Memory Loss

It must have been the heat that woke her. Gravity pulled the beads of sweat that bubbled up from her pores down the sides of her face. Had it been this hot yesterday? She couldn't remember. She slowly opened her eyes. The dim light cascading haphazardly through the half-closed blinds was enough to cause an instant headache. She was photosensitive, as if she had been way too heavy on the drink the night before, but she didn't remember drinking. The unfamiliar hotel room was so latent with dust the particles formed a fixed film in the air.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and brought her hands to her face to rub away the exhaustion. She paused right before they made contact, about an inch from her nose. Her hands were covered in dried blood. Her heart rate skyrocketed. Is this mine? She thought. She flipped her hands over and over again as her cortisol levels began to rise. Before she had time to give any more study to the circumstances, a wave of nausea crashed over her. She quickly made for a door she hoped was a bathroom.

The vinyl flooring felt cool under her feet. She barreled towards a horrendous salmon-colored toilet bowl, wrapped her arms around it, and involuntarily deposited her stomach contents, giving her just enough relief to address the blood situation. The way up from the floor to the sink was a far more perilous journey than she had anticipated. Vertigo kicked in about halfway there, and she staggered into the wall with another bout of nausea. With a deep breath, she regained her balance, placed her hands on the sides of the counter, and turned on the water. Furiously she rubbed the bar of soap over her hands.

"Who are you?" She asked herself out loud. She couldn't recall her name. In fact, upon meeting her reflection, she wasn't entirely sure if this was the first time they had met. Her head began to throb; a dissonance settled over her like a haze. For every thought, every image she tried to recall, there was only more fog.

"Ok, Ok. I can do this." She told herself. Her eyes shifted up and down her body. Her right eye was purple and slightly swollen, as well as her upper lip. She lifted her shirt and pushed her fingers gently against the skin around her ribs. Sore, but no signs of broken bones or internal bleeding. As she rolled her white tank down to cover her stomach, she closely inspected the bloodstains. There was too much to have been the result of a cut lip. She concluded her original anxiety was warranted that this blood did not belong to her. With this determination, the reeling returned.

The room spun around her as she sat back down on the bed. The striped wallpaper was stained yellow with cigarette smoke and peeling at some of the seams. There wasn't much to the room itself, a queen-size bed, a couple of end tables, a desk by the window, and a dresser with a large mirror.

She took a few deep breaths to relax and center herself. "Focus on the controllable. If I can't remember who I am, maybe I can find out where I am." She told herself.

She started with the dresser, pulling each drawer out only to find them empty. Next, she tried the end tables. The left one had a bible in the drawer. She flipped through for clues but only found an old hand-rolled cigarette flattened between the pages of Leviticus. The other nightstand and the desk proved equally disappointing.

Frustrated, out of breath, and almost on the verge of resignation, one last idea popped into her head. She opened the hotel room door and stepped out into a parking lot. It was a small motel. She counted fifteen rooms, including her's that lined the stretch of building. She brought her hand to her brow like a visor against the bright sun. It sat midway across the sky, setting the pavement ablaze. She squinted to see through the waves of refracted light as they rose from the ground.

There was only one car in the parking lot, a beat-up old black Honda Accord. The license plate read, California. She didn't remember ever being in California, but then again, she couldn't even remember her name. In bright red letters, a sign stood tall that read, Jubilee Motel.

Jubilee Motel, California. She repeated this over and over again in her head to try and prompt a memory, nothing. She turned to re-enter her room but stopped when her foot brushed against something—a newspaper.

The LA Times, date read July 27th, 1986. She tucked it under her arm and quickly retreated to her room. The small ceiling fan created just enough airflow to make this a welcomed alternative to standing in the microwave outside. She laid flat on the bed and watched the blades spin.

Some time passed before she sat up again. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, longing for revelation, which arrived in the form of a brown strap peeking out from under the left side of the bed. She cocked her head a little to get a better look. Excitedly she dropped to her knees by the strap, pulled, and out slid a small duffle bag.

She began to pull the zipper back slowly. About an inch open, she stopped suddenly, recalling the mysterious bloodstains. Did she want to know the answers to her questions? She continued. The opening slowly enlarged enough to reveal the familiar face of Andrew Jackson. The bag was heavier than she expected as she lifted it off the floor and turned it upside down. Stacks of money tumbled out across the bed along with a passport, a change of clothes, a gun, and a black notebook.

First, she picked up the passport. Francis Penn, a voice echoed in her head, "Frankie." That's right, Frankie, I'm Frankie Penn, she thought to herself. Place of birth, Boston, Massachusettes. Birthdate, April 4th, 1983.

"1983." She shook her head in confusion, scrambling to find the newspaper she had brought in. Today's date was July 27th, 1986. " "How can that be?" She thought to herself.

She closed the passport and reached for the black notebook. It was held closed with a rubber band as many loose papers were sticking out like tabs in no particular order. She unwound the band, took a deep breath, and opened to the first page.

There was a picture of a man with a red X across his face. Beneath it read Dr. Lyle Sutton. There were dates, and times, locations with question marks next to them, and a list of next of kin. Nothing rang a bell. Frankie flipped through the following few pages, which were similar. A General Frederick Duke, Dr. Julia Branch, Arnold Coff, all with red X's over their images. There were two pages without an X across the photos, Alex Latch and Dr. Samuel Forbes.

She put the book down with an overwhelming sense of defeat. As if sensing her need for clarity, an envelope slid out from between the pages. Frankie was written in all caps across the front. She flipped in over. Time to get to work was written in the same handwriting across the back. Inside was a newspaper clipping with the headline that read "Chemical Attack Wipes Out Millions." The date read December 22nd, 2012. Along with the clipping was a photo of a little girl.

Her brown curls hung wild at the sides of her face. "Mommy," a voice called to her in the recesses of her mind. Tears began to form at the corner of her eyes. She remembered.

Memory after memory surged. Birthday parties, the first day of school, her first haircut, her first dance recital, her first soccer game. The sound of her laugh, the way she would wrap her arms around her neck like a spider monkey.

Frankie's emotions changed rapidly, from relief to joy, from joy to sadness, until a final recollection came to the surface. When the bombs hit, there were no gas masks that fit children. She tried to an adult one around her face with whatever she had immediate access to, plastic wrap, duct tape, towels, anything and everything that made sense. It only prolonged the inevitable. A death that would have taken minutes took an hour, and ten as the poison slowly seeped into her lungs.

Rage swelled up inside her as she replayed her daughter's death in her mind. She found the red sharpie amongst the bed items and opened the little back book to the page with Alex Latch's picture.

"Thank's for the twenty grand, Mr. Latch." She said. She pulled the pen cap off with her teeth and marked an X over his photo.

Frankie remembered her purpose, and it was time to go to work.