Palimpsest

The first thing she noticed when she tried to move was pains all over. The next thing she noticed when her eyes opened was . . . she had no idea where she was.

She sprang from the strange bed in a strange room, and a strange man approached from somewhere in her peripheral vision. He was between her and the door, so she ran for the window. Pushing up one of those old wooden sashes, she thrust her head into scorching heat. Below was nothing but tawny browns and dull greyish greens, wobbling with heat shimmer. 

She felt the man pulling her back in and she started to scream. She made for the door but another man appeared there as well, babbling in Spanish. She huddled down next to the wall while they stood over her, gesticulating and shouting. Another figure entered, pulling off a white coat. He held it out by the shoulders.

“Please Miss, put this on,” he said.

“Who are you?” 

“I'm doctor Matthew Delgado. It was me who patched you up.”

She looked down at herself, at the many bandages taped onto her skin. At least her skivvies were still there, but covered with blood, dried and brown.

“Why are you holding me?” she whispered.

He got a look on his face, gathered up the coat and crouched next to her. 

“No one’s holding you, Miss. Believe it or not, my men are here to protect you. They couldn't very well let you jump out a second story window and run across the Sonoran Desert with no ID, money, water, clothes, or sunscreen.”

She shook her head, as if that would get the information to sink in. “Sonoran Desert!”

“Yes, Mexico.” He gave the name of a city and state, but she was none the wiser.

“What have you done with my clothes?”

The good doctor was politely staring away from her. “You presented with multiple stab wounds. I had to cut them off you.”

“Stab wounds? But what - how did I get here, why –?” She put both hands on either side of her head and whimpered.

Doctor Delgado rose and opened the coat again. “Please Miss, put this on. Walk outside with me. More civilized.”

Not that there was much choice, but she saw the wisdom of putting her shaking arms through the sleeves. He settled the collar on her back, and she gripped it closed in front. He held out his elbow with old fashioned gentlemanliness, and she took it.

“Traenos unas paletas,” he said to one of the goons.

After descending the stairs, he led her to a small courtyard with a fountain in the center. Doctor Delgado sat her down on a bench in the shade and the second goon followed with a bowl of popsicles.

“Choose your flavor,” Dr. Delgado said. She took strawberry. “Excellent choice.” After the goons helped themselves, he peeled the wrapper off his and took a bite. “Good for hydration, good for blood sugar - we'll all feel better. Afterwards, I’ll check that none of your stitches burst when you were agitated.”

She placed the sticky popsicle stick back in the bowl. “But first, could you please tell me why I’m here?”

Dr. Delgado took the last bit of sweetness and fixed his dark brown eyes on her. “We were hoping you could help us with that. Like I said, you were brought to us with no I.D. . . and no story.”

“You didn’t ask?”

He smiled grimly. “Not from that particular client.”

She looked at the splashing water. “That client . . . do I dare ask his name?”

“You’re clearly important to him. Who are you, exactly?”

She felt the close desert heat, felt her heart pound, felt the walls all around her. She spoke in the barest of whispers. “I don’t know!”

One of the goons drove into “town,” whatever that was, and brought back some clothes.  As she changed, the bedroom window was calling her, pleading with her to run, get out, get away. What kind of doctor kept henchmen, anyway? But the unceasing stretches of sand baked under the merciless Southern sun while cacti brandished their needles – as if the mere thought of rattlesnakes wasn’t enough.

Dr. Delgado was scrolling his phone when she returned.

“Why did you choose the strawberry paleta?”

She shrugged. “Because that’s the one I wanted.”

“What’s your shoe size?”

     She glanced down at her feet wearing nothing but flip-flops. Desert-worthy boots were noticeably absent from Dr. Delgado’s provisions. “Seven and a half. Why?” 

      He nodded. “Fakers would say they didn’t know.”

      “I’m not faking,” she whispered. “This is terrifying, you’ve no idea.”

       He stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be happy to know that many cases of retrograde amnesia are short-lived. Once you start to process your trauma, something will jog your memory.”

       “And then you’ll let me go?”

        He made another face. “I promise you Miss, I intend nothing but to get you back to the United States as soon as possible.”

The goons prepared a tasty meal while she and Dr. Delgado watched the sky turn from hard blue to mellow mauve behind the silhouettes of saguaro and prickly pear. 

“How long have you been a doctor?” she asked, for something to say.

“Well now,” he ran a hand over his mouth. “That would be . . . ever since I graduated medical school.”

She was able to snicker for the first time. “What year was that?”

He tapped the silver streaks at his temples. “That would be telling.”

“Can I call you Matthew? Dr. Delgado gets old fast. No pun intended.” 

“Certainly. And what should I call you?”

A wave of dizziness passed over her. “I’m cold,” she whispered.

Matthew gestured to one of the goons, who gave her his leather jacket.  Not ideal, but she slipped it on.

“I’ll never get over how cold the desert can be,” she chuckled. “Where I come from, there are only seasons in the year. Here, every day goes through a winter and summer and back again.”

Her hand froze on the buttons. The good doctor’s brown eyes were intense on her.

    “Where you’re from?” he echoed.

      She lurched forward in the chair and held her stomach. He rushed to her side and took her wrist, feeling the pulse.

      “Talk to me Miss. What’s happening? Can you remember something?”

      “Winter. I saw snow. Snow on the street in . . . Chicago.”

      “Really?” His brow furrowed. “Well, this is good news. Keep exploring that. What happened to you there?”               

      He released her wrist, and she wished he hadn’t. “Something bad, I think.”

      He moved his chair closer and brought up photos of Chicago on his phone. The Bean, Crown Fountain, the Tribune Tower. “Does anything look familiar?”

      She pushed the screen away. “Please, don’t. I feel like I’m going to be sick.” She dropped her head between her knees. 

      “Of course, of course. All in good time.”

       When she lifted her head, the goons were back, waiting to spring into action.

       “Todo esta bien. Ella recordo Chicago.”  

        They wandered off again but were never far.

         “I know something, don’t I?” she sighed, looking up the stars that were starting to prickle through the canopy. “Someone wants me dead so I can’t tell?”

       “That’s one theory,” he said carefully. “But you’re safe here.”

        She met his concerned brown eyes. “You know something, don’t you?”

        He ran a hand over his mouth. “I have thoughts, but no evidence. That’s why it’s so important that I be here when you have anything to tell me.”

She rose and moved to the edge of the courtyard. Even if she could shake the goons, she’d never be able to walk across that expanse. The moon was rising, but even in its light, she’d never stand a chance against the uneven terrain, devastating flora, and hypothermia.

“And what you learn, you’ll tell your client?”

The good doctor was silent a moment, then moved to her side. The air was scratchy with cicadas.   

    “My employer is not the one you should be afraid of. Worry about whoever hurt you. They’re the enemy here.”

      But he was her friend, he was implying. There in the arid moonlight, it was seductively easy to believe him.

      The house was neither old nor new. The amenities were modern enough, but the style was traditional and its condition run-down. She ran her fingers over colourful hand-painted tiles, hand-woven textiles, and thumbed through an ancient Bible. Saint cards fell from its leaves.

     “That’s doing something for you?” Matthew said, alerted. “You’ve got that same look on your face you did last night.”

       She asked for his phone. He reluctantly handed it over, watched carefully as she searched.

      “What’s that?”

      “It’s called the Archimedes Palimpsest.”

      “Wow. I have no idea what those words mean, so it must be expensive.”

      “A palimpsest is a document that’s been reused. This is a science text by Archimedes - you know, the screw guy?”

      “Yeah, him, sure."

      “Some monks wrote prayers on it, but you can still see the original writing underneath. The ink got washed off, but never completely disappears. You might need the help of X-rays and whatnot to read the originals, but they’re there.” 

She looked at him. “And yes, it is expensive. In 1998 someone paid 2 million for it. Jeff Bezos, some say, but who knows.” She smiled. “Maybe the mob?”

       Matthew was nodding and ruminating. “Do you think you have a connection to this manuscript? Or other antiquities? There’s a brisk business in those.”

      “Maybe. But you asked what triggered me, and . . . This manuscript, I’ve seen it. In Baltimore, when I was a kid. I went there . . . a school outing, I think. I can remember. It was so striking - you can try to destroy words, ideas, truths, but they’ll come to the surface. There’s no repressing them. No escape.”

       She began to shudder, and she put her arms around Matthew’s neck. His hands hesitated, then moved to her shoulder blades, barely contacting.

      “That’s a good thing, no?” he asked softly.

       “Please tell me I’m going to be okay!”

        A click in his throat suggested he was about to speak. She moved back slightly, but still held him. 

“Is this the real me? Without layers of memories to mess me up, without baggage weighing me down, is this what I really am underneath? Or am I someone else, someone terrible, and just don’t know it? When that person resurfaces, will I even like her?”

His hands had migrated to her waist. His eyes were downcast, though not looking at her. She moved in and kissed his mouth. Once – just an exploration. Twice – an intention. Third time, his lips went in for hers. His hands came to her cheeks and pushed her away.

“Don’t do that again,” he croaked, heading for the door.

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable,” she said over breakfast in the courtyard. 

“We’ll never mention it again,” he said with a forced smile.   

“Can we go somewhere today? Get out of the house, do something stimulating? That can only be good for me, right?”

He rubbed fingers and thumb together rapidly. “I worry that you’re still in a fragile state. Your pulse is very erratic.”

“I really think I might remember something,” she repeated. “If we leave.”

He set down his napkin and fixed her with those dark brown eyes again. Before they’d had a warm glow, but now they were like polished stones.

“We could go for a walk,” he said finally.

They wandered the perimeter of the house. The goons didn’t follow them exactly, but she knew they were peeping at them out of the many windows.

A stone’s throw from the house, they paused in the shade of a tree that Matthew told her was mesquite. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Like I already said - leave.”

“You implied that you’ve remembered something.”

“I had to entice you.”

He huffed and turned away.

“Matthew, I’m actually begging – please get me away from those two spooks.”

“Those two spooks saved your life.”

“We could start over. I like the person I am with you. That palimpsest stuff - I never talk philosophy crap with anyone. But I can with you. You’re gentle.”

That got his attention. “As opposed to?”

“Stop!” she half-sobbed. “I have to remember my past before you listen to me?” She indicated her bandages. “Obviously I fell in with some nasty folks. But you’re kind. Let’s ditch the lot. Together.”

He ran a hand over his mouth. He stared at her long and hard, expression shifting from compassionate to resolute. 

“If you’re bored, we can get out some games.” He made for the house. “I’m more for board games, but Pedro loves cards. What about you? Cribbage? Rummy? Cheat?”

He glanced back, just in time to catch her from falling over.

“Poker!” she choked, as he wrapped one arm firmly around her shoulders.

He looked at the house, then back to her.

“His poker games – I made him so much money!” She clutched at the good doctor’s collar. “And he was cheating me of my cut. For years!”

“Maybe we should talk about this another time,” he murmured.

“It was me, wasn’t it? Oh god, Matthew! I think I killed him! I killed Felipe.”

“That’s enough Avery, don’t say any more.”

“Four years we were together! All the risks I took for him!”

“You have to stop!”

“I confronted him, he got angry, somehow I got a hold of his gun, and-”

He put a hand over her mouth. 

“Be quiet! Be. Quiet.”

She yanked free and stumbled back a pace or two, pointing an accusing finger.

“For days, you’ve been goading me to talk, and now you want me to stop?”

He closed his eyes slowly. When he spoke, it was very hushed.

“Well, it’s your Fifth Amendment privilege.”

She stood perfectly still. “You just said my name.”

“Everyone’s heard of Moncado’s girlfriend,” he continued. “I’m undercover, out of Tucson.”

Her flesh was searing so hard she thought she might need to head into the full sun to cool down.

“Tucson. Fat lot of good that’ll do you in Sonora.”

His brown eyes met hers. She grabbed a tree branch to steady herself.

“We’re not in Mexico . . .”

“No. And it’s my painful duty to arrest you for the murder of Felipe Moncado.” He finished the whole Miranda spiel, while her eyes flickered desperately over Matthew’s person. Weapon. Car keys. Anything.

Nothing.

“This is entrapment!” she hissed. “What’s your deal, pretending to be a doctor when I could have been dying! No judge will even hear your testimony!” 

Listen to herself. How freely the ferocity flowed now. She was used to this. She was a practiced scrapper.

“I was first aid trained in the army, so you were in good hands. And you came to me quite by accident. It’ll all be regular.”

“Regular?” She snorted. “I’ll tell them you kissed me. Because you did.”

“You can tell them that,” he sighed. “And I’ll probably lose my job. But that’s assuming we get out of here alive.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you! I’ll talk to your goons.”

“They’re part of the same gang as Moncado. Tattle on me and we’re both goners. At least with me, you have a chance.”

A roadrunner skittered past them.

“You have a good self-defence case, what with all your injuries. Small mercy your boyfriend was already dying, or those cuts could have gone a lot deeper.”

All around was parched hardpack, black widow spiders, and she in nothing but flip-flops. No I.D., money, water, or sunscreen.

“With me, you have a chance,” he repeated.

He held out his elbow with old-fashioned gentlemanliness. She took it.