I Didn't See You Come In

I keep note cards in my pocket. They hold my life’s secrets on them. Not really, but it sounds cool when I put it cryptically.

    I had an accident a few years back. At least, that’s what the first note card on my nightstand says when I wake up. I couldn’t tell you what happened exactly, because for some reason whenever I was writing these notecards, I didn’t have all the details, or at least that’s what I’m going to assume.

    There aren’t any note cards with my name or date of birth or place of origin. I assume I chose that because it meant I could come up with a new name every single day. I could be whoever I wanted to be. I imagine it would probably be hard to hold down a job or relationship. But there’s a note card that says that I receive money from a trust set up by the people responsible for my accident. I suppose it was quite a doozy. 

    There’s another note card that says to not watch 50 First Dates. 

    Another that says to also not watch Punch Drunk Love either. I suppose they both have the same premise. Though I’m not certain why I would tell myself not to watch them.

    My schedule is on a note card in the bathroom. It’s light. It says to eat breakfast. Watch television. Then eat lunch. Watch more television. Eat dinner. Watch television until I fall asleep. 

    The schedule doesn’t tell me to go outside. It also doesn’t not tell me to go outside. 

    I feel instantly depressed looking at the schedule that I wrote for myself. 

    I want to rip it up and make a new one. So I do.

    I kept eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner, since they all seemed sensible things to do. But I input going to the park between breakfast and lunch. Then after lunch I would scroll the Yellow Pages until I found one death defying stunt to perform.

    I don’t remember how to cook. There’s no note cards informing me on any recipes either. I guess I probably never cooked all that much.

    But I have a trust set up with who knows how much money. I suppose I could probably pay someone to make me breakfast. 

    When I walk out of the front door I realize I live in an apartment complex, which probably means there’s a front desk or lobby of some sort with someone that could help me.

    I take the elevator down two stories and realize it gives me violent vertigo, so I get off and use the stairs instead. I lose track of how many floors I went down.

    When I get to the front lobby, there’s a man in a casual light green golf shirt with a small logo on the left breast pocket behind the desk. He looks up. He recognizes me. I haven’t the foggiest idea of who he is.

    “Hello, Mr. Daniels, how are you today?”

    “Fine.” I guess. Is that my name? I guess he knows me. Makes sense. He probably knows a good portion of the tenants. “How embarrassing….but have we met?”

    “Of course. Yes, I know all about your condition. You don’t really know me, or at least you don’t remember knowing me.”

    “Well, yes, right. I was hoping to get some breakfast. I was wondering if you knew of any good places in the area.”

    “Yes, in fact I do. The cafeteria here serves some of the best french toast and eggs this side of the Mississippi.”

    “Have I eaten there before?”

    “Almost every day.”

    “Do I like it?”

    “I would think so. You finish off everything on your plate religiously.”

    “Splendid.”

    After receiving directions on how to get to the cafeteria, I head over to get some breakfast. I suppose it would be best to stay in the apartment complex to get my bearings on where I am still. 

It struck me as odd, though, how familiar the front lobby attendant seemed to be with me. I felt a little uncomfortable by it, but quickly forgot the feeling, like so many others, when I smell maple and pork.

“Mr. Daniels, how are you today?” a nice elderly woman greets me from behind the counter of the cafeteria line. I don’t recognize her. She notices, probably feels a little self-conscious, I would imagine. I don’t want to come across as rude. I nod politely in her direction. “Do you have your note cards today?”

“Yes, I do. They’re in my pocket.”

    “Break ‘em on out, then. There should be one that tells you what your favorite breakfast is.”    “It says I would like a blueberry waffle with cheddar grits and a side of bacon.”

    “And…?”

    “Oh, yes, and some syrup layered on top.”

    “Perfect. We have it ready for you at the end there.”

    She motions over to the end of the line. There’s no one else in the cafeteria. Just myself and the mysterious cafeteria cook who never told me her name but somehow knows mine. 

    “Where is everyone?”

    “Out, I suppose.”

    “Oh…how much do I owe?”

    “It’s on the house, Mr. Daniels. Enjoy.”

    I realized I forgot to bring cash. I don’t remember seeing a wallet in my apartment. Did she know that? Had I come here so frequently without cash that they constantly let me eat for free? Probably just charged my room and I paid for it at the end of the month.

    I eat my breakfast in peace. While eating, I go through the rest of my notecards. Most suggest going back to my room and watching television. There is one that I find that says to go talk to Dr. Everett, they’ll explain everything.

    After I finish eating and put up my plate in the designated dirty dish area, I go ask the front lobby attendant where I can find Dr. Everett.

    “Down the hall and to the left,” he explains.

    “What sort of doctor are they?”

    “The head sort, I believe. Nothing too traumatic, though, or invasive, at least not for you, Mr. Daniels.”

    “I’m not quite certain I understand what that means.”

    “Of course, my apologies.”

    I head towards Dr. Everett’s office. I begin to find it weird that there’s no one else wandering the apartment complex. I would imagine there should be random people coming and going through the halls. At the very least, I would think they might start leaving to go to work. Unless I slept in late. I get the sense that I might sleep in late. But I don’t have the time.

    I knock on the door. It feels heavy and thick. One of those doors made from real wood. Possibly maple. It slightly hurts to knock. I don’t think my hands are calloused. I guess I don’t do much work with my hands. Though that doesn’t surprise me all things considered.

    “Come in,” I hear behind the door. Muffled, though a bit effervescent.

    “It’s…I don’t really know my name.”

    “You didn’t feel like coming up with a name today, Mr. Daniels?”

    I don’t recognize the woman sitting behind a sleek black desk with a thin computer and notepad sitting to her side.

    “I must have forgotten to come up with one.”

    “Of course. No worries. Is there a name you want to go by this morning, or is Mr. Daniels fine?”

    “So far, it’s all I’ve known.”

    “Perfect. Please, sit down. How’s your morning been?”

    “Disorienting.”

    “I can imagine.”

    “I don’t know what’s going on. There’s no one else in the hallways. No one was in the cafeteria with me while I ate…”

    “Sarah was there.”

    “Who?”

    “The cook.”

    “Oh, yes, I suppose. I didn’t catch her name.”

    “It’s Sarah.”

    “And you’re Dr. Everett?”

    “Yes.”

    “And I’m Dr. Daniels.”

    “Unfortunately, no, you’re not a doctor. Just mister.”

    “Why do I have a note card that suggests I come see you?”

    “Probably to give you some answers. Some mornings are worse than others.”

    “And I guess I’m having a pretty bad morning.”

    “It’s been worse. Don’t sell yourself short and get discouraged. We knew it was going to take some time after the surgery. It was a fairly traumatic experience. Memory loss was to be expected.”

Dr. Everett’s presence puts me at ease. I couldn’t put a direct word or description to it, but there’s something about her that makes me feel as if I could tell her what I know. The problem is that I don’t know anything.

“So, is this where you tell me why I have an apartment and pocket filled with note cards reminding me of what to do and say and eat?”

“I don’t think they say anything about what you should say. They’re suggestions on how to live your best life…”

“By watching tv all day.”

“...in your condition. The best way to get through the day without too much disorientation. It is common for you to get a little confused.”

“I would say we’re woefully past a little confused.”

“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to trivialize your status. Lemme just tell you what happened. You were the victim of circumstance. Without assigning blame or opening up any unhealed scars, you were left in a debilitating condition with no memory and not much personal autonomy.”

“What does that mean?”

“You can’t really live…by yourself. I mean, we try to give you your space, let you explore the facility as much as possible…”

“Can I leave?”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“But that’s not a no.”

“No, yes, you are correct, but I’d strongly advise against it. It hasn’t always gone great when you take a step outside.”

“But I haven’t died.”

“Correct.”

“Then maybe it’s not all that bad.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I want to go outside.”

“Would you like an escort?”

“No.”

I get up to leave. I anticipate the doctor stopping me, but she doesn’t. I walk past the lobby attendant. He looks wary, but he doesn’t stop me either.

I momentarily stop before walking outside. Perhaps I don’t actually want to go. Maybe it’s for the best. It sounded like Dr. Everett has seen me go out on occasion, and from the way she put it I don’t always come back in the best condition. I can’t help but feel a bit queasy. But I’m committed.

When I walk outside, I’m no longer there. Not that I don’t exist. I do, but instead of arriving outside of an apartment building, I find myself in a hospital bed. Lights and alarms blaring from all directions. I can’t seem to tell what’s going on. I have this constant pain surging through my muscles. My head throbs. I can’t feel my legs. It’s like I was the punching bag for seventy-two hours straight at a boxing gym.

“Where am I?” I mutter out. I realize no one can hear me, because no one’s there.

But there’s an alarm going off, so someone must be able to hear it. I hope someone will come in soon to help.

A small figure turns the corner and enters the room. I don’t recognize them. But they look like a tattoo fading into the background from too much exposure to light. Their eyes more sunken than normal from crying.

“Dad, you’re awake…”

I don’t know where my note cards are. I don’t recognize this person.