Unfamiliar

Waking up covered in flower petals sounds like you had a pretty romantic evening, right? Unless it’s on the concrete in the middle of the street. “How did I get here?” I ask the man wearing the bicycle helmet.

“That blue Civic hit you, are you okay? Do you feel pain anywhere?” Helmet asks me.

What a silly question. I don’t feel anything except floating. Oh wait, yeah there’s the pain.

I wake up again in a white room. Why is it always white rooms? Is that supposed to be calming? Going from the pitch blackness of my brain to the blinding whiteness of what I assume is a hospital. I squint, trying to make out which hospital I’ve been brought to.

“Ah, awake I see. You took quite the tumble this morning. Do you remember what happened?” An overly caffeinated nurse in scrubs asks.

“No, not really, I just remember a guy with a helmet.” I look at him quizzically.

“A helmet?” He looks befuddled, “I don’t know anything about that, but you were hit by a car. Sounds like it was one of those rideshare services.”

I look myself up a down, it doesn’t look like anything is broken. And it doesn’t feel like anything is broken. But I also feel like this nurse has maybe given me some of the good drugs.

“Am I okay?” I ask him, not really knowing what else to say.

“I’m supposed to be asking you that question. Nothing appears broken but you do have a good size lump on the back of your head and some bruises on your abdomen.”

At the mention of my head, my hand shoots up to the large lump I can now feel from the inside and the outside. It’s amazing how just the mention of an injury can bring the pain alive.

“Yes, yes it’s there you should have trusted me,” he says with a grin. “Now back to those questions, we have some routine background information and some neurotests to do in order to make sure that bump is just cosmetic. You also may have a concussion so we’re going to have to monitor that.”

I just want to sleep but I know with concussions that this dude probably isn’t going to let that happen. So I answer the questions as dutifully as possible. Charlotte Rae Johnson, age 30, born in 1985, president is or was Barrack Obama, but I’m hoping for a woman soon.

Unfortunately it seems that some of these answers are incorrect and that now I’ll have to get some scans done. Can I just have my phone? No one’s probably looking for me but I’d like to know what I got wrong, what did I miss? Ah, anxiety, my old friend.

After a slew of tests with only my ragged hangnails to keep me company, they settle on amnesia. How subpar of a storyline, huh? I didn’t meet the love of my life on this hospital stay, I don’t have a great story. I got hit by an Uber after I had gone to the store to get flowers and chocolate.

And I have to rideshare home. But I’m going to take Lyft. Fuck Uber.

This amnesia is odd. I remember where I live, how to get in but I’ve also lived in the same place for ten years. The doctors think it’s just the more recent memories that are the ones I’ll have to relearn or retrieve. I think I may just be suppressing the last election and subsequent years. At least that’s what I’ve gathered from my twitter feed. What a mess.

My apartment has mostly looked the same since I’ve moved in but it looks like I may have updated the colors. Bright yellow pillows and line drawings all over the walls. If nothing else about this amnesia I may be redecorating.

And what is the gaudy brief case doing on the table? This doesn’t look like me in the least. Dark brown, new, cheap leather. A buttery soft, light brown or beige, with antique hardware is more my style. But honestly what I am in need of a brief case for anyway? I work from home, everything is paperless. Even my important documents have their own cabinet.

On top of the briefcase is a black notebook. This seems like something I’d use. To jot notes down, or use as a makeshift planner. Something sleek and simple. A blank canvas for my creativity.

But wait a moment. Not blank. Flipping through the pages, I see lists. Lists of names, on every page. The first half of the book is just names crossed out.

I thumb to the last page that was written on. The names are freshly written, not scratched out. And I’d recognize my handwriting anywhere. That hasn’t changed much with age. But none of these names look familiar. Barbara Contrell. Russell Brown. Jennifer Davis. Andrew Jones. The list goes on and on.

I grab my phone to call someone. Who would know who these names are? Maybe one of these names is in my phone. But how awkward would that conversation be?

“Hey, you probably know me but I have amnesia and don’t remember who you are in the least? By the way you’re on this list of names in this notebook, have any idea what that’s about?”

That literally sounds insane.

Instead, I decide to pace. The doctor said that I should regain my memories on my own, that it may just take some time. Being in my own home helps, its bringing slight memories to the surface but nothing major. Like breakfasts I like to eat, and where I like to eat them. Why couldn’t that have been in this notebook instead of the creepy list of names.

I go back to my first idea. Maybe I can find one of these names in my phone, or on social media. Seeing their faces will have to bring something back, right?

A half hour later and the frantic feeling has moved from my stomach to my chest. I don’t have these names saved as contacts, and my meager list of social media friends made that a quick search.

Put it out of your mind. Make some tea. It’ll come to you.

Yeah, put it out of my mind. Bullshit.

I do make the tea. I know the warm comfort will feel familiar. That it won’t put my mind at ease, but it’ll still make me feel better.

I continue to nose around my apartment. I guess it’s not being nosey since it’s mine, but it still feels off somehow. New artwork and books, new hobbies I must have picked up in the last few years. It’s like I see a shadow of myself in here.

I wind up back at the dining table, but my gaze isn’t fixed on that ominous black notebook anymore. It’s the briefcase that it had been sitting on. It still looked out of place. Not mine, it tells me.

I reach over and unlatch the case. It slightly springs open, in a halfhearted way. But even with that minimal fan fare I can see right in. Cash. Cold hard cash. What the hell.

I stand in stunned silence for awhile. I’m doing well, financially and I live a very content life. So what the hell is a brief case full of money doing on my dining room table.

Belatedly, I realize the cash is in bundles, tied with string and labeled. Names, they have names written on their tags. I grab up the notebook, and fumbled to that last page. The names are a match. Barbara Contrell. Russell Brown. Jennifer Davis. Andrew Jones.Every single one of them have a bundle of cash in this case in my apartment. Who the hell are these people?

My phone has been vibrating in my hand for quite sometime, but the shock and confusion and the overall events of the day have been too much. This is all too much. What is going on? What have I gotten myself into? There has to be a reasonable explanation.

I look down at the caller ID, hoping beyond hope that I’ll recognize who is calling me. That I can associate a face to a name.

But today that is too much to ask for. It just says B.C. B.C.? My eyes flash to the stacks of money. B.C. Barbara Contrell? Would I really be that simple? But why wouldn’t I just put her name in my phone. If it is a her? Where did that thought come from.

“He-hello,” I say tentatively.

The feminine voice on the other end is hushed, “Where the hell are you?”