“He’s right,” I spoke loudly, casting my words in the direction of the door. “It’s not his fault, so will you two please quit arguing about it.”
Silence instantly replaced the tempered squabble. After a moment Ben and Felicity came sheepishly through the door and positioned themselves next to the bed.
“Row…” my wife sighed as she brushed my disheveled hair back from my forehead, “shouldn’t you be resting, then?”
Felicity gave the outward appearance of a fragile china doll standing next to Ben. Petite, with a milky complexion, her own hair was a pile of flaming auburn resting atop her head in a loose Gibson girl. Whenever she let it down, it was a rush of spiral curls reaching almost to her waist. Her green eyes held more than a hint of concern as she gazed back at me. Her normally smooth face was wrinkled with mild anguish. A second generation Irish-American, her voice usually held only the barest hint of an accent but could blossom fully into a thick brogue-at times liberally peppered with Gaelic-if she were tired, stressed, angry, or had recently spent time with certain members of her family. Right now, it was obvious that at the very least the first two options were weighing in, maybe even the third.
“I’m trying to,” I answered, “but it’s a bit noisy.”
“Sorry, white man,” Ben offered apologetically. “Didn’t mean to keep ya’ up.”
“You weren’t, actually,” I replied. “The doctor told me I had to stay awake until the test results came back.”
“So ya’ wanna help me out and tell the red squaw here that I didn’t call ya’ in on this.”
“What were you doing there then?” Felicity queried without waiting for me to fulfill Ben’s request.
“Ben didn’t have anything to do with me being there.” I went ahead and made the statement for his benefit then addressed my wife’s question. “And, I haven’t quite figured that part out yet.”
The last half of my sentence was joined by the swooshing sound of the door to the treatment room swinging open. A tired looking brunette woman dressed in blue hospital scrubs and a lab coat followed the door inward. In her hand she carried an oversized brown envelope clearly marked with my name and a handful of other scrawlings that only made sense to someone in the medical profession or a two-year-old. I wasn’t sure which.
“How are you feeling, Mister Gant?”
“About the same, I guess,” I answered.
“Good.” She nodded as she crossed the room to the opposite wall. “No new pains or tremors?”
“No. Just a bit of a headache.”
After pulling a rectangular x-ray from the envelope, she deftly popped it into a pair of holding clips on a wall-mounted box and then switched on the backlight.
“How about your memory?” she queried as she stared at the black and white study of my skull. “Can you tell me what day this is?”
“Tuesday, December eighteenth,” I answered, exasperated that I was being put through this line of questioning for yet a third time. “My middle name is Linden, I’m thirty-nine years old, I’m married…”
“All I wanted was the date, Mister Gant,” she cut me off, sounding slightly distracted. “And by the way, it’s past midnight, so it is actually Wednesday the nineteenth.”
“Do I lose any points for that?”
“There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary on your x-rays,” she began, ignoring my jibe and giving the film a final once over. She then turned and crossed her arms over her chest as she leaned against the wall. “And your blood work is fine.”
“So why don’t you look pleased?” I asked.
“I’m a little concerned about the fact that you blacked out, as well as the description of your earlier dementia provided by Detective Storm. These could be indicators of a mild ischemic stroke. What I’d like to do is get a head CT and keep you under observation for a while.”
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” I protested.
“Well, I do,” she returned flatly. “And while I certainly cannot keep you here against your will, I strongly suggest that you have this test.”
The door whooshed once again, and a nurse urgently poked her head through the opening. “Doctor Morrison, we need you in Trauma-two.”
“Why don’t you discuss it with your wife, Mister Gant,” the harried MD told me as she headed out after the nurse. “Someone will check back with you in a few minutes.”
As the door swung shut behind her, I knew better than to open my mouth. Felicity and Ben were looking at me with steeled expressions, and it was immediately plain that they were on her side. Effectively it had become three against one. I never even stood a chance.
It was just past 6:30 in the morning. Felicity had headed out in search of coffee, and I was all but imprisoned in a hospital room against my wishes. Ben had headed back to his crime scene as soon as he was convinced that I would stay put without drastic measures. He had even gone so far as to offer Felicity his handcuffs. Something told me she gave it serious consideration; even though when she declined the offer her comment included a pointed joke, saying that she just might be interested in borrowing them when I was feeling better. At least I think it was a joke. I didn’t always know where she was concerned.
I was hoping the doctor would get the results of her test back soon or at least see fit to release me so that I would be able to head home, but so far it wasn’t looking very promising. I had been trying to squeeze in a nap ever since she had okayed it, but all I’d really managed to do was doze in and out for the past 45 minutes.
My head was resting in the deep depression of a too soft pillow, and I was settled uncomfortably on the inclined bed. I was just taking another run at getting some sleep when I heard the doctor’s voice.
“How are you doing, Mister Gant?”
I opened my eyes and found her standing at the end of the bed. She appeared just as tired as she had a few hours ago.
“As well as can be expected I suppose.”
“Good,” she answered succinctly as she jotted something on a clipboard, then without looking up she added, “Interesting talent you have there. Is it legible or are you just doodling?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“The writing without looking.” She gestured to the adjustable table that was positioned over the bed in front of me. “You were even doing it with your eyes closed when I walked in.”
I tilted my head forward to gaze in the direction she indicated and watched in astonishment as my left hand, gripping a pencil, moved swiftly back and forth across a small notepad. Several pages had already been filled and flipped upward.
The fact that I was right-handed isn’t even what bothered me most. Or even the fact that I was writing both forwards and backwards. No…it was the realization that I’d had no idea what my left hand was doing until it had been pointed out to me that really got under my skin.
As I watched, my hand automatically flipped the newly filled page up and set the tip of the pencil against an empty sheet. I stared on as it continued of its own accord to scribe in smooth, clear, and wholly unfamiliar handwriting, repeating over and over the same line of text as it had on all the previous pages.
Dead I am. Dead I am. I do not like that dead I am.
CHAPTER 3
“So what’re ya’ doin’ now?” Ben asked as he stared at the pad of paper. “Tryin’ ta’ be some kinda morbid Doctor Seuss?”
I’d expected that. I didn’t necessarily like it, but it was bound to come out of someone sooner or later. And the more I thought about it, the more I suspected it would end up being not just sooner or later, but both. Even I had no choice but to admit that the similarity between what I’d written and one of the most memorable lines from a beloved children’s book was uncanny. I was certain to be hearing about it from anyone who became privy to the product of my unconscious scribbling. Under wholly different circumstances the parallel might even have been amusing.