Memory Bank

I awoke in the forest watching the fog of my breath dissipate into the clouds. It was peaceful at first. I didn't make sense of the “Ma’am. Ma’am. Ma’am,” being rhythmically petitioned or even feel the stick jabbing in concert into my ribs, a small group of hikers nudging my body. When I sat upright to take stock of my situation, they gasped and stepped back.

"You're hurt, and you need to just sit tight. We've already called 911, and help is on the way," said the girl hiker in the green knit cap.

Why did I wince when she said 911? Probably just the pain.

I tried to stand but my legs felt cased in concrete. I looked down to see my bare feet, swollen and discolored. My left leg was in a makeshift splint fashioned out of a pair of pantyhose and two branches. There was snow on the ground, and I wasn't dressed for it. I wasn't dressed for hiking either. Black pencil skirt, pale pink silk blouse, thin gold necklace with a gold teardrop shaped charm on it. That's it. Hardly appropriate for midway through a 7 mile trail in a Pennsylvania State Park.

Just before I was whisked away by the EMT rescue team, the hiker with the green hat thrust a black backpack into my lap on the gurney. She looked at me with earnestness. Or fear. I couldn't tell which.

"Don't forget your bag."

It’s a benign thing to say as you hand someone their bag, and yet the words felt laced with meaning. She was emphasizing something. Her eyes said, "I know. But don’t worry, I won't tell."

Don't forget your bag. Don't forget your bag. What was she telling me?

In the helicopter the EMTs wanted to keep me awake. They were impressed I had survived and asked me questions. I was smart to splint my leg. My campsite was impressive. Where did I learn to filter water like that? They asked me my name, and that's when I realized the confusion and disorientation I was experiencing ran deep.

At the hospital, they booked me under Jane Doe.

Why don’t I know my name, but I know the mahonia aquifolium plant, also known as Oregon Grape, contains a powerful antimicrobial alkaloid called berberine which can be chewed on to herbally purify water.

The next days, or maybe it was weeks, were a whirlwind. They almost amputated. The police came. I went into sepsis. I slept. There were no visitors, just nurses and doctors and cops. All the while, the backpack sat in the corner of the room on a chair like a black cat waiting to deliver its omen. When I was finally well enough, I hobbled to it, hoping for some answers.

In the front zip pocket of the bag was a passport in a small leather folio. My photo was on the passport. Rebecca Bergen, age 34, Yardley, Pennsylvania. There were 3 thin slots for travel documents or business cards. Inside were a small stack of business cards. Thick, textured ivory paper with black letterpressed text. Rebecca Bergen, Specialist. No email, no phone number, no company name. The only other thing in the folio was a loyalty punch card, punched full, worth a free manicure at Lily's Nail Spa in Trenton, New Jersey.

I looked at my nails as if they might validate the discovery of the punch card. Confirmed, I’m the manicure type.

While I felt relieved to have a name and address, the main compartment of the bag offered only plot twists to my own personal mystery. Inside was a red wig, cut into a blunt bob. It was in rough shape, knotted with small twigs and dried leaves entangled in it. Despite that, it was very obviously high quality, expensive and realistic. Under the wig was a small black notebook. And under the notebook, two stacks of neatly wrapped one hundred dollar bills, bundled with a navy double-faced satin ribbon and a near-perfect bow on top.

Oh mon Dieu, c'est beaucoup d'argent.

Did I just think in French?

Soon after, the cops got word that I was lucid and wanted to chat. They had lots of questions, but my amnesia meant the information flowed only one way. They estimated I was in the woods for 2 weeks, and from what they could surmise locally, nobody had reported me missing. Twelve days before they rescued me, they impounded a rental car registered to me that was abandoned on the side of the road. It was about 15 miles away from the nearest park trails. If they had seen inside the backpack, they hid it well. While they admitted my case was suspicious, they couldn’t justify pursuing it given there was no evidence of a crime. They checked out the passport and confirmed my residence in Yardley. They wished me well and said goodbye even if they seemed wholly unsatisfied with the messy loose ends.

After returning home, I waited. I thought the answers might just come to me. Surely I had an employer who would call looking for their Specialist to report. Surely that money wasn’t mine and someone would signal for it. Surely I would see a neighbor or an old friend around town to fill in the gaps. But the only thing that felt sure was that nothing felt like it seemed or seemed like it felt.

My home was nice. Very nice. Tastefully decorated, expensive linens, custom drapery, and a security system that felt overboard to say the least. It looked well-appointed until you lived there for a few days. There was an extensive pantry of dry goods yet no fresh food in the fridge. There was an impressive first aid kit and manual that addressed chemical burns and bullet wounds, yet no bandaids for paper cuts. The home was missing basic things like a corkscrew, coasters, and trash bags. A newspaper was delivered daily, but there was no sign of the weeks’ worth of papers that should have piled high from my absence.

When the answers didn’t come, I pulled out the backpack, and went back through it all. The inventory: silk blouse, black skirt, gold necklace, red wig, passport, vague business card, twenty thousand dollars tied up with navy ribbon, black notebook, punch card for Lily Nails.

The clothes were beautifully made, but the tags were cut out leaving no trail of their pedigree. Same with the backpack. No brand, no markings. The passport had no stamps in it and felt crisp and new despite the date showing it had just 2 years left on it before it expired. The notebook was particularly vexing. Inside the cover was a quote scrawled in black ink.

“Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering.” - Paulo Coehlo

Well isn’t that the truth? Beyond the quote, there were a series of handwritten numbers and letters and markings that didn’t make much sense. I looked for patterns and clues, but I couldn’t make anything of it. I wondered whether I had written the code or if it was written for me? Or was it written for someone else? Why did I have this? Did I ever know what it meant?

I felt hopeless and like there was nothing left to do.

Well, nothing except to get my nails done.

Lily’s was like any other nail spa. I was greeted at the door by the overwhelming stench of acetate and toluene and the quiet hum of foot baths and UV dryers. I presented my punch card to the receptionist, and she accepted it with perfect monotony, scanning the appointment book for an opening.

“Why don’t I put you with Diana? What’s your name?” She clacked my response into her keyboard and responded, “Great Rebecca. I have your profile here, and I’ll get you started.”

Diana got to work, but I wasn’t minding my nails; I was looking for a sign. When I picked my color, I half expected the wall of polish to invert into itself and reveal a command center where a team of suited agents would brief me. Or maybe Diana would present my bill and it would be $20,000, making purpose, if not sense, into what should happen next. Maybe she would quote Paulo Cohelo, and I would spend my days deciphering Brazilian poetry and revealing a series of steps to follow. Or maybe she was just a nail technician.

As I prepared to redeem my punch card, I panicked that I might turn over one of my few clues to Diana Just A Nail Tech. I paid in cash so I could keep the card for further analysis. Diana gave me the receipt and in a sing-song voice said, “Don’t forget your bag!” She handed me a small plastic promotional bag with pamphlets, samples, and coupons for future visits.

Her eyes didn’t plead with me, but the words rotated in my head like puzzle pieces that fell neatly over the words of the green-hatted hiker.

Don’t forget your bag.

At home, I dumped the bag on the kitchen table and the answer presented itself among the glossy brochures. A small ivory page, torn from a moleskine notebook. Written on it, in now familiar script, it read,

“Remembering is a great invention of the mind, and if you try hard enough you can remember anything, whether it really happened or not.” - Rodman Philbrick.

Upon further inspection, the loose page was clearly torn from the back of the notebook from the backpack. Taped to the page beneath the quote were two cells of a blister pack of pills. The pills were teardrop shaped, and there was print on the gold foil that sealed the packs. One pill was marked “Take Now.” The other pill was prescribed, “Wear. Later.”

I retrieved the gold necklace and found a nearly invisible seam on the teardrop charm that I hadn’t seen before. When I ran my newly painted fingernail along it, it popped open. It revealed an empty pill-shaped cavity inside the golden teardrop charm. I popped the pill marked “Wear. Later.” out of its foil pack, and placed it into the space. The markings on the pill lined up with etchings on the inside cavity, and it fit snugly inside. I sealed the charm and put the chain around my neck.

I hesitated only briefly before swallowing the other pill.

When I awoke, I remembered. And I knew just what to do.