Amnesia Ch. 02

My thanks as always to Erik Thread for his thoughtful and helpful editing. Any errors, as usual, are mine.

It took several months, but John finally formalized his name, received a Social Security number, a driver's license and a bank card. He had piggybacked on Muriel's banking until he could establish his own. His date of birth was listed as August 12, 1965. He had chosen the date he awoke in the hospital as his birth date and decided he was, in fact, forty-two years old at that time.

He had received sworn statements from Dr. Leacock from the hospital and Detective Polikoff that his claim was legitimate. They were co-signed by Muriel, Major Tom Matthews, and Mr. Leung as well. On July 4, 2008, John Doan was officially acknowledged as a resident of New York City in the United States.

He had amassed a reasonable amount in his savings account. His needs had been simple, his rent low and his social life almost non-existent. He told anyone around him that he was happy with his life, however. It was almost a year since he had awakened in hospital.

Detective Martin Polikoff dropped in from time to time to see how his favorite amnesiac was getting on. They had become friends, with the policeman insisting his visits were unofficial.

John stopped in regularly to see Tom Matthews and contribute funds in thanks for the help he had been given. He and Tom had become quite good friends as well, and it wasn't unusual to find Tom or Martin in Amnesia! around three o'clock on a weekday afternoon, sharing a draft or an iced tea with the cook.

It was just such an afternoon when John was sitting at the almost empty bar, chatting with Carl, the manager, and sipping a glass of iced tea. He became aware of someone moving to sit beside him and turned to see who it was.

"Afternoon, Martin. What brings you here?"

"I'm off duty and I wanted to drop in and see you. I was wondering how you were making out?"

"What can I get you? It's on the house ... this time," John grinned.

"One of those looks good," he said, pointing to John's glass. "Thanks."

The two men talked and John brought the policeman up to date on his activities and his confirmation of a new identity.

"I hope you're not here to mess up my life by telling me you know who I am now," John laughed.

"No ... no ... nothing like that. Actually, I'm here to ask a favor."

"Shoot!"

"My son ... likes to cook. Wants to learn how ... you know ... what it's like in a proper kitchen. I was wondering if ... maybe you could show him what it takes. I don't mean teaching him. Just let him see what your day is like. If it's something he really wants to do, then I'll put up the money to send him to school to learn how."

John nodded. "OK ... I can do that. What's his mother think?"

"I don't know. She and I are divorced. David, our son, has been a bit of a handful for her. I'm trying to help, but I usually only see him on weekends. He's eighteen and I don't want him ending up in trouble. I see too much of that every day. These kids think they're bulletproof and they aren't. Anyway ... I'd be grateful if you'd let him have a look at how a proper kitchen works."

"What makes you think mine is a good example," John laughed.

"Word of mouth, John. Word of mouth. This is my neighborhood, remember," he said with a slight smile. "Saturday be OK?"

"Sure. Bring him around about eleven-thirty before the lunch crowd arrives. That will give him a good look at mayhem in action. If he's still keen, he can have his dinner here and watch how different the evening crowd is. That should give him a pretty good idea."

"Terrific, and ... thanks. I'm hoping this will help. I told him about you, so he may ask some questions. I hope you don't mind."

"Nope. I'd be surprised if he weren't curious."

Promptly at eleven-thirty on Saturday morning, Martin and David Polikoff pushed through the doors of Amnesia! and asked for John at the bar. Carl was told to expect them and quickly informed John of their arrival.

David was quiet and polite as John was introduced. The youth smiled as he was presented with a white smock and hairnet, mandatory in the kitchen for all staff. Martin gave John his cell phone number, asking him to call when David had signaled he'd seen enough.

As John was about to guide David to the kitchen, Martin caught his attention.

"Just something I forgot the other day," Martin said. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a grainy, black and white photo of a woman. It had been taken by a security camera.

"Does this woman look familiar, John?"

John examined the photo carefully. At length, he handed it back to the detective.

"No ... I mean ... it's not a really clear picture, but ... no ... I don't know her. There is something familiar about her, but ... I'm sorry ... I just don't know."

"OK ... she came into the station asking about a man about your age and description. She didn't have a picture and was pretty vague about why she was looking for him. I thought about you when the desk sergeant mentioned it."

John shook his head. "Nope. Wish I could help," he shrugged.

"No problem," Martin said, slipping the picture back into his vest pocket. "Give me a call when David's done," he smiled as he left.

David Polikoff's day went very well. He was fascinated by the organization needed to run a kitchen when orders were coming in so rapidly. John had provided him with a stool to sit on, more to keep him from getting under foot than anything, but David grasped the situation quickly and managed to stay out of everyone's way.

When the break came just after two that afternoon, John took off his tall, white chef's hat and wiped his face with a clean towel, then wrapped it around his sweat soaked neck.

"Would you like a cola, David?"

"Sure. I didn't realize how crazy it was in one of these kitchens at lunchtime," he remarked as they walked through the swinging doors into the tavern. David stood at the bar as John squirted cola from the dispenser into two large beer glasses half-filled with ice.

"You should see it on weekdays. Even crazier because everyone is trying to get their food between twelve and one."

David just shook his head. "How do you do it?"

"Organization and experience. I couldn't do this right away. You just have to learn by doing and get a feel for how to handle the pressure points." John paused and looked at David. "So, what do you think?"

"It's amazing. I'd love to be able to do this like you do. But it's not all about knowing how to cook. Is it all right if I watch the dinner preparation?"

"Yep. I'll call your dad and let him know you want to stay. I'll get him to pick you up about eight, OK?"

David nodded. They spent the rest of the afternoon talking about what it takes to run a kitchen. Gradually the boy got around to the subject of John's amnesia.

"What's it like ... not knowing anything?"

"Well, I do know a lot of things. I know how to dress myself and tie my shoes and how to read and write, drive a car, and all the usual things you need to get along in the world. It's just that, for now, I don't remember my name or anything about my life before. It's like I landed from another planet and I didn't exist until I woke up in that hospital. Trust me, it was very scary."

"Do you think you'll ever get your memory back?"

"Yes ... most of the doctors and the books I've read say I should get at least some of it back. It's just a matter of time. In the meantime, I like what I'm doing, so I'm happy."

David nodded thoughtfully.

At eight that evening, Martin Polikoff entered the bar and asked for John. In less than a minute, John and David emerged from the kitchen.

"Thank you, John," the youth said sincerely.

"I hope you saw what you wanted to, David."

"Yeah. It was great. I was really surprised. I had no idea. I thought it was just about cooking stuff. You should have seen it, Dad. It was amazing how much has to be done to run that kitchen." David's enthusiasm was evident.

"Well, I hope I didn't discourage you," John said.

"No ... it was exciting. I think this is what I want to do, once I learn how," the boy said, turning to his father.

Martin smiled and stuck out his hand to John. "Thank you. I appreciate what you've done," he smiled, with a hint of relief in his voice.

-0-

It was three-thirty on the following Tuesday afternoon when Martin Polikoff pushed through the doors of Amnesia! once more. John was sitting at a small table, reading the morning paper and sipping his usual iced tea.

"Afternoon, John," the detective said quietly.

John looked up in surprise. "Hi, Martin." John's face scrunched in curiosity. "Two visits in a week? What's up?"

"You recognized her, didn't you?" Martin said quietly.

John looked at him in surprise for a long moment, then let his breath out in a long, slow hiss.

"How did you know?"

"Your eyes. I saw them react to the picture. It's what I do, John. Read people. Anything you want to tell me?"

"Not much to tell," John said, not looking at the policeman. "I know I've seen her, but I don't know who she is. I don't think that she's just an acquaintance though."

"Why do you think that?"

"Afterwards ... just ... bad feelings. Unhappy stuff. Crap bouncing around in my head. Images. A sense of ... anger," he said, shaking his head. "I don't know how to describe it any better."

"When did you start to get some of these memories?"

"A month or so ago. Not sure what started it. Might have been someone I saw in the market when I was out shopping for the kitchen. Just the flash of a face ... it stuck with me."

"Male or female?"

"Female."

"Describe her." Martin pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket.

"Uhhhmmm ... dark short hair, narrow nose, puffy lips, longish neck, not much makeup I don't think." He had his eyes closed while he recited what he could remember.

"Have a look at this again." Martin handed the black and white photo to John.

"Could be ... it's not a great picture, but ... could be."

Martin nodded. "Thanks. You didn't see anything more than her head?"

"No. And it was only a glimpse. Just a second or two."

"Did she see you?"

"Don't know. She wasn't looking at me when I saw her."

"Hmmmph. Anything else coming back to you? Anything you're not telling me?"

"No ... why? Don't you trust me?" John asked in surprise.

"You sensed trouble with these images, didn't you?"

"Yes ... at least ... that's the impression I got. But there's nothing tangible to grab onto. I don't have any idea what happened. I'm back where I was in the hospital," his voice tinged with frustration.

"No you're not. You've changed. You're not the same. For one thing, you aren't angry any more. You're more relaxed. More at peace with yourself. That's not the sign of a haunted or hunted man. For another, you got something to look forward to ... running this kitchen. Doing what you obviously enjoy. If someone's trying to find you, they're going about it in a strange way."

John looked at him, his face a question mark.

"There's nothing straightforward about what happened to you. You once said that people just don't disappear with no one looking for them and for the most part, that's true. But if that woman, or others, are looking for you, they are being very cautious. In fact, it's more like they don't want you to know they are looking for you. They're just nibbling around the edges right now. I'm guessing they haven't spotted you in your home territory yet."

"Jeez, Martin. You make it sound like secret agent stuff."

"Maybe it is. Who's to say? But it gives me an idea. I think I'll call my friend at the F.B.I. and see if they have anything on you or our mystery woman. Your prints aren't on file according to them, but then they probably wouldn't tell me if you were one of theirs or acting for them."

"Just when I thought my life was perfect," John moaned.

"Don't get too uptight about it, John. Nothing's established yet. But, if anything else happens or you see anyone or anything that brings back those images, call me, please."

"Sure," he agreed, burying his head in his hands.

-0-

It was John's habit to take a break during his morning market excursions. He would chose one of the several small coffee shops in the market district and relax, either chatting with Muriel if she was with him, or reading the local paper if he was alone. His bags of purchases would be held for him to pick up when he left to return to Amnesia!.

On this particular September morning, he was outdoors, basking in the late summer sunshine and reading the paper. He was startled when the chair beside him was pulled out and a woman sat down, facing him.

"Hello, Tony," she said, tentatively.

"Uhhhh mmmmy ... my name's ... John," he stammered.

"Really?" she said with an arched eyebrow. "All these years I've known you as Tony. Tony Milano."

"Oh ... well ... I ... don't know what to say."

She sat, looking directly at him, her eyes not wavering from his. At last, she shook her head.

"Was our life that horrible that you had to run away?"

"I don't understand."

"You went to work one day and never came home. Am I that ... repulsive that you don't want to know me?" She didn't appear angry. More sad and uncertain.

"I don't think I can help you. I ... I lost my memory. I don't know who I am. Today ... I'm John Doan. It's a name I made up. It's my legal name now." His eyes were fixed on the woman.

She looked stunned ... shocked. She was blinking and soon, tears began to show.

"Are you telling me you don't know me?"

"Yes ... I guess so. I mean, you are slightly familiar, but I don't know why."

The woman disintegrated before his eyes. The sobs were deep and wracking, her head now in her hands. John sat motionless, allowing the woman to regain her composure.

At length, the sobs subsided and she sat back in the chair. She gazed at him with a mournful look.

"I'm sorry. I didn't expect you. I wasn't prepared for you," John apologized.

She nodded. "Can you tell me? Tell me what happened? Please?"

"There isn't much to tell. I woke up in hospital. I had been injured ... head, leg, arm, ribs. I couldn't remember anything. I didn't have any I.D. on me. They found me unconscious beside the road. Luckily, I didn't get hit by another car or drown in a ditch. Some passers-by found me and called the police. That's about it."

"I looked all over for you. I called the police, but they had nothing on you. I checked with the hospitals in Westport and here in New York. They didn't have anyone matching your description. I hired a private detective to find you, but he came up empty after six months. I lost all hope until I saw you by accident a few days ago in another market.

"I tried to catch you but you had gone by the time I got to where you were. I wasn't even sure it was you. You look so different. Your hair and your clothes," she paused. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It's been over a year," she paused again, shaking her head. "You look good, Tony."

"You say my name is Tony? Where do I live? Where do I work? Tell me about ... me," he pleaded.

"You are Anthony Paulo Milano," she began hesitantly. "You are forty-four years old. Your birthday is December 11, 1963. You live at 67 Birchmont Lane, in Westport, Connecticut. We were married on May 12, 1988, in St. Alban's Presbyterian in Yonkers. We have three children. You are a vice president at Carbutt, Mellows and Davidson. They are investment brokers.

"Several days after you disappeared, F.B.I. agents came to the house with a search warrant and took all your files and your computer with them. No one said anything and I couldn't get them to tell me if you were in trouble."

She had paused again, but John said nothing and waited for her to continue.

"I ... wondered if the reason you had disappeared was because you had done something wrong. I didn't know and no one would tell me anything. I'm sorry, Tony ... I shouldn't have doubted you. I should have known you were too honest to do anything like that. But you were gone and no one could find you. I didn't know what to think." She was on the verge of tears again.

John sat quietly as she gathered herself.

"Do you have a cell phone?" he asked.

"Yes ... do you want to use it?"

He nodded. "Please."

She took it from her purse and handed it to him. He looked in his wallet for the card, then punched in the numbers.

"Detective Polikoff, please." He smiled reassuringly at the woman.

After a short pause, the familiar blunt voice, "Polikoff.".

"Martin, it's John. I think we may have the answer to my riddle. There's a woman sitting across from me who says she's my wife and that my name is Tony Milano. Can you meet with us at the tavern this afternoon?"

"Of course, John. Two-thirty too soon?"

"I'll see you then. Thanks," he signed off, snapping the phone closed and handing it back to the woman.

"You haven't told me your name," he smiled.

She looked shocked, but then recovered.

"Nina. Nina Novak before we were married."

"And we've been married twenty years? And we have children?"

"Yes, two sons and a daughter. Benjamin is eighteen, going on thirty," she smiled. "Nadia has just turned sixteen and Jared is thirteen. They're all in school. Ben is living on campus at Cornell. Nadia and Jared are at private school in Westport. They still live at home."

John leaned back, running his hands over his face and grimacing.

"Nina, I want you to come with me if you can. I need to tell you about my life right now and then we need to figure some things out. The man I just called is Detective Martin Polikoff. He's been trying to help me find out who I am and what happened to me. Now that you're here, maybe you can help him figure out how I ended up in the hospital and what might have caused it. Can you do that?"

"Yes, of course. I want to help you any way I can, Tony. You're my husband," she exclaimed.

"Yes ... good. What about the children? Who's looking after them?"

"Our housekeeper, Mrs. Martinez. I'll call her and give her the good news. The children will be excited to hear I've found you." She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and was about to make a call when John's hand covered hers and the phone.

"I just thought of something. Don't tell her about me just yet. Don't tell anyone. Let's talk to Martin first before we say anything. We still don't know what happened to me. If it was someone out to get me, they may not know I'm still alive. Can you just tell her you're staying in town for the night?"

"Yes. I hadn't even thought about your being in danger. I'll call her and the children this afternoon when they are home from school and let them know I'm staying in town." The look on her face was one of concern. Danger?

-0-