Never Forget

“You’re almost done. That’s it. One more repetition,” the physical therapist urged. 

The young patient squeezed his hazel eyes shut and grimaced while pulling the resistance band. Sweat dropped from his flaxen hair and down onto his chiseled cheekbones.

“I did it. I’m done,” he sighed after finishing the set. 

“You should be proud of yourself,” the therapist commented. She took hold of his hands and examined his arms. “You would never know a car hit you only three months ago. The progress you made is quite remarkable.” 

“I owe nearly all of that progress to you, Serena. I used to curse your name during our sessions, but now I’d like to thank you,” the young man replied with a chuckle. Serena giggled as well before turning serious. 

“What will you do now? You still don’t. . . ?” she didn’t have the heart to finish the question. The young man shook his head. 

“No. Everything is still fuzzy. The emergency room doctor explained that my memories could return anytime, but it would help if I talked to my old friends and family. He said that being in my old home might even help,” he chagrined. Serena gave him a pitying expression. 

“I’m so sorry. You wouldn’t even know where to start with that, would you?” the therapist asked softly. 

“I’m still considered a ‘John Doe.’ An ID wasn’t found on me after the accident, and no one has come looking for me. No one really knows who I am, myself included,” he remarked. 

Serena gently took up his hand. During the brief time she’d known him, her patient had typically been cheerful and optimistic. It was disquieting to witness him feeling so hopeless. To judge such an attitude would be hypocritical of her, however. She was feeling a similar weight settle in her own chest. She’d spent nearly three months with this kind man. Today was their last appointment, and then he’d be gone from her life forever. She took a deep breath and summoned her courage. 

“You know, you could always make a fresh start with m—,” 

A knock at the door prohibited Serena from finishing. The pair looked up to see a female police officer standing in the threshold. 

“Excuse me, I’m Officer Bennett. Are you Mr. Clark Robinson?” the officer queried. 

“I — I don’t know,” the man replied hesitantly. Officer Bennett gestured for him to approach. 

“This wallet was recently turned into a local police station. It was found near the intersection of Second and Walcott. After doing some digging, one of our detectives tied it to the pedestrian hit there three months ago,” she explained. “I believe that was, you, was it not?” 

The man looked at the wallet the officer held and examined the driver’s license. Sure enough, the photo portrayed his exact likeness. His name. . . was Clark Robinson. That felt familiar.

“It’s been three months. Why now?” Clark asked softly, still examining the wallet. 

“The impact of the car hitting your body sent your belongings flying. Your wallet somehow landed underneath a newspaper stand. Lucky for you, the owner recently decided to replace it. When it was lifted, your wallet was discovered and turned in,” Officer Bennett explained. With that, she handed it over and excused herself from the room.  

Clark continued to flip through the wallet, searching for anything else that might help him remember his life before the accident. Suddenly, a small, rectangular slip of paper escaped from the wallet and flitted down onto the floor. Before Clark could move, Serena picked it up and examined it. 

“My goodness, Clark. It would seem you’ve left a beautiful girl all alone for the past two months,” she said with a slightly pained laugh, handing the paper to him. 

Clark examined the photograph carefully. In the photo, a woman, who appeared a few years younger than himself, sat on a park bench. Her head was tilted back as she laughed. The woman’s hair was dark auburn with fiery red highlights which glowed in the afternoon sun. Her complexion was pale, which contrasted with the raspberry lipstick that brought attention to her naturally plump lips. Long eyelashes curled above her almond-shaped, jade green eyes. The woman’s features were delicate, which only accentuated her petite, heart-shaped face. 

Clark’s heart skipped a beat and his breath caught in his throat. This woman. . . she truly was beautiful. He flipped the photo over to reveal words written in shaky black ink. It read, “Never forget: 05/22/18.” Serena looked over his shoulder. 

“Never forget? What does that mean?” she inquired. 

“I don’t know,” he responded. He was trying desperately to remember, but only a vague feeling of familiarity surfaced. 

“Perhaps that date is your wedding anniversary. Some husbands have a hard time remembering those kinds of things,” Serena chided playfully. 

“That does seem possible, doesn’t it?” Clark responded thoughtfully.

He might have a wife? A breathtaking one at that? The concept was enchanting to be sure. The picture didn’t have a name on it, and nothing else in his wallet was of use. 

“Serena, I have to go. I need to figure this out. If I don’t see you again, please always know that I’m eternally grateful for your help,” Clark said, giving the therapist a spontaneous hug before rushing out the door. 

Serena watched him leave with a sigh. She hoped Clark found what he was so desperately searching to find. He was a sweet man who deserved the best life could offer. 

Clark rushed to the nearest police station. In his hurry, he bumped shoulders with someone. When he turned his head to apologize, the eyes looking back at him gleamed with recognition. 

“Clark?” the man his own age asked. 

“Yes?” Clark responded a bit confusedly. 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t remember me. I hardly recognized you. It’s been. . . Three years?” the young man pondered. 

“How do we know each other? I apologize. I’m currently suffering from some memory loss,” Clark nervously explained before summarizing the recent accident.

“That’s too bad. I’m sorry to hear that. My name is Terry,” he replied before lowering his voice. “We met at AA right after you first moved to this city. You look a lot better, man. You used to be so pale and nervous all the time. It’s nice to see you cleaned up with hope in your eyes.” 

“Thank you,” Clark said, confused at this most recent revelation. “And you? How are you these days?” 

“Good, man, good! After I recovered, my wife forgave me for all the stupid stunts I pulled and let me back in the house. She just gave birth to our second child yesterday,” Terry announced proudly. “That reminds me, I gotta go. Catch you later, man!” 

“Later,” Clark replied as Terry waved goodbye while jogging down the street. 

Clark shook off the strange conversation and continued toward the police station. He explained his situation to the first available officer. 

“Is there any way to check if there is a woman with the last name of ‘Robinson’ in the area? I think this woman might be my wife,” Clark inquired, showing the officer the picture from his wallet. 

“It’s a fairly common name. I’m afraid if you don’t know her first name, it’ll be next to impossible to find her that way,” the officer answered. 

“What about facial recognition?” Clark asked hopefully. The officer laughed heartily. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh like that. We’re not equipped with that level of technology. Even if we were, I don’t know if I’d be allowed to use it like that,” the policeman apologized. “Let’s check your name against our housing records and see if we have any hits. We don’t know if the address on your driver’s license is still valid, so we can check for the most recent address instead on our database.” 

After some searching, the policeman came back with a piece of paper with Clark’s most recent address, as well as the name and phone number of the landlord. 

“You’ll want to contact the landlord first before you try to enter the apartment. My guess is that he had you evicted for lack of payments while you were missing in action,” he recommended. 

“Thank you for your help,” Clark said sincerely before leaving the station. 

He walked to the nearest public phone, slipped a quarter in the slot, and dialed the landlord’s number. Miraculously, he picked up after only a few rings. After explaining who he was and his situation, the landlord gruffly explained that “business is business.” The apartment had been cleared of all his possessions which were then sold or thrown away. 

In an act of charity, the landlord kept a box of important documents he’d found in Clark’s old apartment. If he wanted, Clark could come by and take the box. Otherwise, the landlord would be discarding it shortly. Clark assured the landlord he’d be by as soon as possible to pick it up. 

That night, Clark walked down a set of stairs, opened the door to a basement apartment, and sat down on his couch to open the box of documents. The fact that he even had a place to call home since he left the hospital was a miracle.  

A few days before his release, an elderly couple accidentally wandered into Clark’s hospital room while looking for their grandchild. While they were there, the sweet, but nosy, lady asked Clark what injuries he’d sustained to be in such a place. He explained the accident and subsequent amnesia. After hearing that he had nowhere else to go once he was released, the kindhearted couple offered up their basement for him to stay in without charge until he finished physical therapy and could find work. 

Clark rummaged through the numerous papers. He didn’t know a lot about himself before the accident, but apparently organized would not have been an appropriate adjective. Before long, he came across something of interest. 

“A name change form,” he whispered. 

With shaking hands, he turned the paper over, searching frantically for his old name. At the bottom of the page, he saw the name written in bold ink: William Blake. 

The shaking of his hands intensified and his stomach lurched. Who was he, truly? His name was William, but now it was Clark. . . . Questions flooded over him in an eternally looped wave. He placed the paper on the coffee table and began pacing around the shag-carpeted room. 

This is a good thing, he thought. He was one step closer to understanding his past. Not only that, but a beautiful woman was waiting for him somewhere. If she truly was his wife, maybe she could help him piece his life back together even better than it had been before. After all, she must be important if her very photo was inscribed with the words, “never forget.” He would strive to live true to that phrase. 

. . . . .

Clark shot up in bed with a start as sunbeams streamed through the small window at the top of the bedroom wall. His cotton sheets clung to his cold, sweat soaked chest and back. As Clark shook, he endeavored to remember what he’d dreamed about that would trigger such a reaction. 

Pieces of a vision came to his mind. It was her. It was that woman. She was . . . laughing. Her face sparked with unrestrained happiness and joy. She was ecstatic to see him again. Clark pushed down his latent feelings of anxiety. 

It was only natural that he was nervous to see her again. After all, he must have had some kind of sordid past to have been in AA for a time. What if she only remembered the old, broken version of himself? Clark shook his head. No. He would introduce himself as the man he’d become in the time since then. . . whoever that turned out to be. Regardless, he must be better now than he’d been in the past. With her help, he could doubtlessly become even better. 

Clark showered, dressed, and returned to his box of belongings. He checked the address he found on one of the documents the prior evening. By his estimation, it would be about fifteen hours by bus. That vaguely familiar address and the name change were now his only clues. 

He shoved his scarce belongings into a backpack and walked out the door. He slipped a thank-you note underneath the elderly couple’s door and began walking to the bus station. The landlord had “generously” given Clark a third of the damage deposit for the apartment the day before. That money should get Clark to his destination, but it wouldn’t be enough for a return journey. With any luck, what he needed to find would be there. 

The bus ride was slow and agonizing. Clark was able to sleep occasionally, but the nearer he came to his location, the more restless the butterflies in his stomach became. At last, the bus came to a halt at his destination. 

Clark exited the bus and took a moment to stretch. He looked around. This was it. This was the city in which he lived for a time, or so his documentation over the years would make it appear. He began wandering about, looking for the correct street sign. With neither phone nor map, it might take some time to locate the address. 

As he walked, Clark spotted a man on the sidewalk opposite him stop dead in his tracks. The man stared at Clark as if he’d seen a ghost. Clark wondered if he should greet him. However, before he had the opportunity, the man resumed walking and met with a group of people who appeared to be his friends. The sorrow on the man’s face haunted Clark as he continued walking. 

“Arvada Street,” Clark said to himself with a smile. 

The address he was looking for was somewhere on this street. He started checking house numbers, but then he saw it. He knew that pastel blue house with the lacy cream curtains and white picket fence.

Before he could even attempt to hold back the urge, Clark lurched forward and vomited. The taste of acid was all consuming. He spat out whatever he could, the burning in his throat and nose intensifying. 

Perhaps that convenience store hot dog gave me food poisoning, Clark theorized nervously. In any case, he needed water to flush out the disgusting taste in his mouth. He didn’t really want to reunite with the beautiful woman who might be his wife in such a state, but it couldn’t be helped. 

Clark’s heart rate increased, and he became short of breath as he approached the door. With as deep a breath as he could muster, he gave it a firm set of knocks. 

Footsteps approached. 

The handle turned. 

The door creaked open. 

“Will,” the woman from the photograph said with a warm smile. Clark was frozen in place, his mouth unable to form words. “Please, come inside.” 

Clark stepped foot inside before coming to a sudden stop. The hatch door carved into the floorboards. He remembered. . . something. His head wracked and he dropped to his knees. 

Graphic images flooded his mind. Lacerations, chains, darkness. . . so much darkness. The sound of his uncontrollable screaming and her wicked laughter echoed in his mind. The acrid smell of iron filled his nose. 

This was hell. He’d escaped once. That day. . . that day inscribed on the photograph was the day he’d broken out. He was never to forget the day his life truly began. With a start, Clark heard the sound of the door click shut. The last remnants of sunlight disappeared as the woman thrust the key into the door and turned the lock. 

“I always knew you’d come back to me. Welcome home, William, dear.”