Cathy was drifting in a limbo of darkness. There was no coherent thought, no conscious awareness…only a sense of peacefulness and safety. She was resting…waiting…and it was enough.
Then came a time when a great uneasiness crept into her mind. Gradually, the feeling intensified, until she felt no peace or safety at all. Something was calling her. Terror seemed to draw near in her darkness. She must escape or fight her way out! She sensed light now. A way to escape!! She must flee to it! Suddenly she broke free…and awoke!
Her first deep breath of many days was painful, her chest was constricted, her body stiff and resistant, her eyes unfocused. As she lay listening to her wildly thumping heart and labored breathing, she tried to focus her eyes and mind on her surroundings. ‘Where am I, in a hospital? What happened, an accident?’ She couldn’t remember; her brain felt all fuzzy.
The somehow familiar starched white of a nurse’s uniform came within her range of vision.
“Hello, there! I see you’re finally awake! How are you feeling?” a bright, cheery voice asked.
When the nurse saw her patient’s mouth working fruitlessly, she supplied her own guess-timation. “I’ll bet you’re a little stiff aren’t you? A bit woolly?”
Her patient nodded briefly, not quite able to get the words formed in her mind as she struggled to focus on the friendly face.
“Well, it’s quite normal for your condition and it will pass soon. I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake and then we’ll get you up and about in no time. Now, don’t you worry about a thing, dear.”
The patient closed her tired eyes and listened to the nurse moving about the room, taking her blood pressure and temperature. It was such an effort to stay awake, and she drifted into a light sleep. It was quite confusing, really. She would wake for a time, then doze off-never quite sure which was reality and which the fantasy. The waking was little comfort. Her surroundings were unfamiliar and her memory, non-functional. There were other nurses who came and went, equally kind in their ministrations, bathing her, feeding her, washing and brushing her hair, and a thousand and one other tasks which stimulated her senses and interest in life, while keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Gradually, she began taking solid foods and regaining some strength.
The doctor, when she was lucid enough to respond, was straightforward and informative. He was a trim, good-looking man in his late thirties, with dark brown hair and a no-nonsense air that no doubt kept his female patients from falling for him. After consulting her chart, and conducting his own exam, he gave her his prognosis.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Bill Grant. Shall I get right to the point?” At her nod of approval he continued. “You have been through a trauma of some sort and have been comatose for some time. However, the good news is, there appears to be nothing wrong with you that a little time and effort can’t fix. How do you feel?”
With an attempt at levity, she croaked out, “I’m sure I’ve felt better. Where am I?”
“I’m glad to see you have a sense of humor, you’ll need it. You’re in Bayville Sanitarium in upstate New York. Does that help you any?”
She shook her head.
Dr. Grant answered wryly, “Well, I’d be very surprised if it did; we’re a very small, private facility. Now, tell me your name.”
“My name is…it’s…:” She frowned in concentration. “Of course, my name is…” She looked up at the doctor in panic. “I can’t remember.”
“Amnesia is not uncommon in cases like yours,” he assured her calmly, “and is frequently temporary. I anticipated this would be true in your situation, but sometimes a simple question can trigger the memory. So, don’t be overly concerned by it. As your body is healing and gaining back strength and agility, you’ll probably find your memory returning also.”
He smiled encouragingly. “As you know, we’ve started physical therapy for those stiff muscles. It will be hard work, mind you, but the harder you work, the more progress you’ll make. You might like to keep a journal of your progress, even jot down ideas, thoughts, or questions you might have. You can even record any dreams that you may have, and we can talk about it each day. I call it mental therapy, that may help you piece things together; but don’t become obsessed with it. Healing your body and mind is a process, which can’t be hurried, only helped. Things will take their course and there is plenty of time here.”
She considered that last statement. “I’m not sure there is…I have the feeling I need to be somewhere.”
“Whatever it is, it can and must wait for you. Think of this time as a sort of well-earned vacation at a health resort. Use your energy to get a new lease on life and get strong so you’ll be ready when the time comes to leave us.”
“I will, thanks Dr. Grant.” She gave him a wan smile, determined to follow his practical advice. She had many questions that she intended to get answers to, and before long. As a first step, she would write them down…as soon as she could manage holding a pen steadily.
So the days went by, carefully recorded on a steno pad she begged from the office clerk, until her notes filled the pages. Pages were systematically logged with her physical therapy progress, from sitting up in bed to sojourns through the hallways and out into the extensive garden paths. There were pages of notes about her fellow ’inmates’ like old Mrs. Bentley, with whom she conversed every afternoon in the rose arbor, whose children worked and couldn’t leave her by herself. Other pages were filled with questions about her missing past, not that any had as yet been answered, but she was going to tackle the doctor about her file soon. Questions such as, how did she get here, who brought her, what was her condition? And lately, she had recorded pages of dreams she’d been having. Troubling dreams. Faces that she felt she should know, but couldn’t put names to. And places, dark, candlelit rooms of stone, a maze of rooms where she kept getting lost as she was looking for something, or someone.
Just last night she felt someone calling…(to her?)…only she couldn’t hear the words, couldn’t see the face…but she wanted to. Her whole being reached out for the answer, but it still eluded her.
“Patience, girl,” she firmly reminded herself as she put down her pen the next morning. “You’ll soon know.”
To divert her thoughts, she picked up the photographic magazine she had borrowed from Mrs. Bentley yesterday afternoon, and began thumbing absently through it. Then, as she turned the page, a full-page photo of a lion’s head and mane arrested her attention. There was something vaguely familiar about it! Was it the photo itself? No. Nothing clicked in her mind. What then, the amber eyes? They were looking directly into the camera, alert, curious maybe; but just animal eyes-not intelligent. Of course, they wouldn’t be. She analyzed every detail intensely; the tawny hide, the shape and contours of the face, the shaggy mane. There was something magnetic about this photo, but she could not fathom its meaning. Carefully, she tore the page out and taped it to the wall. After fruitlessly examining it from every angle for some time, she picked up the magazine again and studied the other photos, but none held the same attraction.”
“I’ve got to get some answers now,” she cried out in frustration, flinging the magazine on the bed, and snatching up the steno pad of questions. She strode purposefully down the hall in search of Dr. Grant’s office.
She knocked on his door briefly and entered. “Dr. Grant, do you have a minute?”
“Yes, yes, come in,” he answered delightedly, rising to greet her. “As a matter of fact, my next appointment was just cancelled. How can I help you?”
Deliberately, she seated herself in a brisk, business-like manner. “I want to see my file,” she answered decisively.
“The doctor hesitated, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s really nothing much in it I haven’t already told you.”
“Then it can’t hurt to see it.” She thrust her chin forward determinedly, “I have a right to see it.”
“All right, all right, you win!” He chuckled offhandedly as he reached for her file. “You know, you ought to be a lawyer; you certainly know how to present your case.”
“I am a lawyer,” she quipped back.
Their glances connected. “You’ve remembered something?”
“Yes. I don’t know how I know, but it’s true,” she replied slowly
“Good! It won’t be long now, and you’ll have it all back,” he affirmed.
“Now I know why I need to have these questions answered.” Checking her note pad, she asked, “For instance, how did I get here and when? Who brought me and what was my condition?” She paused and looked up. “There are more.”
“One at a time, please,” he protested, turning the file around for her review. “As you can see, most of your file consists of our notes on your progress. Then these are the admittance papers, filled out by your ’cousin’, Diana Bennett, who had you transferred here by private ambulance from a city hospital on this date.” He pointed to the various data. “We don’t know what trauma you underwent, but your comatose condition was medically induced.”
“Medically induced?” she asked startled. “I don’t understand; what do you mean?”
“Let me clarify my statement.” The doctor paused before candidly answering her question. “You had been dangerously overdosed with morphine.”
“How do you ‘accidentally’ use too much morphine?” she retorted angrily. “Aren’t these things carefully monitored?”
“We don’t know, an inept anesthesiologist maybe, or an intoxicated intern, who knows? Unfortunately, accidents happen. We had to deal with what information was obtainable, in order to determine how best to help you, although there wasn’t much we could do. It was a very large dose, and we did our best to counteract with stimulants and stabilizers. Frankly, we didn’t hold out much hope for a full recovery. However, you were strong and pulled out of it. You’re a very lucky young woman.”
She digested the information a moment, and then continued down her list. “Can you tell me why I was in this city hospital? Were there any other existing symptoms or conditions?”
“Only one, and I hesitate to mention it,” he replied cautiously.
“What is it? Please, I need to know all of it,” she stated emphatically. “Maybe it will help!”
“Very well, I think you’re strong enough to handle this. You had delivered a child, apparently full term, within thirty-six hours of your arrival here.”
“A child?” She was stunned! Her hand unconsciously rested on her stomach, she shook her head in disbelief. “What happened to this child?” she asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said regretfully, “we have no information on its birth or whereabouts. It didn’t appear to have been a difficult delivery; that’s why the use of morphine has me puzzled. So you see, your body has had quite a lot to recover from.”
“So it would seem,” she murmured. She set aside her contemplation of this news and consulted her list again. “This alleged cousin of mine, Diana Bennett, what else can you tell me about her? Is she responsible for my bill here? Has she visited or made any contact with you since then?”
“I can tell you that your visit with us is paid courtesy of the State of New York; although I don’t think that information will be very helpful. Now, let me see,” the doctor perused the file, “she called once, before you regained consciousness. I told her we couldn’t predict when, or if, you would ever come out of the coma, but it wasn’t likely. Sorry,” he added apologetically. “I don’t see an address or phone number for Ms. Bennett, nor did she give us any information about you, including your name.”
She was writing furiously on her notepad, trying to get down all the facts. Glancing up in surprise, she asked, “Isn’t that unusual? Isn’t admittance information required? Surely my cousin would know my name?”
“Very unusual,” he admitted, “but she called this admittance in and we were cut off before we could finish getting all the data. Her subsequent call was equally brief, and we’ve been playing the ‘wait and see’ game regarding your condition.”
“I can appreciate the awkward position she put you in.” She paused thoughtfully, “I don’t think I was meant to die yet. There’s someone who still needs me…the child, maybe…I don’t know yet. Has anyone else inquired about me?’
“There is no record of anyone else contacting us either by phone, correspondence, or in person. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, but that’s really all there is to tell.”
“Thanks so much for your time Dr. Grant. I’m very grateful. You’ve filled in some of the missing pieces.” She closed the notepad and prepared to leave the office. “I really feel I am getting close to the answer now. I’ve been having some strange dreams…seeing faces that vanish when I try to touch them.” She stood with a smile, “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. Perhaps we can talk again in a few days. Thanks again.”
The doctor rose with her to show her out. “We’re here to help. Speaking of help, thank you for your help with Mrs. Bentley and some of the others. Your kindness is a special gift.”
“We help each other,” she smiled ruefully. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to see her in a few minutes; I have a magazine to return. Her grandson is into photography and sends her his old magazines. I’m afraid I ripped out a page; I hope she won’t mind,” she added sheepishly.
“She probably will never notice or mind if she did. I see she’s told you all about Vincent.”
“VINCENT!!” She gasped, grabbing her head as memories flooded into her consciousness. As her reality shifted and reeled about her, she collapsed heavily back into the chair, her knees buckling beneath her.
“Yes, her…grandson…what is it?” he asked anxiously as he realized she had regained some memory. “You have remembered something!”
“All of it…I remember everything!” Catherine exclaimed. She recalled the memories of those nightmarish days of Vincent’s terrible illness, her capture, pregnancy, the birth of their son, her tormentor’s order to kill her even as he stole her baby, and ‘dying’ in Vincent’s arms.
“I can see the memories are painful, just let them flow. We can handle them together. Would you like to talk about it?” Dr. Grant’s voice filled with professional sympathy.
“I’m okay…really.” She shook her head to clear her vision. “It was terrible, but I’m sure it’s over. I can go home now.”
From the doctor’s doubtful expression, Cathy knew she must convince him to release her. Straightening herself up, she added more determinedly, “I must go home as soon as can be arranged. But first, I need to visit your local library to catch up on the news.” Glancing up at the wall calendar, she mentally calculated how much time she had ‘missed’.
Dr. Grant observed her thoughtfully. There was a definite change in his patient, which indicated a complete recovery of her mental faculties and an even stronger self-confidence than she had exhibited previously. She had dealt with the memory of her past trauma with perfect equanimity.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us a little longer? I’m sure you are rushing the process.”
“No! It’s really not necessary. I’m well, and in my right mind.” Cathy smiled kindly, “Thank you for everything, but I have family waiting. I can’t wait any longer.” She was back on her feet, ready to be on the move. “Can you help me get back to the city?”
“Hold on a moment! Fill me in! What’s your name? What happened to you? Who’s Vincent?” The doctor shot the questions he needed answered to satisfy his paperwork and his professional curiosity. “Who’s Diana Bennett?”
Catherine gave him an apologetic smile. “Under the circumstances, I think it’s best to remain a ‘Jane Doe’. I really don’t know any Diana Bennett; maybe that’s an alias. However, I can assure you that it was for my protection that I was left nameless. Let’s say, off the record, that the morphine overdose was no accident. Since I survived, it would be better that your records do not reflect my true identity, for everyone’s safety. If you have to, make up a fictitious name for your records.”
“And Vincent?” he asked.
Her features softened at the mention of his name and a
smile played on her lips. “Vincent is my life.”
“This is all very unusual; but I can see that the least
said, the better. Will it be safe for you to return to the city?
How soon would you like to start?”
The doctor was totally bemused. Life at the quiet, rural sanitarium seldom moved at such a fast and eventful pace.
“My home is perfectly safe,” she assured him. “I have nothing to pack, so if I can borrow some train fare to the city and a lift to the station via the library, I’m ready to go.”
“I’ll make the appropriate arrangements,” he sighed resignedly, closing the folder on his desk. “Give me, say, half an hour, all right?”
“That’s fine. I’ll go freshen up, collect my notes, say my ‘thanks’ and ‘goodbyes’ and then check back with you.”
Catherine gave him her most grateful smile and sped from
the room. Few good men could resist her spontaneous charm and determination,
and Dr. Bill Grant was no exception. Shaking his head, he picked
up his phone extension and began dismissal procedures and the promised
arrangements. After all, he thought to himself, this patient, who
was never expected to survive, had made a full recovery.
What could be more rewarding? It was time to let her get on with
her life and turn his attention to the others under his care.