The Other Mr. Bax (9 page)

The car—the drive to the hospital—it seemed the perfect vehicle for disturbing realizations, with the photo of Roland, with the other woman, stuck in her head like an ugly accident. The possibility of his innocence was no less troubling than his guilt had been.

She arrived a little after ten, approached the information desk in the front lobby, got directions to the billing office, resolved the issue with Roland’s insurance, then headed to his room. Stepping from the elevator onto the second floor, she spotted his brother and sister standing in the corridor talking to a doctor.

“Joyce…” Kate waved her over. “This is Dr. Yay. Roland’s doctor.”

The doctor offered his hand. “Ahh, you’re Roland’s wife,” he said. “I was just telling Kate and Brian here that the results from his scans came back negative... which leaves us with nothing to explain his memory loss, or the other symptoms.” He shook his head. “These things are so often hard to isolate. It is unusual, however, for a minor concussion to cause a disruption to this degree.”

“Yeah, well—”

The doctor cut her off. “There’s a neural specialist at Buffalo General I’d recommend. I could help you get your husband in there if you’d like.”

“Thank you, but there’s something I think you should know,” Joyce said. “Roland didn’t remember me at all until Brian mentioned the circumstances behind our having met. But then, last night while I was visiting him, his memory started returning. By the time I left here he was remembering quite a lot.” Joyce panned the eyes of her audience to gage their receptiveness. “I don’t know if it was something I said…” She tried to mirror her in-law’s astonished faces. “Is that normal? I mean, can your memory just come and go like that?”

“I really don’t know,” the doctor said, “but it doesn’t seem unreasonable. People forget things all the time, like a movie they’d seen years before… can’t recall it at all, but then they might catch a small part of it, and
snap
!” He snapped his fingers. “Every detail is suddenly there. Jogging the memory as they say. I don’t know, I’m not an expert on such things, but I suppose amnesia can be that way.”

“Oh.” Kate nodded. “I think that’s probably right.”

“Hmm, yes,” the doctor said. “His concussion likely played only a minor part in it.” He rubbed his chin. “Well, given that he’s regained his memory, is there really any point in his being here?”

“He can go home?”

“I see no reason he can’t.” He pulled back the sleeve of his shirt and checked his watch. “I’ll have a look at him here shortly.” He tapped on the face of his watch. “If you’ll excuse me please, I’ve got a few things I need to check on, and then I’ll get the ball rolling on your husband’s release.” He wandered off toward the nurse’s station.

“Have you guys had any breakfast?” Joyce said.

Kate looked at her. “Breakfast?”

“We just ate,” Brian said.

“You want to go somewhere for a cup of coffee? There’s something I need to show you.”

“G
ood morning.”

Roland opened his eyes to the bright, white room. He squinted at the doctor, a man appearing almost too young for the uniform he wore, standing near the foot of his bed.

“How you doing this morning?” the man said.

Roland propped himself up with a pillow. “I don’t know yet. What time is it?”

The man glanced at his watch. “Time to feel better, ten to eleven.”

“I must have been tired last night.”

“You missed General Hospital.”

“What?”

“Sad, yeah, I know, but I have good news too.” The Doctor grinned. “Your scans came back negative. Nothing. We couldn’t find anything scary.”

“Oh.” Roland reached up and pressed a hand to the side of his head. “My headache is gone.”

“See what a good night’s sleep will do?” the doctor said. “Oh, and I hear your memory’s returned.”

He gave the doctor a puzzled look.

“I figured it would,” the doctor said. “That can happen with a concussion—temporary memory loss.”

“Oh… So, now what?” Roland said.

“We’re done with you, unless, by chance, you want a leg removed.”

“I can go? Right now?”

The doctor nodded toward the door. “They’re taking care of the paper work. Just don’t rush off before signing the bottom line.”

“My memory… How’d you know about that?”

He chuckled. “Your wife. You don’t remember? I saw her just a little while ago.”

“She’s here?”

“She said you were talking last night and over the course of the evening everything started coming back to you. Sometimes all it takes is a familiar face and voice to jar things loose.”

For a moment, it seemed the various pieces of the past had settled back into their proper places, but then it came to him who the doctor was talking about, and uncertainty returned. He wondered why Joyce had intervened on his behalf, especially after realizing how massively amiss everything was. It was as if she was the only one to recognize that there was something more to his being there than a concussion.

“Is she still here?”

“Uh… I don’t know. Your brother and sister are here… probably waiting for you to wake up.”

“Yeah.”

“You ever need any body parts removed, just give me a call. I’ll give you my two for one special.” He grinned.

Roland sat at the edge of the bed, gazing down toward his feet; the night before, still fresh in his mind. The memory, however, lacked much of the awkwardness and confusion that had been, in fact, the reality. For a few moments, he’d forgotten himself, which brought him close to feeling normal. But then he recalled the way he’d left things with Joyce.

“Mr. Bax?”

A young lady in an intern’s uniform stepped into the room. “Doctor Yay asked me to bring you these.” She laid his folded clothes at the foot of the bed, then left, closing the door behind her.

Roland slid the blue, hospital gown off over his head, tossed it onto a nearby chair, then pulled on his street clothes—the same clothes he’d worn two days before while on the bike path in Akron. Buckling his belt, he stepped over to the window, and peered down at a landscaped lawn surrounded by woods. A man, holding the hand of a young girl, walked along a paved path lined with marigolds and purple asters. Roland gazed out over the tree tops—clouds of yellow leaves, stretching on and on. A tap came from the door.

“Roland?”

He turned.

“Were you missing this?” Joyce stepped into the room—his billfold in her extended hand. “I can’t really stay long. I have a flight.”

His eyes shifted from the wallet to her eyes, which were studying him with curiosity. He shoved a hand into his pocket and found it empty.

“I met with the cop this morning. Remember? From last night? The investigation?” She handed him the billfold. “They’re still investigating… you and that stuff in your wallet.” She produced an impatient sigh. “Roland, they’re convinced you were involved in some sort of scam. Your ID. They say it’s all counterfeit.”

Roland opened the billfold—everything crammed in helter-skelter. “He told you that?”

“In so many words.” She nodded. “They couldn’t link it to a crime though, and I guess, under the circumstances… there being no crime, they have to return your stuff.” Her eyes skipped from his to his lips and back. “I’m not sure they had a right to it to begin with.”

He shoved the billfold down into his pocket—“I don’t recall being asked”—then glanced at Joyce’s feet, rocking and twisting back and forth.

“Last night… I’m sorry about all that. About this.” She gestured with her hands, as though indicating the room, or maybe him and his situation. “Your story… Well, it was just too much. I was exhausted.” She sighed. “I’ve been thinking about it though. You know what makes the least amount of sense to me?”

Roland shook his head.

“That you’d ever attempt to pass off anything as absurd as that… to me.” She studied his eyes. They offered nothing in his defense. “So, how is this possible?” she said.

He turned toward the window.

“What happened?” She tipped her head back, her eyes moist with the beginning of tears, then stepped up close, slipped her arms around his waist, and pressed a cheek to his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He held her—her body trembling. He held her, at first, with stiff reserve, as though there was a stranger in his arms, but then the awkwardness receded and a feeling of knowing, of remembering crept in. He relaxed and allowed himself to be amazed at being held by her. And seemingly, out of the blue, came the assuredness of familiarity. It was crazy and it was not
.
He pressed a hand to her back—crazy, wrong, and unstoppable.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I always have.” She blinked.  A tear dropped to her cheek and slid down alongside her nose. “I don’t want to lose you. And I am, I did… I have. I know I have.” She drew in a breath. “Hmm… This isn’t what I… It’s… I just broke a promise.” She placed her hands on his arms and gently pushed away. “This isn’t right.” She closed her eyes and sniffled.

“I’m sorry, Joyce.”

“Yeah, well…” She again sniffled. “I have to go, Roland.” She wiped her cheeks, then turned her face up, and raised herself on her toes. A moist cheek touched his, and then a kiss—soft, warm, with the smell of tears and flesh—there and gone. She turned, walked away, stepping past the doorway and into the hall.

“Wait,” he said.

She stopped.

“Can I walk you to your car?”

She shook her head. “No… no, I better just go. Kate and Brian are here… waiting in the lounge. You’ll be going with them.” She walked away.

Roland reached up and touched his cheek. A cool, moist spot—lingering evidence of her realness. The kiss, by contrast, was like a fleeting hallucination—at one moment real, and at the next, mythical.
Since she’d entered the room, the world had transformed into something curiously more stable—a little less confusing. Alone, it again became cruel.

A
bright red sedan waited before the garage
. As Joyce pulled into the driveway, her sister rushed from the front door of the house—a contagious smile upon her face. Joyce stepped from her car, into her sister’s arms, then took a step back and gave her a quick appraisal.

“You look good.”

Brenda shrugged. “You don’t look half-bad yourself.”

“You mean less than good?”

Brenda worked up a frown. “What I meant was, you look more than half-good.” Her eyes, however, betrayed the smile hiding behind them.

“You’ve been here awhile?”

“An hour.”

Joyce grabbed her carry-on from the back seat, and followed her sister into the house. Lugging the bag down the hall toward the bedroom, she hollered over her shoulder, “How was the drive?”

“Not so bad. Put on some tunes, crank up the volume, and here I am.”

Joyce stepped into the living room, her gaze drifting about as if she were familiarizing herself with the house she’d spent the last five years in. “Found a good polka station, huh?”

Leaning on the thickly padded arm of a loveseat, Brenda closed her eyes and gave her head a woeful shake. “Sadly, I couldn’t find any. Had to settle for Pink Floyd and Pearl Jam for the most part. One makes do.”

Joyce leaned against the wall; a large abstract painting hung to her right. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Brenda’s eyes sobered. “So am I.” She nodded. “Hey, why don’t you take a seat at the table while I make us a sandwich. You hungry?”

“I’m not sure what we’ve got here.” Joyce headed toward the kitchen.

Brenda hopped up from the chair’s arm and followed. “Just point to the fixin’s, I’ll do the rest.”

Joyce flipped a switch near the phone; the kitchen lit up. She opened a cabinet and began rummaging through it. “Tuna on pita?”

“Sure.”

She rounded up the various ingredients. “A glass of wine?” she said.

“Yap-per.”

She grabbed a couple glasses, filled them with wine, then set one on the counter near her sister.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Brenda said, as she sliced into an onion.

“I guess so.” Joyce sat down at the end of the dining room table, lifted her glass to her lips, and took a sip. “I told you about Dana, right?”

Brenda paused for a moment and looked at her sister.

“The picture I found in his wallet this morning.” Joyce lowered her voice. “I think she’s somewhat younger than him… and very pretty.”

Brenda bent over the sink to drain the water from the tuna.

Joyce described her meeting with Sergeant Waterman and all that followed. Brenda, a bowl in one hand, stirring with the other, glanced from Joyce to the bowl and back, saying nothing. Then, still standing behind the counter, a mayonnaise covered knife in her hand, she said, “How’d he seem to you?”

“Roland?”

“I mean, was he like nervous, you know? Like, guilty? Defensive?”

“Just confused… the same as I.”

A plate in each hand, Brenda stepped into the dining area, set one down before Joyce, and the other to her left.

“More wine?”

Joyce nodded. “I told you how he ended up in the hospital, right?”

“Yeah. Weird.” She grabbed the bottle from the counter, and tipped it to Joyce’s glass. “Is he going to be there a while?”

“Oh, no. He went home with Brian.” Joyce swallowed a lump of pain rising in her throat—the threat of tears behind it. “But he’ll probably be
there
a while, I guess.”

Brenda placed a hand on her sister’s arm.

Joyce shook her head. “I don’t care what he believes. I don’t. I want him here. With me.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye. “I want him home.”

“But this other woman,” Brenda said, “the one in the photo, she didn’t come to see him? I mean, at the hospital.”

Joyce cocked her head, giving her sister a puzzled look. “No. I don’t think she… well, no.”

“It’s just a picture.”

A memory of the photograph crystalized in Joyce’s mind.
Just a picture
… But in order for it to exist, she realized, its subject, first, had to exist—both of them.

“You said the stuff in his wallet was fake? The photo probably is too, right?”

“I didn’t say anything was fake; the cop said that. Anyway, she wasn’t there at the hospital. But something… someone was on his mind, and I don’t think it was me.”

“You think he’s delusional?”

“I did at first, but then, there in Waterman’s office, looking over all that stuff from his wallet, I realized he had to have had it long before now. The whole thing would’ve taken time and planning.”  Joyce appeared thoughtful. “No, I don’t think he’s delusional.”

“So, it was planned.”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I’m beginning to think it’s real.” She brought a hand to her chin, gazed off to the left, and back, then added, “I can’t really explain it.”

Brenda eyed the untouched sandwich on Joyce’s plate. She lifted hers, took a bite, and in a barely decipherable mumble, said, “You should eat.”

Joyce rolled her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to sound suspicious,” Brenda said. “I just meant…”

“I know…” Joyce lifted her wineglass and took a sip. “I know it sounds crazy, but I think he could be legit… maybe.”

Brenda looked at her sister. Her brow furrowed. “You should eat.”

“I know. It’s so friggin’ weird. It’s like he’d forgotten about me years ago. Like this guy was… I mean, Roland was in New York at the same time he was here in the kitchen making lunch. Yeah, yeah, it’s crazy, but still, it makes me wonder.”

“You know, Joyce, if it was anybody else telling me this”—she peered at her sister expectantly—“what you’re suggesting, what I think you’re suggesting… You’re giving me the creeps.”

“Bottom line… he doesn’t love me.” Joyce shook her head and sighed. In the window, behind her sister, the last hints of daylight—turquoise and violet—rested upon the horizon. “It’s like he never did.”

“No. No. He’s always loved you. You know that. Things are just a bit crazy right now. This other woman? She’s not even real,” Brenda said.

“Still though…”

Brenda twisted in her seat, curious as to what her sister was looking at. “Don’t you think he’d naturally fall
back
in love with you if given the chance?” Brenda said. “He did before, right? Seems reasonable to me.”

Chewing on a bite of sandwich, Joyce shook her head, then swallowed. She lifted her wineglass, twisted the stem between her thumb and index finger, back and forth, gazing at nothing. “Yeah, but everything’s different now. I mean, I can see us getting together, talking about old times, his life, my life.” She swished the last sip of wine up around the sides of the glass. “It’d be complicated. More for him than me. See what I mean?”

“I think you’re overlooking something.”

Joyce, played with that last sip of wine, holding the glass close to her nose, inhaling, peering at her sister from over its rim.

“You have the advantage of knowing him… his tastes, his interests, his strengths, and weaknesses…”

Joyce tipped the glass to her lips and swallowed. “Okay.” She set the glass down. “I need a refill.”

The living room was arranged like a room within a room—most of the furniture forming a snug square toward the center. The walls were left open for the collection of art Roland had accumulated through years of trading with other artists. Light from a pair of candles, atop the entertainment center, blended with the cool florescence coming from the kitchen. The sounds of a small jazz ensemble, and the ice in their glasses tinkling like wind chimes, snuck in during pauses in their conversation. The evening ended in a pleasant stupor, with Joyce’s drunken mush of consciousness melting away like butter as her head sunk into her pillow.