Memory Loss

He has been pacing the floor, for quite some time, as he waits for her to come home. His nerves are an absolute wreck. He has been doing figure-eights moving from the kitchen to the living room -clockwise around the kitchen table and counter-clockwise around the coffee table. Occasionally, lighting a cigarette while in proximity with one of the tables. He makes sure to dump his ashes in one of the ashtrays on either one. She hates when his ashes drop on the carpet. 

He decides to rest his feet, and sits at the kitchen table. His heart is bumping against the back of his sternum, and his leg could not bounce faster if he tried. There is a dull thud as he pops the screen on his phone with his finger -nothing. He sits, and listens to the rain wallop his metal roof. Is that hale? He sticks the cigarette in his lips, picks up his cellphone, and stands up from the table. 

He crosses into the living room, passing the coffee table, dumping ashes as he walks by it. He pulls the blinds down with his finger. They make that familiar popping thump. He has already forgotten the rain. His mind is back on her. He peers out over the front yard. Her car is still there. Did her sister come to get her? Were the two of them suppose to go shopping today? He cannot remember her leaving. Why can he not remember? He lets go of the blind and it snaps back in place. He makes his way back over to the kitchen table. As he sits, he crushes his smoke in the ashtray. Just as before, he thumps his phone, the screen illuminates, and once again -nothing.

He decides to check the bathroom. He looks in the tub, behind the door, the shower, and even in the cabinets. There is no sign of her and nothing out of place. He slams a balled up hand into the countertop out of frustration. “Why can’t I remember anything?!” 

She could be at work; maybe she carpooled. He goes to the kitchen, lights a cigarette, and grabs his phone. He hits the screen with his thumb -nothing. He makes his way out of the front door jumps into the car. As he shuts the door, the phone vibrates in his hand, “That’s her!!” He snatches the phone to his face, his heart leaps into his throat, but quickly drops into his ass. ‘GrimGooner1996 Just Liked Your Post On Instagram.’ He quietly sits the phone into the cup holder, feeling defeated but, at the same time, happy that someone liked his post. He did not get many of those.

The glorious stench of cigarette quickly feels the car before he is able to get the window down. The brake pedal gives little resistance as he puts it in reverse and starts down the driveway. He abruptly stops and kills the motor. He leaps out of the driver’s door, What am I thinking?! She does not like him touching the car, let alone, driving it. Instead, standing in the front yard, he pulls out his phone -still nothing- and calls her work.

“Hello, thank you for calling Spirit Halloween. How may I help you?”

“Hey, my name is Rick Sanders. My wife Becky works there. Is she there today?”

“No, Mr. Sanders, we haven’t seen her. We tried calling her phone earlier, but were unable to reach anyone. She is on the schedule for today. Is Becky alright?”

“I’m sure she’s fine. She just slipped out while I was napping or something, I think. Yup, okay, will do. Have a good one. Buh-bye.”

He hangs up quickly and goes to his calls and texts. There is always a chance that she called or texted, and because he was on the phone, it did not go off. His heart rate rises as he hits the icons. Stranger things have happened -nothing. He heads back inside; back to clockwise and counter-clockwise pacing and chain smoking.

How long has she been gone? When did I last see her? Where did I last see her? I cannot remember!!

Maybe she has gone somewhere with her girlfriends, possibly a trip. She was known to take part in regular girl’s nights and girl’s trips. One of their favorite places to visit was the beach; matter of fact, that is where she cheated on him three years ago. He does his best to not think about such things though. Especially right now, it would not do any good. He lights yet another cigarette, and leans over the table tapping his phone - nothing. 

Did I do something to make her mad? Am I the cause of all of this? Maybe she’s at her mother’s. She often goes there after they have a fight. The old hag never liked him from the start. His wife’s car is in his name too, a Christmas gift a fews years ago. It makes sense that she would leave it, and his mother-in-law would gladly come whisk her daughter away. She has tried so many times to break them up throughout their relationship. 

Long before they were even engaged to marry, his mother-in-law hired a prostitute to seduce him. Then the private investigator, that she hired to follow him around, would get pictures of it. Unfortunately, the working gal seduced one of his buddies instead, by mistake. His friend, unknowingly, had a lovely evening on Rick’s mother-in-law’s dime. 

He pulls his phone out -nothing.

They had a bad argument the week prior. Did we start arguing again, and she left? The argument started as a heated discussion over the bills, and quickly devolved into him screaming about how she treats him, and how she is turning into her mother. He quickly became worked up, and his eyes turned blood red, as he listed off all of her wrong doings and transgressions. As he sits, and thinks about it, he realizes he cannot remember the whole fight.

He stops a moment and slowly begins to panic when he realizes he cannot remember the day of the week. He has no point of reference for how long she has been gone. It could be a week. It could be a month. He snatches his phone out of his pocket -still nothing- and calls 911. The kind lady on the other end of the line assured him an officer would be at his home shortly so he can file a missing person’s report.

An hour into cigarettes and laps around the tables, there are three loud knocks at the door. He rushes over and opens the door to find a policeman with a clipboard. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, man.” The cop says. “What in the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Sir, the entire left side of your head is covered in dried blood. It’s caked into your hair.” The officer hits his radio. “Dispatch, send EMS to Hollingsworth Way. I have one male with an obvious head injury.”

The officer directs Rick to have a seat on the porch while he runs to his car. Rick feels his head. His hair has a texture like mud has been smeared through it and left to dry.

The officer sits down with his first aid kit and starts examining Rick’s head. He begins to tell the cop about his wife, when the officer stops him.

“Dispatch, tell EMS to step it up and send additional units. There appears to be a bullet wound in the side of the victim’s head.”

“You have to find my wife. She is missing.”

“Sir, let’s focus on making sure you’re alright, first.”

“No, damnit.” He swats the officer’s hands away. “You have to find her!” 

The cop asks, “When was the last time you saw her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Any idea if she would have left on her own?”

Rick answers, “No.”

“Does she have any enemies?”

“No. I don’t think. I don’t know.” 

“Do you remember what happened to your head?”

“No.”

The paramedics arrive, and the additional units are right behind them. The paramedics waste no time getting Rick onto the stretcher and into the ambulance. Right before the door shuts Rick yells, “Bring me my phone!” The ambulance peels away.

*****************

He has been lying in a hospital bed for a few weeks now, well medicated and subjected to every test in the book. He still incessantly asks for his phone and about his wife. He snatches at his hand cuff every so often and watches the rail on the bed shake, “You can’t keep me a prisoner, damnit! I’ve done nothing wrong!!”

A man in a cheap suit with a bulbous nose lets himself into the room. “Mr. Sanders, my name is Detective Killroy. I’m a homicide detective with the Vespucci Police Department. I’ve been assigned to your’s and your wife’s…”

“My wife!! Have you found her?!”

“Yes, but…”

“Oh thank god!!!! Is she alright?!”

“She’s deceased, Mr. Sanders.”

“What… what’d you mean? How? Where did you find her?” He begins to tear up looking at the detective.

“Well, Mr. Sanders, we found her in the house in bed.”

“In my house?” He’s confused. There has to be some kind of a mistake. He was in the house. He never saw her. Had she left and came back while he was in the hospital?

The detective pulls up a chair next to the bed, and with soft direct speech says, “She was shot in the head in her sleep.”

“Have you found who did it?!”

“Yes, it was you, Mr. Sanders. Across the room we found a large puddle of blood that we tested, and it came back as your blood. Next to this large puddle of blood was the murder weapon, a 9mm. Your prints are the only ones on the gun as well as your own blood. We checked your outside and downstairs security cameras. There was no one seen leaving or arriving around the time of the murder. So, as of right now you are in custody for the murder of your wife. 

“Your doctors have told me that, with the trajectory of the bullet, it is possible that it affected your memory. This may be a lot to take in, but this will not be our last conversation. Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Sanders?”

He sits still, quiet and emotionless, for a long time. It is like he is straining to make sense out of the detective’s words. His mind feels overloaded, and he is unable to focus on a single topic. He finally turns his head away from the detective, and says “No.”

“Well, I will be in touch. Here I figured you might want this back. Have a good day.” The detective sits Rick’s phone down on the table by the bed.

He quickly snatches up the phone as the detective leaves the room. With his right hand he fights his cuffs again, and with the left he thumps his phone -still nothing.