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Chapter 1
I woke to the harsh light of the morning sun weighing on my eyelids. I tried to focus my blurred vision on my surroundings. As I licked my dry cracked lips, I felt as if I’d die of thirst. I attempted sitting up, pushing through the massive pain in my head that tried to pull me back down. My sight slowly adjusted to 20/20 as I shielded the sun with my arms. I could make out the pale blue color of the sheets that covered my remote controlled bed. The beige chair in the corner sat vacant. The outdated Sony television that hung from the ceiling reflected the miserable face of the wooden crucifix that hung above my headboard, staring down at me. The neon orange plastic around my wrist told me I was admitted to St. Eustatius Medical Center the day before.
What the bracelet didn’t tell me was my name. It was one of the things I was struggling to remember. I tried to think about how I got there. I tried to think about anything before that moment. I was sure it would come to me any second. It didn’t.
With no luck at forming a recollection from my aching head, I hoped someone else could provide some answers. I reached for the remote control attached to my bed and pressed the red button. A few seconds passed and they felt like an hour. A fly circled my head a few times and I tried to ignore it. As I grew impatient, I pulled the pale blue sheets up and planted my bare feet on the cold tile floor, trying to keep my balance. As I carefully made my way to the door, I could hear the sounds of footsteps and squeaking wheels pass by in the hall outside. As I got closer, I could smell what seemed to be a mix of cafeteria food and disposable rubber gloves.
I stopped at the sight of a mirror attached to the door. It was somewhat spotty and reflected the light from the window back into my face. As I moved slightly to my left, I was able to block the sun and make out the figure in front of me. I appeared to be no older than twenty years, maybe a teenager. I stood six feet tall with short black hair and blue eyes. My skin looked as though it hadn’t touched sunlight in a year. I pulled up my paper gown to see a white pair of briefs below a flat, firm stomach. As I slipped my thumb under the front of my waistband to see what was under it, the door swung open. I quickly dropped my hem and sat on the edge of the remote controlled bed.
“Good Morning,” said the red headed nurse as he closed the door behind him.
Nurse Fisher had dark read hair but was not a typical ginger with pale skin and freckles. He wore a leather armband and his well-kept goatee complemented his three-inch faux-hawk. He stood about as tall as me and appeared to be in his late 20’s.
“How are we feeling?” he asked.
“Well I have a headache,” I said.
After a short but painfully awkward silence, I stated the obvious, “I don’t remember… anything.”
“I see,” he grabbed the clipboard from the edge of the bed and flipped through the pages, “Well let’s run some tests and bring the doctor in.”
Nurse Fisher wasn’t much help. He wasn’t able to answer any of my questions. All he did was shine a flashlight in my eyes, hit my knee with a little mallet, and take my blood pressure. The one part of his visit I was grateful for was the little pill he gave me which seemed to make that pain in my head vanish.
One tedious test after another and I was growing impatient again. After what seemed like an hour, Nurse Fisher left me to wait for the doctor. I sat patiently for a few minutes. A few minutes accumulated quickly. I sat at the edge of the bed as more footsteps and more squeaking wheels followed each other outside. I slowly grew acquainted with the hospital smell. As the menacing fly returned to keep me company, the sun moved higher into the sky and left the room a little dimmer. I reached for the remote and turned on the outdated Sony to pass the time. I craved information. I felt like I had been asleep for years and I knew nothing about the world I had awaken to.
I was fascinated by the news in the way that people can’t look away from a car accident. The country was in financial shambles. Crooked politicians tried to cover up their lies. Everyone hated each other, which they validated through religion. What caught my attention though was the local story of the Hurricane Vida. The aftermath left destructions and deaths all over the coast. Nothing jogged my memory. In fact, I wondered what could be so great that I would actually want to remember.
As intrigued as I was about the local current events, I was relieved to see the door open. Dr. Phillips appeared to be in his early 30’s. He had dark skin and darker hair. His facial stubble was well kept and along with his baby-like dimples, perfectly framed his white smile.
“Glad to see you’re awake,” he shook my hand, “I’m Dr. Phillips.”
Since I couldn’t remember my own name, I didn’t quite know how to respond, “Hi.”
“So I hear you’re having trouble with your memory,” he casually brought up, “Which is common, given the damage to your hippocampus.”
I was confused, which I’m sure he could read from my suddenly arched eyebrows.
“It’s the part of the brain that contains memory,” he educated me, “The MRI we took looks like you took a pretty bad blow to the head.”
“How did it happen?” I asked.
“We don’t quite know,” he still sounded all too casual, “You were found yesterday morning by a fisherman.”
“I was in the water?” I was baffled at the fact that I was still alive.
“Luckily you stayed afloat with some of the debris from the hurricane.”
“Can you tell me my name?” I tried to hide my desperation, “Can you tell me where I’m from?”
“You had no form of identification on you,” he said, “At the moment, we’re working with local officials to find a guardian or a family member. We’ll keep you for observation for about a week.”
“And after a week?” I feared the answer.
“If we’re unable to make contact with anyone, you’ll be turned over to social services,” I finally saw an expression emerge from Dr. Phillip’s robotically professional attitude. It wasn’t a very encouraging expression either.
As he went into more detail about some of my side effects, I could only understand about every other word he threw at me. Regardless, he wasn’t keeping my focus very well. I was using every ounce of brainpower I could grasp to try and form a memory of a person or a place but it was no use. I couldn’t remember a family even if I tried. Even worse, I couldn’t imagine one. Dr. Phillips told me that was a result of the amnesia.
He left the room quiet and dark as the sun had completely fallen into the west. I sat alone, wondering what my fate would be. Best-case scenario, I could be a rich heir to an amazing family. Worst-case scenario, I could be a homeless orphan who falls into drug addiction and an untimely demise. At least, those were the scenarios I saw played out on the few shows that came through clearly on T.V.
I fell asleep, worrying what might happen the next time I woke up. But I quickly drifted into a R.E.M. cycle. Suddenly I was sitting on a dock. The sun was going down and I felt a chilly mist from the water below me. I looked down at my bare feet dangling high above the water. I could see the fish below, coming up to the surface. Boats slowly passed by and I just sat as the purple sunset faded to a dark blue and the stars started growing brighter. Suddenly music started playing from the other end of the dock. As I turned to see where it was coming from, I woke up.
I was still under the pale blue sheets of the remote controlled bed in the room at St. Eustatius Medical Center. The sun was not as harsh this time. I looked over to see the back of Dr. Phillip’s white lab coat. He was talking to someone in another remote controlled bed but I couldn’t see either of their faces.
“Just get some rest for now and we’ll be able to send you home within a few days,” the doctor finished talking to my new roommate and turned to leave.
“Good morning,” Dr. Phillips said as he realized I was awake, “How did we sleep?”
I nodded to indicate I was well rested.
“Well we ran out of space this morning and had to double up some of the rooms,” he told me, “I hope you don’t mind.”
I shook my head, a little shy in front of this new stranger.
“Well, John Doe,” he smiled as if waiting for me to laugh, “Meet Kevin Banks.”
He moved to the side to reveal the young man in the other bed. Kevin turned his blonde hair to me before I could see his face. He just looked out the window.
“Well,” Dr. Phillips reached for a white cloth hanging from the ceiling, “If you’d like some privacy, just pull this curtain.”
As the doctor left, I sat in the uncomfortable silence, hoping Kevin would break it. I looked over at him, his head still facing toward the window. His spiky blonde hair looked almost white and his roots were dark brown.
“My name isn’t really John,” I wasn’t quite sure how to go about small talk, “At least I don’t think it is.”
“That’s what they call patients who don’t have identification,” he said, still facing away.
“Then I guess that makes sense,” I felt a little dumb.
There was another uncomfortable silence.
“What are you here for?” I asked.
He finally looked at me. His left eye was swollen and a dark purple color. His lip was cut open and there were scrapes across his cheek.
“For being a faggot,” he pulled the white curtain to the end of our beds.
I didn't know what ‘faggot’ meant. I wondered what that had to do with what happened to him. I could tell he didn't want to talk about it though. He just sat in silence.
“Do you mind if I watch T.V.?” I asked. He didn't answer.
The news was no better. In addition to the slow recovery from Hurricane Vida, the top story was of a local go-go dancer who was beaten to death the night before. The picture of him looked like he was no older than me. I wondered why someone would have wanted to hurt him. The suspect wasn't found.
“Can you turn that off please?” Kevin sounded frustrated.
For the rest of the day, I tried to find something worth watching during on the few working channels. Nothing good was on at ten in the morning. In fact, nothing good was on for most of the day. I knew Kevin had no reason to socialize but it was frustrating not having anyone to talk to. With no personal visitors, the only conversation I had was with Doctor Phillips. I was finally rescued from the silence when Nurse Fisher told me I had a visitor in the lobby.
As the red-headed nurse walked me down the hall of windows that displayed the bright view of the beach across the street, I wondered who was waiting for me. Did they find someone who knew me? I just knew that as soon as I saw whoever it was, my memory would immediately come back. As we cut the corner, I still couldn't recall any past with the woman waiting at the table. She sat up straight and crossed her leg as I sat down. She was a very well dressed woman in her late 30’s. I started to recognize her long brown hair and white J. Crew blouse.
“Hi, I’m Molly Adler,” she reached to shake my hand, “ I'm an anchor woman for WLNO, the local news station.”
That would explain why I recognized her. I was guessing she wasn't there to tell me she was my mother.
“We heard about you yesterday and we were hoping you’d let us interview you for a story,” she flashed the same welcoming smile I’d seen on television, “I think it would be a very interesting profile to follow up on Hurricane Vida.”
I was silent as I thought about her proposal. I was somewhat disappointed she wasn’t there to bring me home but I was pleasantly surprised that they wanted to interview me.
“We would want to air it tomorrow,” she continued, “I understand you need your rest so there’s really no pressure…”
“I’ll do it,” I interrupted her. I figured if anyone was looking for me, this would help them find me.
After her cameraman set up all the equipment, I wondered how long the interview could go since I didn't remember anything. What questions would she have for me? Sure enough, the questions seemed simple and quick. As soon as she left, I was eager to see the story air. I went back to my room and waited in the silence of Kevin’s company, hoping the time would pass as quickly as possible. It seemed like the more eager I grew, the longer I waited.
The next day, I was sitting at the edge of the bed with my eyes glued to the television. I had WLNO playing since I woke up. This time I wasn't interested in the political scandals or the national debt. Sure enough at 11am on the dot, Molly Adler took the screen.
“Good morning, I’m Molly Adler and this is WLNO’s top story,” she flashed her camera-ready smile, “Early Saturday morning, a young man was found off shore. He was immediately rushed to St. Eustatius Medical Center, still unconscious and without identification.”
I wondered how many people were watching this. I wondered if my parents were watching this. I wondered how many white J. Crew shirts one woman could possibly own.
“Amidst the clean-up of Hurricane Vida’s aftermath, we find one issue that cannot be fixed overnight,” she had a flair for the dramatics, “This young man woke up the next day with no memory of who he is or where he’s from.”
Sure enough, I hardly spoke at all during the story. There was just a loop of me speaking but with the sound of her commentary. I was impressed at her attention to detail. What I assumed would have been about two minutes stretched to fifteen.
“Of course they dedicate a whole segment to a kid washing up to shore,” Kevin reminded me that he was still on the other side of the white curtain, “But when a faggot gets beaten to death, it’s just thrown in there with the weather and sports.”
I turned off the television and we sat in another uncomfortable silence.
“What’s a faggot?” I had to ask.
“Just something they call me,” he softly responded, “It means a guy who likes guys.”
I was confused, “And that’s why you were hurt?”
There was another silence and I pulled back the curtain.
“Some people just really hate what they don’t understand,” he looked at me, “They don’t know how else to react.”
I still didn't understand why someone would hate someone for loving someone else.
“He was my boyfriend,” Kevin told me, “The go-go dancer who was beaten to death.”
“Who did it to him?” I asked.
“Even if I saw his face, they wouldn't take the second to look,” he looked back out the window, “They told me I was lucky that I made it out alive.”
There was another silence.
“What’s so lucky about being left like this?” he started to cry for the first time since he arrived, “And with nobody to care?”
I didn't know what to say. I just turned the television back on, but not to WLNO. As I flipped through the stations, I passed one with a girl painting.
“Turn it back to that,” he spoke up.
I turned it back, ”This one?”
He sat up and stopped crying, “I love this movie.”
“What is it called?” I was curious.
“She’s All That,” he responded as if it was something I should know, “And that’s Freddie Prinze Jr.”
I watched the actor walk down the halls of a high school, which made me assume he was playing a teenager. Otherwise I would have assumed he was in his late 20’s. I didn't recognize this feeling. I liked the way he looked. When he smiled, it made me smile. I was attracted to him. I guessed that meant I was a faggot too. But it felt so natural. What couldn't someone understand about something like this?
For the rest of the day, Kevin was in charge of the remote. All I could do was think about Freddie Prinze Jr. At least it got my mind of the matter at hand.
As I started to fall asleep that night, I wondered if I’d dream of the dock again. I wondered where it was. I wondered why I was there. I wondered where the music was coming from.
Almost immediately after I hit my pillow though, the door opened. Dr. Phillips walked over to my bed, trying not to wake Kevin.
He knelt down and whispered, “Come with me. Someone is here for you.”
I was hesitant to show excitement this time considering my last visitor was a complete stranger.
“It’s Nick Chase,” he looked at me to see if it rung a bell, “Your uncle.”
