Rooms - James L. Rubart [87]
As the doctor talked, the heat continued rising into Micah’s face. He’d never had an injury to that ankle in his life—ever—let alone had surgery on it. But he stared at an X-ray clearly showing the break and the two screws in his foot. Either this wasn’t his ankle, or something extremely strange was going on.
Again.
“You’re sure that’s my ankle?”
“Pretty sure!” The doctor chuckled.
“Is there any way to find out when the surgery was? And where?”
“You okay, boy?” Dr. Foghorn’s perpetual smile vanished. “You seriously don’t remember this?”
“No.”
The doctor started to say something else but stopped. Micah watched him study his notes but knew the doctor wasn’t reading anything. The perspiration under Micah’s arms trickled down the sides of his torso, and a drop splashed onto his stomach.
The doctor sat in front of Micah, his hands crossed and his elbows on his knees. His jovial delivery disappeared. “Look, Micah, you seem like a bright, articulate kid, but to entirely forget this part of your life is pretty unusual.”
Micah blew out a long breath. “I’ve never had amnesia; I’ve never had any kind of memory loss. And I swear to you, I’ve never had surgery on this ankle, let alone any kind of injury on either foot.”
The doctor stared at Micah for ten seconds without speaking. Finally he stood and clasped his hands behind his back and returned to his buoyant disposition.
“Okay then. Now, if you want to poke around at the bottom of the well on this one, let’s jump on the Internet and pull up buckets of info.”
The doctor led Micah down a short hall into an office dominated by pictures of the doctor, his wife, and two college-age girls. He directed Micah to the leather couch along the opposite wall.
For all of the doc’s down-home country persona, it was obvious he knew his way around a computer. After asking Micah for his Social Security number and middle name, his fingers flew, and the mouse clicked like popcorn popping. Within five minutes he’d found exactly what they were looking for.
“All right, here we go. Everything you want to know about the health, wealth, and stealth of Micah Taylor, except for the wealth and stealth parts.”
The doctor’s eyes shrank into a slight squint as he studied the screen, then leaned back and let out a whistle. “Woowee, I can’t say I blame you for trying to forget this one. That break was a whopper, plus you ripped a ligament for good measure. Ouch on steroids.”
The doctor turned to Micah. “You know, the PTs would’ve been working you over every few days for at least three or four months. You still telling me you remember zilch about that?”
“Nothing.” But then a wave of nausea hit him. In that instant Micah did remember. At least a part of him did. Small streaks of memory circled the edges of his mind. He knew but he didn’t know, as if it were someone else’s life he’d heard vague, scattered details about.
“Where was the surgery?” Micah said.
A second later he knew the answer. Before the doctor could tell him, he said, “Portland, wasn’t it?”
“Starting to come back to you, eh?”
“I never lived in Portland. Why would I go there for surgery?”
“But you remember it?”
“Yes. No.” Micah held his temples. “I don’t know.”
“None of my business, partner, but I’m wondering if you need a little help with the ol’ cranium to go along with your ankle. I know some good docs in that department.”
Micah tried to smile and shook the doctor’s hand. “If I go that direction, you’ll be the first to know. Thanks for all the help on my ankle.”
||||||||
When Micah got home, he headed for the voice room. “All right, tell me, do you remember us tearing up our ankle?”
“No and yes. I remember bits and pieces just like you. Nothing more.”
“We have to figure this thing out.”
“Meaning?” the voice said.
“Meaning if we’re both getting flashbacks of something happening to our ankle, then maybe something really did happen to our ankle.”
“Well, certainly the physical evidence is there.” The voice chuckled.
Micah paced just inside the door; three steps to the right, turn, then three steps back.