From the Brink
Bright lights. A stabbing pain in my head.
Where am I? More importantly, who am I?
I felt myself rushing toward the brightness as though swimming up from a deep, dark pool. Yet even as I surfaced, my memory remained submerged in the murky water.
"Where am I?" I asked.
A solemn-faced, middle-aged nurse in a green uniform stood over me.
"You're in Mountainside Hospital," she replied. "You had an accident, and the EMTs brought you here."
"I don't remember anything."
"Don't worry. You will. Right now, though, we're going to send you up to your room. Your wife is anxious to see you."
My wife?
I didn't even know I was married. The fact that I would forget such an important fact troubled me. I tried to recall my wife's name and face, but I couldn't.
Once I was settled in my hospital bed and hooked up to an assortment of monitors and tubes, an attractive young woman with a tear-stained face came into my room and sat in the visitor's chair beside my bed. As the nurse put an IV needle in the vein of my left hand, I winced with pain. The woman grabbed my other hand.
"Are you all right?" she asked with loving concern.
"I think so," I answered.
Given her apparent anxiety over my health, I assumed the woman was my wife, but for some reason that seemed incongruous to me. I don't know why, but she seemed too young for me, probably in her early twenties.
How old am I? I wondered with alarm.
"I was so worried!" the woman cried. "I thought for sure that you were ...."
She choked back her tears, unable to continue speaking.
"What happened to me?"
"You dove off the diving board in Mallory's pool. You must have hit your head on the bottom because when we got you out of the water you were bleeding from the scalp."
"It must be a very bad wound if you feared for my life."
"Your injury isn't too bad, but you—well, you drowned. Mallory had to give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to get you breathing again. She called the ambulance, and you were brought here. Then, while you were in the emergency room, your heart stopped. The EMTs had to use the defibrillator to revive you. The doctors say you're out of danger now, though," the woman assured me. "They just want to keep you overnight for observation; you can go home tomorrow."
"My head wound might be more serious than the doctor is telling us," I confessed. "I can't seem to remember anything."
"You mean you don't recall the pool party at Mallory's house?"
"Worse than that, I'm afraid. I mean I don't remember a damn thing: my name, your name, where we live, what I do for a living. My mind is a blank sheet of paper."
Eager to help me, the young woman pulled the chair closer to the bed.
"Your name is Dave Kinney. You were born in Concord, Massachusetts, on March 1, 1978. You work as a mechanic for a Subaru dealership."
"And you?"
"I'm your wife, Tina. We met at a concert four years ago and have been married for the past eighteen months."
Nothing she said jogged my memory.
"I just can't remember," I said with growing exasperation.
"Rest now, darling. It will all come back to you eventually."
* * *
Despite the medication I was given, I slept fitfully that night, disturbed by images of people and places I didn't recognize. The faces of beautiful young women—none of whom was my wife—haunted my dreams.
The following morning Dr. Ina Aronson examined me, found me in good health and then signed my release papers. Tina picked me up at ten o'clock and took me home to a one-bedroom apartment over a card and gift shop.
"This is where we live?" I asked with clear disappointment.
"For now, anyway. We're saving money to buy a house."
I walked through the three small rooms, hoping something would look familiar. When I entered the bedroom, I went to the mirror and stared at the stranger in its reflection. Surprisingly, I was young and quite handsome.
My hand reached up, and my fingers gingerly touched the bandage on my head. Immediately, there was a stabbing pain. Apparently, my head injury, even though a relatively minor one, had caused temporary amnesia.
But what if my loss of memory isn't temporary? I thought with sudden panic.
For the next several hours, I looked through my personal belongings. The clothes in my closet were unremarkable, consisting mainly of jeans, T-shirts, uniforms from the Subaru dealer with my name embroidered on the pocket and several pairs of old sneakers. One tired-looking suit was hiding at the far end of the rack, waiting for the next wedding or funeral I would have to attend.
The photo album I found in one of my dresser drawers triggered more questions but no answers. Pictures of places I had been with or without Tina as well as photographs of family and friends who held a claim on my past meant nothing to me now.
"Why can't I remember?" I screamed.
Tina ran into the bedroom, threw her arms around my neck and tried to comfort me.
"Perhaps you shouldn't try so hard, darling. You might be putting stress on yourself and making things worse."
"That's ridiculous!"
Tina looked hurt by my outburst.
"I'm sorry," I immediately apologized. "It's just so frustrating."
"I know. Why don't you go watch the game, and I'll make you something to eat?"
"Game? What game?"
"Red Sox versus Yankees. You don't want to miss your favorite baseball team playing its archrival, do you?"
I went into the overcrowded living room, flopped down on the well-worn sofa, turned on the old picture tube-style portable television and found the game, but I had no idea which team I wanted to win. Should I be rooting for Boston or New York?
* * *
The next day was Monday, and Tina woke early and got ready for work.
"I called your boss and told him you wouldn't be in today," she said.
"Thanks. I don't believe I can properly do my job until I get my memory back."
My wife leaned over and kissed my cheek.
"Will you be okay here alone?"
"Sure. I won't set the place on fire."
"At least you didn't lose your sense of humor along with your memory."
I tried to put the pieces I was given together: I was born in Concord. I had a sense of humor. I repaired Subarus. I liked baseball. These were random facts about my life that were little more than worthless trivia.
After my wife left for work, I got dressed and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Tina had left The Boston Globe on the table. I read through the headline news: fighting in the Middle East was ongoing, oil prices were soaring, the stock market was dropping, crime was on the rise and the police formed a special task force to investigate a series of murders that they believed might be the work of a serial killer. Disgusted, I folded the newspaper and tossed it back on the table.
I then continued my search for my identity. I looked through the address book near the telephone. Names, addresses and phone numbers that should be familiar to me meant nothing at all. I walked back into the bedroom and went through all my belongings a second time and then a third until a headache forced me to lie down and take a nap.
Tina came home at 5:30 and cooked spaghetti and frozen meatballs for our dinner, which we ate on snack trays in front of the television. Apparently, this was our established routine. As we ate, we watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. I was amazed that I knew the answers to almost all of Alex Trebek's questions—or rather, I knew the questions to his answers—yet I couldn't recall anything of a personal nature from my past.
When the game show came to an end, I turned toward my wife, expecting her to cue me on what I should do next. Tina was staring at me, open-mouthed as though she were the one with the faulty memory, not me.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"How did you know the answers to all those questions?"
"Weird, isn't it? Maybe it means my memory is returning."
"We've been watching Jeopardy just about every weeknight since we got married, and unless they have a sports category, you usually only get one or two answers right during the whole show."
"Maybe the bump to my head knocked some sense into me."
My newfound talent for answering quiz show questions was not the only behavior that made my wife look at me with raised eyebrows. Later that evening, I was able to get the old computer that I had found hidden beneath a pile of laundry in the bedroom closet up and running.
"What are you doing? You always hated that contraption," Tina said, with a confused look on her face.
"You're kidding me, right? I would much rather be at my computer than sitting in front of a television set."
That was the first inkling I had of my identity.
My wife looked at me with apprehension, but I had no time or inclination to reassure her. I wanted only to explore my first clue to my past.
I stared at the computer screen. Something was wrong. Windows 98? The door to my memory opened a bit wider. This wasn't my computer. I had a Dell notebook with the latest Windows operating system.
"This must be your computer. What happened to mine?" I asked.
"You don't have one. I won this at a raffle, but neither of us ever had a use for it."
Perhaps it wasn't my own computer that I suddenly remembered. The Dell might have been one I used at work, but what would a car mechanic do with such a computer?
* * *
The following morning, I phoned the Subaru dealership and reported in sick again. How long could I continue to do so? If my memory didn't return soon, I would probably lose my job. If so, how easy would it be to get another one?
I forced myself to stop worrying since it would not do me any good. I had to keep concentrating on the mental image of the computer. Where else would I have seen it if not at home or at work? The library? No. I didn't think so. Where else—school! That was it; I was sure.
I phoned my wife at work.
"I'm working on my memory," I explained, "and I need your help. Where did I go to school?"
"Concord-Carlisle Regional High School."
"No, I mean where did I go to college?"
"College? Honey, you were barely able to graduate high school."
Despite what my wife told me, I was convinced that I had worked on a computer in a classroom environment. It occurred to me that maybe Tina didn't know everything about my past. Was there some secret I was keeping from her? My dreams were still plagued by the faces of attractive girls. Could I have led a double life? Was I a humble, innocuous auto mechanic one minute and a computer-wise, Jeopardy-savvy philanderer the next?
I needed to discover the answer, and yet nothing in my home gave me any clues. My wife told me I was born in Concord, so perhaps that should be the first place to look.
* * *
I was driving down the highway toward my childhood home when I passed a sign that read PORTER COLLEGE NEXT RIGHT. A vivid recollection flashed through my mind. I had heard of Porter College. I turned right, parked in the visitor's lot and walked around the campus. Memories surfaced with each step I took. I passed Abbot Hall where Bob Wilkes headed the science department. Across the street was Sherman Hall where the insufferable Charisma Kingsley taught British Lit.
I know this place and the people who work here, I thought jubilantly.
Just around the corner—I knew with complete certainty—was the administration building and behind that the math building. That was where my computer was located.
So, I did have a secret or two I kept from my wife. Why didn't I tell her I had gone to college?
My head suddenly began to throb again from the strain of trying to remember. Wanting nothing more than to go home, take a couple of Advil and fall asleep on my bed, I walked back to the parking lot, wondering why I still had no recollection of my life with Tina or the knowledge of how to replace a rear differential in a Subaru Legacy.
As I headed back toward my car, I passed a pretty girl—a student. Her face was one I'd seen in my dreams. I could now put a name with the face: Kara Woodhouse.
"Kara," I called to her.
"Yeah?"
There was no sign of recognition.
"Do you remember me?" I asked.
"No. Should I?"
"I think we had a class together."
Suspicion clouded her pretty face. Men had hit on her before.
"Yeah, I'm sure we did," she said sarcastically and walked away.
My headache intensified. I put my hand to my temple and took a step toward her.
* * *
Bright lights.
Where am I?
For the second time in a week, I woke in the Emergency Room of Mountainside Hospital.
"Can you hear me, Mr. Kinney?" Dr. Aronson asked.
"What did you call me?"
"Still having trouble with your memory?"
I recognized the face. She was the physician who had been on duty on Saturday afternoon when I was brought in after the drowning accident.
"Just a little. It's getting better, however. I'm beginning to remember more each day."
"That's good."
"What am I doing here again?"
"You passed out, so one of the security guards at Porter College called the ambulance."
"It was probably Alberto. I'll have to buy him a box of cigars as a thank-you gift."
My mind reeled. I wasn't a student; I was a faculty member of some sort. Furthermore, I knew I worked in the mathematics department. But I had no idea what I did there or why I had kept Tina in the dark about that aspect of my life.
* * *
Half an hour later, my wife came to pick me up at the hospital.
"What happened?" she asked fretfully. "Where did you go? I thought you were going to stay in the apartment."
I decided it would be best to continue to keep her in the dark about my other life, at least for the time being. When my memory fully returned, then I would finally confide in her.
"I just drove around, trying to see if anything looked familiar," I lied. "I saw a car on the highway that I recognized, so I followed it and found myself in Porter College where I saw someone I thought I knew. But before I could find out for sure, I passed out in the parking lot."
"You've been pushing yourself to remember. What you need is a day or so of rest."
"Sounds good to me," I agreed, knowing full well that I couldn't stop now that I was so close to reclaiming my lost identity.
Back at the apartment, I pretended to take Tina's advice. I ate, showered and went to bed where I even took the time to make love to my wife. Unfortunately, even that touching romantic encounter brought back no recollections.
Once Tina fell asleep, I quietly got out of bed and went to the kitchen. In the corner of the room, next to the trash can, was a recycling bin for plastic, glass and aluminum, and next to that a bag of old newspapers. I took out the previous day's edition of The Boston Globe and opened it to the Metro section. Near the bottom of the page was an article that shattered my amnesia with a terrific force that literally knocked me off my feet. I fell back into the kitchen chair and clutched the paper to my chest.
"How could such a thing happen?" I cried.
Trembling, I looked at the paper again, praying I was wrong. I wasn't. The article told in detail of the fatal heart attack of Burton Rutherford, a professor of mathematics at Porter College. The professor had been taken to the Mountainside Hospital Emergency Room on Saturday, but all attempts to resuscitate him proved futile. The time of Rutherford's death corresponded with Dave Kinney's sudden return to life.
I was brought back from the brink of death, but it was not to my own body that I returned. My memory fully restored, I knew beyond any doubt that I was not Tina Kinney's husband; I was Professor Burton Rutherford. The young mechanic who hit his head diving into his friend's swimming pool was gone, and my soul was in his body.
The woman asleep in the next room was a stranger to me, and I had no desire to stay here and live a life that wasn't mine. Yet how could I get my own life back? Who would believe that I was actually Burton Rutherford, a man already placed in his grave?
As I laid the newspaper down on the table, I glanced at the headlines again. I was reminded that the police had formed a special task force to investigate a series of murders believed to be the work of a serial killer. Perhaps fate had decreed that I should leave behind the body of Burton Rutherford. It surely would have been only a matter of time before the task force tracked me down. Instead, I was being given a second chance in the body of handsome, young Dave Kinney. I would now have his fingerprints and DNA, neither of which could tie me to my past indiscretions.
A smile broke out on my face. I tiptoed into the bedroom and retrieved my clothes, wallet and car keys. I dressed quickly, and without so much as a note to Tina, I walked out the door.
I got into Dave Kinney's Subaru and decided to head toward the West Coast where I would start a new life, or rather pick up where the old one left off before it was interrupted by a heart attack. First, however, I would return to Porter College and hunt down Kara Woodhouse since I had already decided to make her my next victim.
Salem hopes that when his ninth life ends he wakes up in the body of Leonardo DiCaprio.
