised even him.

      She took a step back, the flash of fear quickly recovered by her well-practiced, calm demeanor from handling volatile patients.

      Why am I so adamant about hiding this information? I don’t even know what it means.

      “Casper—” She paused, perhaps changing her mind about the direction she wanted to take the conversation. “I’m trying to help you.”

      The blood pressure cuff squeezed his arm. “I know. I’m very thankful.”

      Dr. Drager was headed out of the room when she suddenly turned on her heel and faced him. “Where did you get your tattoo? Do you recall anything about that?”

      “What tattoo?” Casper asked, the words spilling before he could search the void that was his mind.

      “The one on your back. Right between your shoulder blades. It’s a medical staff superimposed on a biological biohazard symbol.” Ashley walked across the trauma room to a box on the wall.

      A sharps container.

      How could he know that and not know any personal details of his life?

      “The symbol is exactly like this one.” She tapped at the box to staccato her point. There was pain in her eyes as she looked at him. They glistened under the fluorescent lights.

      He clenched his fists. Heat surged into his body, but not a welcome feeling physically normalizing his body temperature.

      What he felt was anger. Unidentified. Smoldering.

      And for her, he felt an ache in chest. Something akin to sorrow.

      What’s happening to me? What do these emotions have to do with anything?

      “I feel...” He wanted to scream. Cry out. This was so maddening. “Do you know me?” he finally asked her.

      She dropped her hand from the box on the wall. “I don’t know you, sir.”

      “But we’ve met before...haven’t we?” he asked, his heart almost begging for some sort of connection, a lifeline for his sinking psyche.

      “I don’t believe I’ve ever met you,” she answered. Her eyes locked on his as if she was trying to bolster her certainty. “However, the photo you carry is of my medical school graduation. How did you get that picture?”

      Her not knowing him—everything about her statement felt wrong. He felt like he knew her. That he’d been the beneficiary to personal details of her life that she was unaware of.

      “Did you have a dog when you were young? A cocker spaniel? Named Lady? After the movie...” He snapped his fingers. “Lady and the Tramp.”

      Her eyes widened and then a smile placated her lips. “The tattoo on your back matches exactly to one my father has. Strangely, he’s been missing for two years. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

      What is going on here?

      Ashley nodded her head, his astonishment at her statement more an answer to her question than any words he could have spoken. “Let’s get those tests done and see if we can find out why you’re having trouble remembering who you are. In the meantime, we’ll continue our rewarming measures. One of the nurses should be back shortly to take you to Radiology.” She locked Casper’s gaze. “We’ll get you feeling better, Mr. English.”

      “Please, don’t leave. We should talk.”

      Dr. Drager turned on her heel and left the room.

      * * *

      Ashley fled the trauma room, turned down the nearest vacant hall and leaned against the wall.

      None of this is right. How can this patient have a picture of me? The last time I saw that photo I’d pulled it out of my father’s wallet. How could this man know such a detail about my life? Was this handsome stranger plunked in my ER like some whimsical practical joke?

      If so, it was elaborate. ER types were known to play pranks, but this? No, it was impossible. Too complicated.

      This was too much—especially on the heels of another package being delivered to her just today. They were always accompanied by a letter, in her father’s handwriting, simply requesting that she keep the items safe. One of many packages she received over the last several months.

      Ashley reached into her lab coat and fingered the small envelope. It had come packaged as nondescriptly as the other ones. Addressed to her—always coming through department mail. Nothing but the simple note inside. No information on where he could possibly be. Never a return address. There were different items. Most were photos. Some with numbers on the back that didn’t make any sense to her.

      This time a thumb drive.

      She leaned over and rested her hands on her knees hoping the light-headedness would pass. This was a known complication of the emergency department. A sight. A sound. A stranger could be the impetus of dredging up pain from the buried, murky depths of her past.

      The day her father disappeared was always fresh in her mind. Few days went by without her thinking of him and those circumstances. They’d celebrated dinner together as a family. A late Christmas dinner as she’d been working. It had been her, her parents and her younger brother—to celebrate the end of her fellowship and her new job as an attending. The next morning, he was gone. Her mother said he’d slipped out for some doughnuts and coffee and just...never came home.

      Nothing had ever been found of him. Not his car. No electronic fingerprints. He had to be off grid, maybe operating under a new identity. If he wasn’t alive, then who was sending these packages?

      To live with a ghost was worse than knowing the truth.

      “Dr. Drager?”

      She looked up, her vision fuzzed, and she pressed her thumb and index finger to the bridge of her nose. A headache was starting to take hold.

      “Yes?” She blinked her eyes. Her vision cleared. The two officers who’d been waiting for the report on her patient stared at her expectantly.

      “Any information?” one of them asked.

      “Right now, he doesn’t remember anything. Amnesia...likely a result of several blows to his head.” She shoved her hands into her lab coat, curling her fingers around the small but bulky envelope. “Why don’t you leave me your card? Give us a few hours to sort through his medical issues. Even if his CT scan is normal, I’ll consult neurology for the memory loss. Until he can remember something, I don’t know if you need to stay here. He can’t offer any details of his attack right now.”

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