Lost and Found

Clark reached for his new phone, a Universe S 20,000 or whatever ridiculous number they were up to now. He awoke earlier with an odd sense of déjà vu; almost certain he had lived this Saturday morning before. Shaking the feeling off, he sat and stared at his much-too-expensive device and forgot who he had intended to send a message to.

“Was I gonna text? Drew? Sarah? Who the hell was I…”

Suddenly, Clark fell into a hazy stupor. His vision became blurry, and a flash in his mind took him back to last week when he was in the operating room receiving his “therapy” for his treatment-resistant depression. White-haired, horn-rimmed Dr. Castmeyer had performed a bilateral electroconvulsive therapy treatment. Unlike the multiple unilateral sessions administered to Clark in the past, the bilateral sessions came with a greater risk of memory loss. Clark’s regular psychiatrist, Dr. Cino, warned against it, but hard times call for hard choices.

“I…need to call…no…I need to get to the hospital, right now,” he said aloud.

Clark did not understand the internal need to pack a bag. Yet he hurriedly packed a beloved green military sack, a gift from his once-upon-a-time high school best friend turned pen pal, Gina. The bag was a gift; she had bought it at her local PX outlet for civilian versions of service gear. It felt special to him because after she sent it, her final deployment, which was meant to end her active service, ended her life. It wasn’t meant to be the final trip, but times are difficult, and Clark did not like to think about never hearing from his friend again.

Still, in times of great need, she had always been there for him. This time was no different. Gina may have been physically gone, but Clark held on to her memory, channeling her support during this unforeseen and unexplained crisis.

Once packed, the increasingly confused man reached for his keys on the way out of the apartment. They were sitting on top of his freshly printed State University diploma, but he couldn’t recall ever going to school. Clark vaguely remembered what seemed like a dream of his first lecture, about two years ago, on August 16th, his 27th birthday. Yet he could not recall ever being in a classroom, nor could he describe the instructor's face. His memory was fading quickly. Details of once-thought-permanent experiences suddenly felt as if they had happened to someone else.

Running up the four flights of stairs to his building manager’s apartment, Clark had the clarity to make sure his two orange tabby cats, Tank and Cipher, were taken care of during his absence.

He knocked on his door furiously, forgetting for a moment why he had stopped at Mr. Gavinson’s door.

“Yeah? I’m coming,” a gruff voice said from inside. The door opened to a man in a yellow bathrobe, covered in cigarette ash and red brandy stains. “What is it, Mr. McKenna? Fridge leaking again?”

“No, sir, it's my...my mind is leaking. Look, I'll be gone for maybe a few weeks. I am not sure why. I have to go to the hospital. Can you look after Tank and Cipher for me? Their water jug is freshly filled, the litter box isn’t too dirty, and I filled their automatic feeder yesterday. I think. I am not sure, but it would mean a lot if you looked after them. Again.”

“This is the third time this year, Clark.”

“I know, but this time it's really important. Something isn’t right, and I just have to find her…Dr. Cino. She’ll know what to do.”

“I don’t understand, but your cats will be fine. Good luck, son.”

With the closing of the door, it felt like another memory had fallen out of Clark’s head. He couldn’t remember why he was standing in this brown-walled hallway with grey, worn carpet. The only thing on his mind was two words: the hospital.

On foot, Clark jumped off the apartment front staircase into the street and began to run. And then…nothing.

The local hospital was conveniently six blocks away. Clark did not have a car, so he frequently walked to St. Gerome to get medical services, mental health care, and routine check-ups at their clinic. Yet if the increasingly amnesiac man was called to court and held under oath, he would not be able to tell the judge how he made it to the ER.

Clark stepped up to the check-in window and blankly stared at the intake clerk. “What’s your name, sir? Are you injured?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Look, I need a name if you are to be seen. Is this an emergency?” the confused and slightly irritated clerk said.

“Cino. Dr. Cino. I can’t tell you why, but I need to see her.”

The clerk pushed her chair back from the desk and rested her head in her hands. “That is not how ERs work, sir. I need your name, date of birth, and the reason for your visit, if I am going to tell Dr. Cino that someone is here to see her. Cino works in the mental health ward upstairs. Are you one of her patients?”

“I don’t remember my name. How did I get here? Why am I in the hospital?”

The clerk stood up and looked at Clark. He was still in bed clothes, wrinkled cut-off grey sweatpants, and a superhero skull T-shirt riddled with holes. “Just have a seat, sir. Let me grab the charge nurse,” she said.

Clark was puzzled at the clerk’s eye winking at him as she turned away. He could see a woman in dark scrubs in the distance, writing on a clipboard as the clerk approached her. They appeared to talk for a minute or two, and the clerk, with the nurse, came around the wall into the waiting room.

The nurse in front of him pulled her long blonde hair up in a ponytail, assuming this meant a long, confusing day. She wiped the excess hairspray from her hands onto her already-stained-from-the-day purple scrub pants.

“You came to us, sir. You don’t know why?”

Suddenly, a voice from the open hallway just outside the ER shouted in excitement. “Oh my god! Clark? What are you doing here? Are you ok?”

“Excuse me, do you know this man, Rebecca? You have only been a volunteer here for two weeks. How do you know him?”

Rebecca put her hand on the absent-minded man and said, “Clark…uh…I don’t remember his last name, but this is Clark! We were in sociology together at State. We went on like, one date, and I told him I would rather be friends, but…Clark? Is he hurt? Clark, do you remember me?”

“I don’t know you. Rebecca? You seem familiar. I think you were nice to me once. If that was me. I don’t know who me is.”

The charge nurse put a hand on Clark’s other arm. “Clark. It is going to be ok. Let’s get you back. Rebecca will come with us. It’s going to be alright.”

“Nurse Wilson, Clark is amazing at remembering random facts,” Rebecca said. “He isn’t crazy. Something happened. Clark, can you tell me what happened?”

The next twenty minutes were a blur. Registration entered the room and asked for his name. Much like everyone else up to this point, she was disappointed and confused at the answer. “If you don’t know your name,” she said, “Please give me your ID, sir. Do you have a wallet?”

“I…don’t…I have a wallet.” Clark reached into his pocket and pulled out a black bifold with silver naps. “Wait. I guess I do. He slid his ID out of the main card pocket.

The computer tech ran the full name through the computer and saw that Clark McKenna had recently had electroconvulsive therapy treatment six days ago.

“Dr. Cino. Do you remember Dr. Cino, Mr. McKenna? She is listed as your last primary hospital provider. It says Dr. Castmeyer performed an elective electroconvulsive therapy session for your major depressive disorder.”

Clark pulled his hands down his face as if washing with no water. “Cino. I need to see Cino. I don’t know why. I…just need to…it’s the only name in my head.”

“Mr. McKenna, I am going to be right back. You just sit here and try to relax, ok?” The registration tech wheeled her cart towards the solid oak door, loudly dinging the corner on the way out.

The charge nurse walked in a few minutes later with a phlebotomist. Nurse Wilson ran through the standard questions, such as substance use history and whether or not he was actively on any mind-altering drugs. The evidence could be interpreted differently, yet Clark said, not to his knowledge.

The nurse left the room, along with the “vampire,” and Rebecca snuck back in when no one was looking. She pulled out a piece of paper and wrote her name and number on it. “Clark, when this is over, give me a call. I am going to want to know you’re ok.”

“Are you allowed to be in here? Clark asked. “I thought you served coffee?”

Rebecca once more put her hand on his shoulder. Her long brown hair had a familiar smell. A distinct scent, like burnt cherries, that Clark knew he had smelled before. “We had coffee together. I am in training here. Please, call me.”

Just then, another doctor entered the room. A small woman, who leaned forward as she walked, with messy blonde hair shooting in every direction.

“Clark... It's Dr. Cino. How do you feel?”

Clark began to cry as Rebecca slipped out of the room. “I don’t know you. I don’t know who I am. I just knew I needed to find you.”

Dr. Cino pulled out her phone and pulled up a picture of her cat. “This is Garfunkel. Do you remember him? When you come in and see me for your bloodwork results, we talk about Gar, your cats, Cipher, and Tank. Do you remember any of that, Clark?”

“Why do you keep calling me ‘Clark’? My name is… it's…I know my name is…”

“You don’t remember the blankets I made for your kitties, Clark? I warned Dr. Castmeyer that a bilateral was risky,” she said. “He knew the risks too, but we will get you to the inpatient. We are gonna help you.”

The next 12 hours were something of a dream. Clark was taken upstairs and put in a solitary room. He had no memory of how he got up there, what he may have eaten for dinner, or who did his intake. The unfortunate dazed-and-confused man’s memory was nothing but a void.

The next morning, Clark awoke in a softly colored, sky-blue room, next to a red-and-green floor mat. He looked around and saw that the window was locked. He stood up and fell over. His legs were stiff from sleeping in jeans on a tile floor. His shirt was off as he blinked and realized he couldn’t see clearly. He went to open the door. It was another oversized, heavy oak obstacle that, this time, restricted his freedom. He knocked on the door three times.

Suddenly, the door opened. A woman walked in with short, jet-black hair and striking blue eyes. She wore clean, pressed green scrubs and brought him a Dixie cup, white with blue and purple lines, filled with water.

“I can’t see straight. Where am I? I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know who I am.”

“We had you take your contacts out last night. You told us your eyes were blurry and dry. Please sit with me on the mat,” she said.

The amnesiac man sat willingly but cautiously. She sat in front of him, the pair both on their knees, and she looked into his dark brown eyes. The nurse reached out her hand and held his tightly.

“Do you know who I am?” the strange yet comforting woman asked.

Clarity washed over the confused patient. Memories came rushing back. It felt less like a bolt of lightning and more of a slow, mental flow of surety and safety. He knew this woman. He talked with her for hours over the last few years. There was no explanation as to why, but just the sight of her, looking into his eyes, brought everything back. Call it fate, divine intervention, or random happenstance, but Clark was back.

“You’re Annika.”

“That’s right, and do you know who you are?”

“I’m Clark,” he said. “You used to talk to me about your son. You said he was very smart, but had some trouble in school.”

Annika's distinctive smile made Clark feel even more secure. “He is a lot like you,” she said.

“I remember that. I remember everything. I think…I think you saved me,” the assured man said with full confidence.

“You saved yourself; you got here. You got safe. Just in time,” she said.

Clark stood up slowly and wobbled on his still cramped legs. “In time for what?”

“For breakfast. Let’s go!”