Lost and Found in L.A.

CHAPTER 3

Things seemed to have changed in the hospital by the following day, as the storm was now gone. And the weather was so cool and clear. There was sunshine all over, making the white walls bright luminous soft colors. More so, it was a pleasant situation unlike the strain which had been witnessed the previous evening. But as I approached his room, another kind of anxiety creeped into my heart and lodged itself at the base of my chest.

Upon reaching Room 6, I stood at the rear of the door, staring at the handle. The previous night, I had spent hours stressfully and frantically imagining what I was going to find within the room. Because when he had lost all his memories, he had been in such deep panic and confusion. That terrifying expression stayed in my mind and I remember being troubled, thinking, why is he just a patient? There was just something in him that was off, and I can’t exactly put my finger on it.

I took a deep breath before I opened the door and walked into the room. This room was quiet except for the slight beeping of the heartbeat monitor. He was awake and sitting slightly on bed, looking out into the window. Sunlight was coming through the blinds so that there were shadows thrown across his face, emphasizing his high cheekbones and sculpted brow.

I took a while and simply stared at him. In daylight, he looked completely different, his features more defined as the bruises were beginning to heal. Even with the visceral cuts and bandages on him, he was still oddly captivating, there was a quality about him that was hard not to look at. And yet what surprised me, the most though, was the alarmed him. He seemed disoriented and tried to make sense of the surroundings to which he had apparently come across nothing.

“Good morning,” I murmured and walked into the room a little more. He looked sharply and strangely at me, his dark eyes narrow as if recalling some old familiarity. For a moment, it was that stare, but this time, the pretty light brows rested down and looked menacing. After that, a change came across his face. Recognition or relief, I couldn’t say – but with that he bent his neck a little in an affirmative gesture.

“Morning,” he breathed out with a slight rasp due to the lack of speech for a long time.

Now, I made it to his bed and watched the monitors for a moment before yanking my sight back to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, I think,” he responded, but there was a lack of confidence in his tone, as if he himself didn’t know, in fact, what “better” even meant anymore. His body made a small turn, and he frowned and hissed when he attempted to move his arm. “Still hurts, though.”

“That is understandable,” I replied to the objection while redistributing the weight of the infusion apparatus. “You are all aware that you have been stressing out for some time. Your entire system has been under stress, it will heal, but it will take some time.”

He went silent, looking down to where both his thumbs were resting in his lap. It was strange how his fingers relaxed slightly, as though he was holding them in the air for a while and wanted to keep them too. “I am sorry,” were the words that he said, more like I am sure explaining to you, to nobody.

“Where do you feel I have wronged you?” I inquired with a hint of disbelief.

“It’s because… I had become too much of a burden, I guess.” His eyes turned to me and there was something in them that was unbearably vulnerable. “I don’t even know who I am. Don’t be forced to cope with that.”

“For once, you are not a burden,” I said in a strong tone, holding his eyes. “You are my patient and I must help you with this. Besides, I think once in a while everyone needs a little assistance.”

His lips almost cracked up, as if he were holding in a smile that he was not particularly certain was appropriate. “Thanks,” he said softly, well aware that there were others outside the room, as the volume of his voice was barely above that of a whisper.

I returned a small curve of my mouth to him in an attempt to relieve some tension that I observed on his stance. “Let’s not think about that for now okay, let us make sure that we sort these problems out first and then take care of everything else after.”

Once again he nodded, however, I could understand that he was still not quite sold. There was an unsettling which seemed to be emerging from his very eyes. However inactive they were from all the flesh wounds that one would assume to be the cause, there was a sorrow that spoke of some unhappiness, some pain that was before the accident.

Doing circumferences, assessing his blood pressure, temperature and his IV line while restricting myself from getting too emotionally close to him, I felt his little things captivating. The way he looked at my face as though he was attempting to carve it in his memory. The small quiver in his finger when he reached out to grab the glass of water I gave him. How his gaze followed mine, trying to search for something he could not define.

It was clear that a bond was forming between us – quiet yet persistent. Something was in the fact how he seemed to unwind around me, how his tone would be low when he talked to me. And even how I had begun to worry about him a little bit more than I cared to with most patients. It was odd and unnerving, yet there was no chance I was going to just let it go.

"What am I doing in this place?" he questioned all of a sudden, interrupting the stillness that had hung in the air between us.

“This is a hospital, a place in Los Angeles,” I replied, locking my eyes with him. “You suffered from an automobile injury, but now you are out of any danger.”

“Los angeles…” He took his time to say, pronouncing each word as if to make an experiment to see whether they would fit. “And you? Who are you?”

“I'm Emma,” I stated, trying to sound soft. “I’m one of the nurses here. I have taken care of you ever since you arrived.”

“Emma,” he said softly, testing his word inside him. “I am … I am sorry, I don’t…”

“It’s okay,” I cut him off at once, reassuring him. “Remembering does not help you right now, so you don’t have to do it. Concentrate on recovering first.”

He responded with a nod, although how fed up he was was openly written all over his face. “It's… like someone poured fog in my brain,” he lamented and added rather inaudibly. “It's so frustrating because I grasp at things even the tiniest of them but it's all… eliminated.”

“That is fairly common among people going through trauma like this,” I say and try to soothingly raise up his spirits. “Recollection occasionally returns, in bits and bobs, or in one massive lump. Time, time, time, that is all.”

“What if it doesn’t?” was his next question in a much below the normal, measured tone of voice.

"How would I live with the idea that I would not recall anything?"

I stopped, sensing the raw dread in his voice. What was the point of that? I had no solutions, no temperatures, no matters of calming down for children like it will be alright in the end. Only the telling of the reality, soft actually but the reality.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” I answered him in a calm voice. “We’ll take it one step at a time, especially now that it’s clear that you are not alone in whatever it is that is happening.”

He then looked at me, not just any glance but a real stare that lasted a few seconds and I thought I would have been losing the space he has occupied giving in to his fondness. There was something in his gaze that reached into me, and shook something deep inside me. Not frustration or confusion, but rather a desperation; a seeking for direction, a need for someone to hold onto in the dark.

“I… I trust you, Emma,” he said after a pause where I sensed the tremor in his voice. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

He must have wondered even a little, how he ended up placing that kind of faith in me as an absolute stranger.

“I… I am happy,” I whispered, attempting to remain calm. “And I swear, I will do whatever it takes to assist you.”

He nodded at me without breaking his expression. Besides, in that instant, something had shifted in our world. The invisible thread which has been developing against the odds becomes more prominent. It was no longer a mere perplexity and more of an unspoken oath.

With the lapse of time, that sense of union only inflamed. I began to take more of his time understanding that he needed more of me in the small fights for his recovery. I supervised him through rehabilitation, and saw how he was slowly getting stronger through the weak movements of his body. I fed him meals, sat with him and ordered him to get up presentable and eat. And more often than not, in the spaces in between goals, we verbalized things.

Initially, I came up with unsophisticated conversations which hardly touched any deeper emotions in all of us. For instance, I would inquire how he was feeling, and rather quickly he would always give short, curt answers. However, slowly the barriers between us came down. He began to speak out little by little and in bits and pieces, still it was unclear and shaky.

“This urge gets deeper and deeper in my head, and I feel that there’s something that I ought to remember,” one afternoon as I tried to assist him with his exercises, he said.

“You see, I can understand it. It is like frustration trying to remember something, but you know it is there.”

“I understand, it’s quite common for some patients in your condition.” Without any further speculations, controlling his hand in a delicate slow stretch. “People will want to make things better and in the process, they will unconsciously bring up strategies that make their situations worse. It may take time, adjustment and effort, but it will return.”

His gaze was blank, and his forehead creased with a frown. “But hypothetically, what if I’m never ready? What if… there is something which I want to avoid recalling, that maybe exists in my thoughts right now?.” Withered soul, possessed with paranoia only about how the brain might betray itself in the rest of depression.

I held him up for a minute and stared at him. In short, it was different this time. In contrast to previous conversations, there was no certainty in his words, the reproach of incomprehension.

“Then I suppose it isn’t such a crime to take your time,” I said in a soft voice. “It’s okay. There is no rush. When it comes to whatever it is, we will handle it as a team when you feel better.”

At that point, he turned to me and stared into my eyes as if trying to gain a sense of affirmation from what I had just said. “You really mean that?”

“I do,” I replied, lying in a way that I could no longer maintain his glare. “You do not have to face the heat all by yourself.”

Upon hearing that, he appeared more at ease, relaxing the tautness in his shoulders just a tad. “Thanks a lot,” he finally broke the silence, still keeping his low tone.