NaNoWriMo Story
Word Count: 18,213
Goal: 20,000
I turn the bookshelf and look at it more closely. Looks like a full selection of Tom Clancy. I can like military fiction without being wildly conservative. A general assortment of science fiction books. Neil Gaiman, Arthur C. Clark, Robert Heinlein.
Ahha!
“See, not an Ultracon!” I proclaim triumphantly as I hold up a copy of Barack Obama's Audacity of Hope.
Allison comes over to me. “I'm so relieved,” she says with exaggerated relief as she throws her arms around me as though I had just been pulled from the ruble of a fiery blast. I put my arms around her and hug her back. She lingers longer than is strictly necessary for theatrical effect before separating.
“So, what can we tell about you from this room?” she asks.
I step back and look around the room as a whole. “I can say that I am not a neat freak but not a slob.”
“True, but not terribly useful,” Allison agrees.
“I suspect that I was never in the military, but I have great respect for them,” I suggest.
“Why do you say that?”
I indicate the flag and fighter poster. “There is this flag and the books and the poster, all of which are something a fan would have, and they are all fairly prominently displayed. Thus, if I had anything from my own service, it would probably be displayed as well. A medal or citation or uniform or something.”
She looks at the flag as well. “Excellent deduction.”
Approaching the closet door and pointing to the name badges. “I also appear to be a science fiction fan, with all these badges.”
“Makes sense.” She turns to see the footsteps piece again. “You seem religious as well.”
“I suppose I am. Hopefully not a Bible thumper.”
She pulls the paperback copy of the Bible off the shelf and examines it. “Naw, this is almost new. Spine's untouched, cover unscuffed. I don't think you have read this very much.”
“Or thumped it much,” I joke back.
She becomes thoughtful for a moment. “I should introduce you to Father Boyle,” she suggests.
“Father Boyle?” I ask.
“Yes, he is a friend of mine that I met in my travels. Episcopalian priest in Northampton. Maybe he might have some guidance for you,” she offers.
I think about this. My room is full of factual data, but it does not tell me who I am. I am sure that I could take what is here and figure out how to fake it, but I want to understand myself. Ideally I would like to remember, but nothing here brings back any memories more recent than ten years old.
Then I look down and notice an appointment book on the floor next to a small ring binder of large index cards. I pick up the index book and flip it open. Each one has a name and address on it. There is a phone number or two and license information: license number, expiration date. At the bottom of the card, there is information on a medical condition and notes which seem to be lesson notes. This must be the book that I keep all my student notes in.
I put the card book down and examine the appointment book. I open it to this week. Monday through Friday is full of various appointments. I seem to be a busy fellow.
“What did you do yesterday?” Allison asks.
“Ah, good thought,” I agree.
I look at yesterday, Thursday, November 12th. “It looks like I spent the morning doing something at Tufts University. Then I have something with Joe Andrews. It looks like I circle this number next to the appointment after I complete the appointment, and all of these numbers are circled, so I guess I did all these things.”
Allison picks up the card book and flips it open. “Let's see how good your notes are,” she explains as she flips to Joe Andrews' card. “Here we are. Joe Andrews, 87 Bacon Street, Tewksbury, MA. Diagnosis, 'CVA', whatever that means...”
“No idea,” I agree.
She continues reading. “Equipment: LFG, left-spinner.” She scans the card. “Ah, here. November 9th, oh-nine. Evaluation at Nashua Rehab Hospital.” She takes on the flat tone of one who is trying to make out someone else's writing. “Drove standard route, mostly good control, deals well with traffic and obstacles. Drives to right side. Hit curb, blew tire, ended evaluation.”
“Mostly good control and blew tire do not seem to go well together,” I muse.
“You do seem quite sanguine about it. There is a note for the next lesson as well,” she explains.
My eyebrows go up. “Oh, do go on.”
“November 12th, oh-nine. Lesson 1 out of 'S'. Met at Stop and Shop parking lot. Started driving without being able to find brake, but said nothing. Asked 'How do I stop it?'”
As she reads, I feel my heart beat faster, an adrenaline response to a memory that I cannot access. I do not know what comes next, but I know I do not like it.
She reads on. “Non-conversion, hit instructor brake and grabbed wheel. Hit ped with mirror. No serious injury.” She reads those last words slowly and trails off. Quietly, she adds, “The pedestrian's information is here: Andrea Petroya, 192A Maple Street, Chelmsford and a phone number.”
I sink down to sit on the edge of the bed, my heart pounding, and my hands shaking. “I don't remember it, but I can feel it. I can feel the panicked sensation of a car out of control, and I can hear and engine racing, overcoming the meager stopping power of a brake,” I say flatly.
Allison sits down next to me and puts an arm around my shoulders.
“When I remember things, I seem to remember images, but I have no images of this, just impressions.” I am staring straight ahead, but not seeing the room in front of me. Just hearing the roar of a V-8 engine pushing the car forward, inexorably towards a hapless pedestrian. Her day distinctly not improved by its contact with me and Mr. Andrews.
“William,” she begins gently. “It says that you grabbed the wheel and that she was not seriously hurt. It looks like you did your job right and kept her from being seriously hurt.”
“Yeah, I guess I did,” I answer numbly.
“But that does explain what you might not want to remember. Perhaps that was traumatic enough that your mind rebelled at the memory, rejecting it and everything else,” Allison offered.
I thought about this, looking around the room. “That could certainly be the catalyst, but it seems like there would have to be stress in general to get this kind of a reaction. After all, I am sure that I must have been in quite a few scary spots. If each on led to amnesia, this would be a pretty hazardous line of work for me.”
She looks at me with concern. “What other stress could you have?”
“I don't know. Maybe things are unsatisfactory in some way. Wrong friends? Wrong girlfriend? Wrong path in life. That could be it. I could be on the wrong path, and my mind rejected the whole lot of it.” I get to my feet, feeling like I was on the right track. “Sure, just throw out the whole thing, bathwater, baby, and all.”
Allison watches me for a moment before saying cautiously, “It's not a strategy that I would recommend on purpose, but it does sound like the kind of thing that the subconscious might do.”
I take a step over to a stone chess set which is set up on a table against the wall. I examine one of the carved pieces. “There are answers here, but they are not the right answers.” I turn to face Allison. “I now think I know why my mind buried my memory, but that is not what I need to learn.” I wave my arm to indicate the window and, beyond it, the great wide world. “What I need to learn is out there. Out in the world.”
Allison seems surprised by this new initiative on my part. She gets to her feet. “Sure, absolutely. Let's get out there and find you your great lesson.”
We head out of the apartment, leaving all of the artifacts of my life behind. I will come back for them eventually, but for now they are not the items I need for this quest.
“OK, let's meet this Father Boyle of yours. Maybe he will have some insights as what the next step would be. This seems like the kind of thing that a religious man would know about,” I suggest.
Allison agrees as we walk through the living room and out of the apartment. “I imagine so. He is quite a smart guy, and he has seen quite a bit in his travels.”
We get into the car and head back out onto the road, returning to Northampton to find Father Boyle. As we drive, Allison is calling Father Boyle to make sure that he is around to meet with. While she talks to him, I am looking out the window and seeing the world out there in a very different way. Before, I had looked, desperate to see something familiar. Some clue of who I was. Now, I am relaxed. Whatever I see is what I am meant to see. My memory will return when it is good and ready to do so. In the meantime, I can just enjoy the trip.
Allison has gotten Father Boyle on the phone. She explains my situation. It takes a little while, and in hearing her explain it, I realize that it really does sound quite odd. It is not the kind of thing that one hears about every day. In fact, it may be the kind of thing that one can go one's entire life without hearing.
After a bit of explanation, and a few questions for Father Boyle, he agrees to meet us at his office at the church when we get down to Northampton.
“Thank you for setting this up for me,” I say when she gets off the phone.
“You are welcome,” she replies automatically.
“No, really. Thank you for everything. I mean, you could have just said 'good luck, here's a number for a cab' at the restaurant, but you dropped everything to help me out. I can't back it up with experience, but I have the feeling that most people would not do that.”
She glances over at me, clearly happy at what I am saying. “Well, most people are pretty lame, and most people would have missed out on getting to know a pretty awesome person.” She takes her hand off the wheel and reaches over for my hand, and I squeeze hers back. She smiles, and this time, she does not pull her hand away to put it back on the wheel.
After another twenty minutes of driving and small talk, we reach the church in Northampton. Father Boyle is waiting outside for us and looks much as I expected him to. He is a middle aged man which salt and pepper hair, dressed in a regular, conservative suit. He has an air about him that suggests that he has found the place where he belongs and he enjoys helping others to do the same.
As we come up the walkway to the church, he greets us with a warm smile. “Allison, it is so good to see you,” he says in his rich, bass voice. He steps forward and gives her a grandfatherly hug. As they step apart, he looks at me. “And you must be William,” he gives me a strong handshake.
“Yes, I am. I trust Allison told you all about my, um, situation?” I ask, slightly embarrassed to be talking about it with someone new.
He gives me a comforting smile. “Yes, she told me all about it. Come on inside, and you can tell me a bit more about it,” he says as he leads us into the back entrance of the church.
His office is comfortable. The walls are adorned with photographs from a trip down to Central America as well as pictures of his family and other people who I assume to be parishioners. Another wall contains shelves on which are numerous books about the bible, ministry, and making people's lives better.
His desk is a large, oak one. The surface is fairly clean except for a couple of papers off to one side. A small statuette of “Buddy Christ” sits at one corner of his desk. Somehow I am not surprised. This seems like a man with a good sense of humor.
“Have a seat,” he says pleasantly, indicating a pair of seats facing his desk. He settles into a large office chair behind his desk. We sit in the chairs facing him.
“So, William, tell me how you came to be in this most unusual position.”
I tell him the whole story, starting from waking up in front of Staples. I tell him about meeting Allison at The Roost and how she was good enough to drive me to the hospital and stick with me up to this point.
Father Boyle leans forward and steeples his fingers. “Do you have any idea why you may have lost your memory?”
“When we were at my apartment, looking for things that might remind me of anything, we found my schedule book and client notes. It turns out that I had a student get out of control during a lesson and hit a pedestrian. I don't think that is the whole reason, but I think that is part of it.”
Goal: 20,000
I turn the bookshelf and look at it more closely. Looks like a full selection of Tom Clancy. I can like military fiction without being wildly conservative. A general assortment of science fiction books. Neil Gaiman, Arthur C. Clark, Robert Heinlein.
Ahha!
“See, not an Ultracon!” I proclaim triumphantly as I hold up a copy of Barack Obama's Audacity of Hope.
Allison comes over to me. “I'm so relieved,” she says with exaggerated relief as she throws her arms around me as though I had just been pulled from the ruble of a fiery blast. I put my arms around her and hug her back. She lingers longer than is strictly necessary for theatrical effect before separating.
“So, what can we tell about you from this room?” she asks.
I step back and look around the room as a whole. “I can say that I am not a neat freak but not a slob.”
“True, but not terribly useful,” Allison agrees.
“I suspect that I was never in the military, but I have great respect for them,” I suggest.
“Why do you say that?”
I indicate the flag and fighter poster. “There is this flag and the books and the poster, all of which are something a fan would have, and they are all fairly prominently displayed. Thus, if I had anything from my own service, it would probably be displayed as well. A medal or citation or uniform or something.”
She looks at the flag as well. “Excellent deduction.”
Approaching the closet door and pointing to the name badges. “I also appear to be a science fiction fan, with all these badges.”
“Makes sense.” She turns to see the footsteps piece again. “You seem religious as well.”
“I suppose I am. Hopefully not a Bible thumper.”
She pulls the paperback copy of the Bible off the shelf and examines it. “Naw, this is almost new. Spine's untouched, cover unscuffed. I don't think you have read this very much.”
“Or thumped it much,” I joke back.
She becomes thoughtful for a moment. “I should introduce you to Father Boyle,” she suggests.
“Father Boyle?” I ask.
“Yes, he is a friend of mine that I met in my travels. Episcopalian priest in Northampton. Maybe he might have some guidance for you,” she offers.
I think about this. My room is full of factual data, but it does not tell me who I am. I am sure that I could take what is here and figure out how to fake it, but I want to understand myself. Ideally I would like to remember, but nothing here brings back any memories more recent than ten years old.
Then I look down and notice an appointment book on the floor next to a small ring binder of large index cards. I pick up the index book and flip it open. Each one has a name and address on it. There is a phone number or two and license information: license number, expiration date. At the bottom of the card, there is information on a medical condition and notes which seem to be lesson notes. This must be the book that I keep all my student notes in.
I put the card book down and examine the appointment book. I open it to this week. Monday through Friday is full of various appointments. I seem to be a busy fellow.
“What did you do yesterday?” Allison asks.
“Ah, good thought,” I agree.
I look at yesterday, Thursday, November 12th. “It looks like I spent the morning doing something at Tufts University. Then I have something with Joe Andrews. It looks like I circle this number next to the appointment after I complete the appointment, and all of these numbers are circled, so I guess I did all these things.”
Allison picks up the card book and flips it open. “Let's see how good your notes are,” she explains as she flips to Joe Andrews' card. “Here we are. Joe Andrews, 87 Bacon Street, Tewksbury, MA. Diagnosis, 'CVA', whatever that means...”
“No idea,” I agree.
She continues reading. “Equipment: LFG, left-spinner.” She scans the card. “Ah, here. November 9th, oh-nine. Evaluation at Nashua Rehab Hospital.” She takes on the flat tone of one who is trying to make out someone else's writing. “Drove standard route, mostly good control, deals well with traffic and obstacles. Drives to right side. Hit curb, blew tire, ended evaluation.”
“Mostly good control and blew tire do not seem to go well together,” I muse.
“You do seem quite sanguine about it. There is a note for the next lesson as well,” she explains.
My eyebrows go up. “Oh, do go on.”
“November 12th, oh-nine. Lesson 1 out of 'S'. Met at Stop and Shop parking lot. Started driving without being able to find brake, but said nothing. Asked 'How do I stop it?'”
As she reads, I feel my heart beat faster, an adrenaline response to a memory that I cannot access. I do not know what comes next, but I know I do not like it.
She reads on. “Non-conversion, hit instructor brake and grabbed wheel. Hit ped with mirror. No serious injury.” She reads those last words slowly and trails off. Quietly, she adds, “The pedestrian's information is here: Andrea Petroya, 192A Maple Street, Chelmsford and a phone number.”
I sink down to sit on the edge of the bed, my heart pounding, and my hands shaking. “I don't remember it, but I can feel it. I can feel the panicked sensation of a car out of control, and I can hear and engine racing, overcoming the meager stopping power of a brake,” I say flatly.
Allison sits down next to me and puts an arm around my shoulders.
“When I remember things, I seem to remember images, but I have no images of this, just impressions.” I am staring straight ahead, but not seeing the room in front of me. Just hearing the roar of a V-8 engine pushing the car forward, inexorably towards a hapless pedestrian. Her day distinctly not improved by its contact with me and Mr. Andrews.
“William,” she begins gently. “It says that you grabbed the wheel and that she was not seriously hurt. It looks like you did your job right and kept her from being seriously hurt.”
“Yeah, I guess I did,” I answer numbly.
“But that does explain what you might not want to remember. Perhaps that was traumatic enough that your mind rebelled at the memory, rejecting it and everything else,” Allison offered.
I thought about this, looking around the room. “That could certainly be the catalyst, but it seems like there would have to be stress in general to get this kind of a reaction. After all, I am sure that I must have been in quite a few scary spots. If each on led to amnesia, this would be a pretty hazardous line of work for me.”
She looks at me with concern. “What other stress could you have?”
“I don't know. Maybe things are unsatisfactory in some way. Wrong friends? Wrong girlfriend? Wrong path in life. That could be it. I could be on the wrong path, and my mind rejected the whole lot of it.” I get to my feet, feeling like I was on the right track. “Sure, just throw out the whole thing, bathwater, baby, and all.”
Allison watches me for a moment before saying cautiously, “It's not a strategy that I would recommend on purpose, but it does sound like the kind of thing that the subconscious might do.”
I take a step over to a stone chess set which is set up on a table against the wall. I examine one of the carved pieces. “There are answers here, but they are not the right answers.” I turn to face Allison. “I now think I know why my mind buried my memory, but that is not what I need to learn.” I wave my arm to indicate the window and, beyond it, the great wide world. “What I need to learn is out there. Out in the world.”
Allison seems surprised by this new initiative on my part. She gets to her feet. “Sure, absolutely. Let's get out there and find you your great lesson.”
We head out of the apartment, leaving all of the artifacts of my life behind. I will come back for them eventually, but for now they are not the items I need for this quest.
“OK, let's meet this Father Boyle of yours. Maybe he will have some insights as what the next step would be. This seems like the kind of thing that a religious man would know about,” I suggest.
Allison agrees as we walk through the living room and out of the apartment. “I imagine so. He is quite a smart guy, and he has seen quite a bit in his travels.”
We get into the car and head back out onto the road, returning to Northampton to find Father Boyle. As we drive, Allison is calling Father Boyle to make sure that he is around to meet with. While she talks to him, I am looking out the window and seeing the world out there in a very different way. Before, I had looked, desperate to see something familiar. Some clue of who I was. Now, I am relaxed. Whatever I see is what I am meant to see. My memory will return when it is good and ready to do so. In the meantime, I can just enjoy the trip.
Allison has gotten Father Boyle on the phone. She explains my situation. It takes a little while, and in hearing her explain it, I realize that it really does sound quite odd. It is not the kind of thing that one hears about every day. In fact, it may be the kind of thing that one can go one's entire life without hearing.
After a bit of explanation, and a few questions for Father Boyle, he agrees to meet us at his office at the church when we get down to Northampton.
“Thank you for setting this up for me,” I say when she gets off the phone.
“You are welcome,” she replies automatically.
“No, really. Thank you for everything. I mean, you could have just said 'good luck, here's a number for a cab' at the restaurant, but you dropped everything to help me out. I can't back it up with experience, but I have the feeling that most people would not do that.”
She glances over at me, clearly happy at what I am saying. “Well, most people are pretty lame, and most people would have missed out on getting to know a pretty awesome person.” She takes her hand off the wheel and reaches over for my hand, and I squeeze hers back. She smiles, and this time, she does not pull her hand away to put it back on the wheel.
After another twenty minutes of driving and small talk, we reach the church in Northampton. Father Boyle is waiting outside for us and looks much as I expected him to. He is a middle aged man which salt and pepper hair, dressed in a regular, conservative suit. He has an air about him that suggests that he has found the place where he belongs and he enjoys helping others to do the same.
As we come up the walkway to the church, he greets us with a warm smile. “Allison, it is so good to see you,” he says in his rich, bass voice. He steps forward and gives her a grandfatherly hug. As they step apart, he looks at me. “And you must be William,” he gives me a strong handshake.
“Yes, I am. I trust Allison told you all about my, um, situation?” I ask, slightly embarrassed to be talking about it with someone new.
He gives me a comforting smile. “Yes, she told me all about it. Come on inside, and you can tell me a bit more about it,” he says as he leads us into the back entrance of the church.
His office is comfortable. The walls are adorned with photographs from a trip down to Central America as well as pictures of his family and other people who I assume to be parishioners. Another wall contains shelves on which are numerous books about the bible, ministry, and making people's lives better.
His desk is a large, oak one. The surface is fairly clean except for a couple of papers off to one side. A small statuette of “Buddy Christ” sits at one corner of his desk. Somehow I am not surprised. This seems like a man with a good sense of humor.
“Have a seat,” he says pleasantly, indicating a pair of seats facing his desk. He settles into a large office chair behind his desk. We sit in the chairs facing him.
“So, William, tell me how you came to be in this most unusual position.”
I tell him the whole story, starting from waking up in front of Staples. I tell him about meeting Allison at The Roost and how she was good enough to drive me to the hospital and stick with me up to this point.
Father Boyle leans forward and steeples his fingers. “Do you have any idea why you may have lost your memory?”
“When we were at my apartment, looking for things that might remind me of anything, we found my schedule book and client notes. It turns out that I had a student get out of control during a lesson and hit a pedestrian. I don't think that is the whole reason, but I think that is part of it.”