Who I've Always Been - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 (or maybe part of chapter 2) - A Little Personal History Lesson

As Dr. Voule walks out, four new people walk in. No, I recognize the Woman-Who-Must-Be-My-Mother. She looks happier than she did yesterday. Her face is bright, her eyes clear, her thin lips turned up in a humongous grin, her shoulders straighter and stoic. She is wearing makeup today: the age spots are nearly invisible under a smooth foundation; the crows feet and under-eye circles have faded; her brown eyes are highlighted with slightly shimmering eye shadow, eyeliner, and mascara; her cheeks look more plump tinted with pink blush; she painted her lips a light mauve; and her hair is neatly coiffed, untangled and hanging lightly around her shoulders, framing her much-brightened face. She is wearing a sparkly blue top that matches her purse. She appears 10 years younger.

With her are two men, one older with whom she is holding hands, and one younger, plus a young woman. I guess that the older one must be Doug, from the animated yet brief phone call yesterday. "Dad" I guess.

The Woman-Who-Must-Be-My-Mother smiles as she comes close and takes my hand. "Sweetie, do you know who we are?" she asks, expectant and hopeful.

"I'm sorry," I say, feeling truly sorry. "Dr. Voule said amnesia is common..." I trail off. I expect her face to fall and to see tears. She surprises me.

"Yes, dear, that's ok. We know. He told us, too. Don't worry. He feels your memories will come back quickly once you're around friends and family again, once you're surrounded by your things at home. Don't worry," she repeats. I know she's trying to reassure me, but it also sounds like she's trying to reassure herself too. Either way, it does feel good to not worry. I can't tell her about the (false?) memories I do have, not yet, but maybe they are right - get back to real life and I'll remember more. Those words and her motherly tone relax me. I hadn't realized I was holding my shoulders tight nearly up to my ears. It's stressful meeting a family you didn't know you had, not to mention ruminating about the family you're afraid you lost. I take a deep breath. I smile. They all smile back.

The Woman-Who-Is-My-Mother laughs just a bit and says, "Let me introduce you to your family: your Dad, your brother Jonathan, and Kimber, your sister." Dad leans over and gives me a large bear hug, which is awkward but I try not to show it. Jonathan nods, like any proud adult male does when he's concerned showing too much emotion will seem weak and unmanly. Kimber waves, thinks better of it, and rushes to the bed, giving me a squeezing (and squealing) girl-hug, reminiscent of teen girls meeting each other at the mall.

Dad is large, burly, as though he was a state-champion wrestler in high school but has done little actual wrestling since then. He has greying almost-black hair, a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, full red lips, and soothing cobalt eyes. He smells like sandalwood, which I find pleasant. When he speaks, he surprises me with a soft yet rumbling voice. "You had us worried, Half-pint," and then his eyes mist over and he blinks a few times.

"Daaaad!" Kimber says, dramatically nudging him with her elbow "We aren't kids anymore. Can you try to shelve those kid nick-names?" She winks at me, apparently sharing an inside joke we have regarding Dad and his pet names for us. I wonder what hers is.

Kimber has glossy brown hair, a shade darker than the hair I saw in the compact yesterday. Hers is less highlighted, straight, and cut in a flirty bob, right at her chin. She has brown eyes - I'm starting to see a familial pattern - and well-defined cheekbones, just like Mom. She's tall and and thin, with a curvy waist and just as curvy chest. She's wearing a deep pink dolman-style blouse with dark tight jeans and sparkly silver flats. "There's no place like home, There's no place like home, There's no place like home" I think, mentally clicking her heels together.

There's an awkward silence as we all stare at each other. Jonathan tosses his shaggy hair with a flick of his head, brown with curls almost like ringlets that hang just over his eyes, cover his ears, and skirt his collar line. Only single guys have hair like that. I wonder if he's single. I know nothing about these people!

"Sooooooo" Mom says. "Dr. Voule said you should be able to go home tomorrow."

"Uh, yeah. I'm unhooked from all the equipment" I say brightly, happy to have something concrete to talk about, raising my right arm to show there is no IV attached. "I was up moving around today, too, though this gown is really prohibitive in that regard." Jonathan smirks, in a brotherly I'm-relishing-in-your-embarrassment way, but mom pipes up.

"Oh, right, Sweetie! I brought you some real clothes," she announces, and walks to the door. Now I see there is a red canvas suitcase on wheels leaning against the door jamb. She grabs the black telescoping handle and wheels it over to the chair next to the far side of the bed under the window, contracts the handle back into the suitcase, then hefts it up to the chair. She unzips it and rifles around a second, then pulls out a simple blue cotton robe with pink and yellow flowers embroidered along the hem.

"This should help," she exclaims.

"Ooooooh. Very much!" I reply, extremely thankful for a mother's intuition.

She continues, "and I brought you some normal clothes for when you go home tomorrow: panties and a bra, culottes, and a cute blouse"

Kimber rolls her eyes. "We just call those capris, Mom."

"Well I call them culottes," Mom curtly replies. 

"Thank you" I tell her, "I'm sure they will work great. I'm very excited to get out of here. But, uh....honestly I don't know where home is, or what city I'm in, or anything about my life...I uh..." I can feel my forehead wrinkling as I tense up again and hear myself rambling.

"Rosie, look at me," Mom says sternly. "We will help you. We are family and we love you very much."

Kimber sets her arm reassuringly on my shoulder. "Yes, Rose, we are so happy to have you awake. We know it could be a long recovery, but it's worth it to have you back. Right Jonathan?" She asks and looks expectantly at him, pressuring him to contribute something to the conversation.

"Right. Very happy," he confirms.  Kimber gives him a piercing look. "No, really. It's good to have you back." He says much more convincingly.

"The strong, silent type" Kimber says, pointing her finger right at him. "But he's a good big brother, and he knows it. Don't doubt him for a second."

Jonathan shrugs. He is the tallest of the bunch, thin and bony. Built more like Mom than Dad. In addition to those gorgeous locks, his face is well chiseled with a well defined chin and thin cheekbones. Though he definitely takes after Mom, he's not at all feminine-looking. Handsome. Self assured. Maybe some sort of artist as his clothing choices seem to give off the urban loft-living, coffeehouse visiting, scat-listening vibe of the young and hip. He's wearing tight dark jeans and a crumpled white t-shirt, with a tatoo-art-inspired dragon design on the front. He's slipped on some canvas shoes, no socks. It looks to me like he just grabbed the first three clothing items he came across from his floor and tossed them on, not bothering to care how they looked. I wonder if he smelled them first.

"Hey, I'm happy she's here," he directs at Kimber. "You want me to jump up and down and clap my hands?" he asks.

Kimber smiles big and says "Yes," just as I also say, "Oh, please do. I need some merriment around here. The hospital is SO depressing," and he laughs a great big laugh. I smile and start feeing more comfortable with these people, who obviously are very invested in me getting well.

Mom says, "Let me give you a little personal history lesson." She sits on my bed, and I move my legs over to make more room. She smiles and sets her hand on my knee. "You are Rose Magdalene Hawthorne, born January, 23, 1990..." This blows my mind. I count mentally on my fingers: I was in the 8th grade in 1990. "...born and raised in Philadelphia, PA. Wait," she pauses, "Do you know what country we're in? How significant is your memory loss?"

"Oh. I...." I'm taken aback by her questions. I'm not sure how to answer. I can't tell her that I think I'm someone else. It must be weird talking to someone with "amnesia."I, too, am curious how much stuff people with amnesia do and do not remember. I guess I need to stick to the basics, for now. "Yes, the United States of America. I'm not really sure how amnesia works..." I say.

"Right. No worries. Just stop me if I'm giving you too much detail," she replies, then continues. "Jonathan is six years older than you, and Kimber is three years older than you..." At this point, I see Kimber roll her eyes surreptitiously, then walk over and remove the suitcase from the chair Mom had put it on. She grabs that chair and the other one next to it, bringing one for Jonathan and one for Dad. "You all attended Holy Cross Catholic School from Kindergarten through the 8th grade, and Trinity Heart High School." Kimber points to the door over her shoulder with her thumb, turns, and leaves. "You attended Holy Family University for 4 years, graduating last Spring - almost a year ago already! - with a degree in Communications." Kimber returns carrying another chair, sets it at the foot of my bed, where I can look at her straight on, and finally sits down, propping her legs up on my bed and crossing her feet at the ankles. "After graduation, you got a job as a social media consultant for a local restaurant, owned by one of our dear friends, Walter Hasley..." I get the impression Kimber knows that we will be here a while.

"Oh. Very interesting," I say.

"Do you remember any of that?" she asks hopefully.

"No" I shake my head sadly. Then, to not dwell on it too closely, I say "So what do you and Dad do?" only slightly hesitating on "Dad," like a second hand on a cheap watch missing a beat.

Mom looks proudly at Dad. "Your father is an architect, working on large and small community projects mainly, specializing in revivals of older traditional styles, like in historical buildings, churches, and the like. I am a stay at home mom." I feel my heart squeeze tight in my chest and I'm afraid it might stop beating. <i>I am too!</i> I want to say, but I hold my lips tight and try to focus on what she's saying right now, not what she just said. "Though now that you kids are all grown up," she pauses to grin pensively at Jonathan and Kimber, "I've been volunteering at the church semi-regulary -"

Dad cuts her off. "SEMI-regularly?" he questions. "There's no SEMI about it...it's practically a full-time job, my Dear!" He says in a don't-try-to-fool-anyone tone.

She laughs. "Yes, well, I love it," she says unapologetically, chin held high.

"What do you do there?" I question to keep her story going. The more she talks, the less I feel under a microscope.

"This and that. I am a Jack of All Trades. My duties include sorting donations; planning seasonal events like the Spring Fling and Winter Bazaar, Lenten Periogi Sale, Summer Splash, and Autumn Harvest Festival and recruiting volunteers for same; and maintaining the congregational directory," she says as if reading from her resume.

"Sounds like you are indispensable. They couldn't function without you."

"Aw, Sweetie, thanks. We all do our part," she says humbly. "There are so many volunteers. We all work together."

Kimber sees her chance and jumps in to the conversation, now that Mom has paused, "I am a teacher. 1st grade."

"Aw. I bet your kiddos are cute. Do you enjoy it?" I ask.

"Yes, the kids are very sweet. I do enjoy the job." She is smiling.

"I don't know how she stands the rug rats," Jonathan grumbles.

"You're not a fan of kids, then, I take it," I say.

"They just seem like a lot of work..." he says. I nod sagely, but catch myself before I refer to what my memories suggest are my own personal experiences with kids. Those experiences certainly are not Rose's experiences. Revealing that I'm having memories of another's life would just make this difficult situation more complex and confusing for all of us. Better to let them continue telling me about Rose.

"I surmise you are not a teacher, pediatrician, or school bus driver," I smirk, mirroring his earlier look. "What do you do, then?"

"I produce music, and write and perform my own," he answers.

"Very cool," I reply. "What genre of music?"

He continues, "That I write or produce?"

"Both" I say.

"Ah, well, my stuff is kinda an urban, progressive rock, punk fusion. Me and a few guys from the music scene created a small-time production company that we run in Danny's apartment downtown - he's converted it to a decent studio. We've been getting more work lately now that the word is going around: punk, industrial, alternative, a couple old-time grunge bands. No big names yet. Good stuff, though."

"Wow. That's exciting. I'd love to hear your stuff. Sounds intriguing," I say, though I'm a bit shocked at his characterization of grunge bands as being "old-time".

I notice Mom and Dad exchange a brief look - I wonder if "this type" of music is outside Rose's character. Oh well - I'd think amnesia can affect all sorts of character traits. It actually sounds like something I would like. 

Again an uncomfortable silence descends upon us. What else can we say when we don't know each other? What do you talk about with a complete stranger - no shared interests, no common ground, we can't even talk about the weather, since I haven't experienced local weather first-hand ever or in eight months, depending on the point of view. Oh....maybe we can.

"So what's the weather like out there?" I ask, gesturing toward the window

"Cool and wet, but not rainy today," Kimber contributes. "It's the type of weather we used to love as kids, Rose. We'd dig up the garden, make mud pies, and sing songs in the rain under our umbrellas. It's finally Spring!" She chirps, like the first Robin of the season. I do love Spring! Maybe Rose and I have a few things in common.

"April Showers Bring May Flowers" I say, unthinking.

"Wow, it sure is weird what you remember and what you don't," Kimber says. "Do you remember math? Like, what is 5 times 5?"

"25" I answer, indulging her.

"Spell Mississippi."

"M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I"

"Who was the first man on the moon?"

"Neil Armstrong. One small step and all..." I say.

"What's the state bird?"

Well, crap, I've never known the state bird of Pennsylvania. "I don't know" I say. I know the state bird of Arizona - a cactus wren - but that information would just confuse her or expose me, so I don't speak up.

"Yeah, I can never remember either," she laughs. Phew! "Well, you seem to remember basic school facts. Maybe that's different from memories of experiences and relationships?"

"Yeah, maybe. The brain is a complex organ," I say.

This seems to stop the pop quiz, which is a relief to me.

"Well, Honey, you look good!" Mom says, breaking the uncomfortable silence that has returned. "We will let you get some more rest. Tomorrow we get you out of here!" she says happily, then gives me a hug. We go around again, with hugs from everyone, and then say goodbye. They all leave the room walking a little lighter than when they walked in - I'm sure they are relieved Rose is no longer in a coma. If only I could be so happy.