The Box of Memories

I open my eyes and try to guess where I am. Having failed to figure it out, I look around the small room. I am lying in a single bed beneath a window. To my left I see a kitchenette and a door. To my right is an open door to what appears to be a bathroom. Across the room, I see a plain table with two upright hardbacked chairs beside it. Shaking my head, I stand up and notice that I am wearing pajamas. I could go to the bathroom or the kitchen. Some urgency in my bowels prompts me to head to the bathroom.

Muscle memory helps me use the toilet and wash my hands. On the mirror is a list of tasks.

Morning

Brush teeth using brush and toothpaste on vanity.

Wash face and hands.

Comb hair using comb on vanity.

Apply deodorant on vanity to underarms.

Dress in clothes from the closet.

Make bed.

Make morning coffee in kitchen.

Afternoon

Shave using electric shaver on vanity.

Shower using towels from the closet.

That is very helpful. I carefully follow the list. The closet contains 5 pairs of underwear, 5 pairs of socks, 2 pairs of pants, 2 shirts, 1 pair of shoes, a sweater vest and a light jacket. I pick out my clothes for the day, including the sweater vest and the jacket, and dress carefully.

The next item on the list was to make my bed. I do that, somewhat sloppily, and notice for the first time that there is a pair of slippers next to it. I should remember that next time. I sit on the bed for a few minutes, tired by all the activity.

I’m not sure what came next, so I go back to the bathroom, avoiding the scary table in the middle of the room. The list told me to make coffee in the kitchen, so I set off to do that. I give the table a wide berth as I move to the kitchenette. There is something there that I don’t want to deal with.

The little kitchenette has a detailed set of instructions for making coffee, so I follow those step by step. As the coffee is heating up, I look at the door. I am not ready to step outside yet. But I have to find somewhere to sit and drink my coffee.

I look around the room, and the only place where I could sit down and drink was the table. I don’t want to deal with it, but it seems I have to. I set my coffee down on the table and take a seat. For a few sips, I manage to ignore the contents of the table, but they keep calling to me.

In the middle of the table is a large, ornate box. It has dozens of small drawers in it, each with a keyhole. Scattered around it is a disorderly heap of keys. Some of the keys have labels attached, but the labels do not have drawer numbers on them. Instead, they have random-seeming information. Some have tiny pictures of objects or places or people. Some have letters or colors or even scents, and a few make a noise when I touch them. And there are many keys with no information at all.

I drink my coffee and wonder about the keys and the box. I pick up a key at random and put it in a keyhole. Surprisingly, the key opens the lock. Inside the box, a small screen plays video of a house with a woman and children in it. I don’t recognize any of them. Disconcerted and confused, I close the drawer again and hear it lock. Further investigation can wait until later. Perhaps I could walk outside and find out some answers.

It’s a scary feeling opening the door. I have no idea what to expect out there. I almost want to crawl back into bed, but I am determined to understand where I am and what is going on.

The door opens smoothly, and I see a carpeted corridor going past it. Across, up and down the corridor are other doors. Some kind of apartment building or hotel, perhaps? I step out and close the door behind me. Someone is walking toward me to my left, pushing a cart, so I turn to face her and start to walk. “Good morning, Mr. Washington,” she says when we reach each other, “how are you this fine morning?”

Am I Mr. Washington? The name doesn’t seem familiar at all. But there is no one else there, and she thinks she knows me, so I say “I am well, thank you. Is there breakfast somewhere?” I’m not really hungry, but I feel a need to make conversation.

“Yes, Mr. Washington. Just keep walking to the end of the corridor, and it’ll be on your right. I’ll vacuum and restock your room while you’re gone.” She smiles and walks on past me.

There is indeed breakfast, served in a small room on my right. Bacon, eggs, potatoes, cereal, toast, coffee and orange juice. I always need coffee to wake me up in the morning. A waiter puts the food on my table, smiles at me, and leaves without comment. There is an elderly lady at another table, but she doesn’t look up at me, so I ignore her.

After breakfast, I return to my room. Except I don’t know where it was. I walk up and down the corridor, panicking. And I don’t have a key for the door. Even if I find the room, how would I get inside? I stop in the middle of the corridor, unsteady and heart beating rapidly, unsure what to do next. Eventually a smartly dressed young man stops to talk to me. “Mr. Washington? Can I help you?”

There was that name again. The young man has a name tag, so I address him by name. “Yes, Mr. Duncan. I seem to have forgotten my room number.”

To my surprise, he is not fazed by my situation. “No problem, Mr. Washington. It’s room 315, let’s go there now.” And he leads me a few steps down the corridor to a room on my left. “There, you see? It says Room 315 and there’s your name, M. Washington.”

To my intense relief, there indeed is the name. Now I have to find out where my key is. However, Mr. Duncan just opens the handle, and the door swings open. “Welcome home, Mr. Washington. Is there anything I can get for you?”

Gratefully, I walk inside and assure him he has done everything I needed. I hurry to the bed and lie down, closing my eyes until I feel better. After half an hour or so, I look up. There is a cup of coffee sitting on the table. The box and the keys are still there. I have to find out what it all means.

Sitting at the table, sipping my cold coffee (who left that there for me, and when?), I run my hand through the keys. I see colors and pictures, smell a floral scent, and then hear a familiar sound. I touch that key again and this time I clearly hear the name “Washington.”

Hesitantly, I pick up the key and put it into a keyhole. The key turns easily, and in the drawer is an image of an envelope addressed to Lt. Mike Washington, at an address in Arlington, Texas. Is that me? Am I in the army? I close that drawer and opened another, using the same key. I see dog tags there, in the name of Washington, Michael. Using the same key, I open drawer after drawer. I see videos and hear voices, watch myself signing a contract, standing in a church getting married, calling to a child who is running across a road. All sorts of unrelated situations, in no special order. But I become convinced that this is my life. There is some familiarity now that these things are placed side by side. I realize I am weeping, looking at this stranger living my life.

I put the key down on the table and go back to lie on the bed. I don’t know how much time has passed when I hear a knock at the door. I call out, inviting them to come in.

A woman in her 70s comes through the door. “Hello, Mike, how are you today?”

I stare at her. She looks somehow familiar, but I can’t put a name to her. “Hello, I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you.”

She smiles gently. “I’m JoAnn. I’m your wife. Your second wife, actually.” She doesn’t appear bothered that I didn’t recognize her. “I just stopped by to see how you’re doing. How has your day been so far?”

I frown, trying to remember her, but nothing rings a bell. What did she look like when she was younger? I point at the box on the table. “I’ve been trying to find things in the box. It’s very confusing. Can you help me sort out the keys?”

She glances at the table and moves toward it. “That’s a big job, Mike. We may have to try later in the week, when we have more time. But I see your coffee is cold. Would you like me to make you another one? I brought some of those cookies you like.”

She puts the cookies down on the table, takes the cup to the kitchenette and makes a hot cup of coffee for me. When she takes the cup to the table and sits down, I get up and join her. She doesn’t look at the box or the keys. It’s almost as though she doesn’t see them. “It’s good to see you.” I say, although I still don’t know her. “Those look like good cookies. Can I try one?”

I’m drinking coffee and eating cookies with this friendly lady, and life seems very calm and easy. The box and the keys have disappeared – someone probably took them away. I must remember my name. I think it started with an H. But we can worry about that tomorrow.