Boston Run

Chapter Three

Berwin had the strangest dream.

He was walking across an expanse of grass toward a peculiar concrete bunker when a blond man in buckskins approached and addressed him.

“Howdy, pard.”

“Who are you?” Berwin asked.

The man in the buckskins laughed and slapped his right thigh. “That’s a dandy, pard! I reckon that mangy Injun put you up to it, right?”

“Why do you talk like that?” Berwin inquired.

“I don’t rightly know what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Why do you use those odd words?”

“Ain’t you ever heard Wild West lingo before?”

“No.”

“Then your ears are in for a treat. Actually, I like to palaver this way because I’m partial to the Old West. Oh, I went through the same schooling as everybody else, and I can shoot the breeze normal-like if I’m in a mind to, but it tickles my fancy to talk this way and drive that mangy Injun loco!”

The dream abruptly ended and Berwin became aware that someone was shaking his right arm. He opened his eyes and smiled when he saw Nurse Krittenbauer. “Hi, again.”

“Hi, handsome. I have your food,” she announced, and motioned at a gray cart beside her on which there was a steaming bowl of soup, two slices of buttered bread, and a glass of milk.

“What, no steak?”

“Sorry. But the doctor says you’ll have to eat soup for a couple of days, until your stomach adjusts to solids again. In three or four days you might be able to have a steak,” Nancy explained.

Berwin sat up. “Bring on the soup. I’m so hungry, I don’t care what I get to eat.”

“Chicken noodle soup is the soup of the day,” Nancy informed him.

“Tomorrow you’ll get pea soup.”

“Yummy,” Berwin said dryly.

Nurse Krittenbauer reached down and removed a tray from the second shelf on the cart, then neatly arranged the tray on his lap. “You dozed off again,” she commented while she transferred the bowl to the tray.

“I’m bored just lying here. I need exercise.”

“Have any interesting dreams?” she inquired offhandedly.

“Nothing much,” Berwin responded, leaning forward to sniff the tantalizing aroma from the soup.

“Like what?” Nancy asked as she placed the bread and the milk alongside the bowl.

“I had this strange dream about a really weird guy who talked like he was a reject from the days of the Old West,” Berwin divulged, his forehead creasing. “There I go again.”

“Beg pardon?”

Berwin looked at her. “Why is it I can remember nonsense about the ancient American West, but I can’t recall my own past?”

Nurse Krittenbauer shrugged. “Amnesia works that way, sometimes.

Just certain parts of the brain are affected.”

“It drives me nuts,” Berwin said. He took the spoon she handed him and began eating, savoring every delicious mouthful, pausing long enough to comment, “This is the best chicken noodle soup I’ve ever tasted.”

She smiled. “I bet your mother makes chicken soup just as good.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Berwin said, eating contentedly.

Nurse Krittenbauer studied his features for a reaction to her remark.

“Because you don’t remember a thing about your folks?”

“It’s not likely anyone could make soup as tasty as this is,” Berwin said.

“Enjoy. I’ll be back for the cart in five minutes,” she told him, and departed.

Berwin polished off the soup, the bread, and the milk in no time flat. He placed the metal tray on the cart and stretched. The meal had barely served to whet his appetite, and he wished he could have the steak then instead of waiting a couple of days. Still feeling hungry and unaccountably restless, he swung his feet to the cool floor and glanced at the door, which was closed. The nurse would undoubtedly be upset if she found him walking about the room, but he needed to get up and move. The earlier dizziness had cleared entirely, and he was confident he could walk around without aggravating his condition.

“Here goes nothing,” he said aloud.

Berwin rose slowly. He tentatively took a step forward, past the cart, delighted at how strong and fit he felt. How soon would they allow him to go outside? he wondered, and turned to gaze out the window situated behind the head of the bed. Something else drew his attention from the window to the left-hand corner.

A closet.

He hadn’t noticed the closet before, and curiosity compelled him to step around the bed and investigate. If his clothes and personal affects were in there, they might jar his memory. Any remembrance would be preferable to the clean slate that mocked him every time he probed his mind. He opened the closet door and blinked in surprise at finding it empty.

Where were his clothes?

His glance strayed to the full-length mirror attached to the inner door panel, and he saw himself for the first time since awakening from the coma. Amazement replaced his surprise. He hadn’t realized how huge he was, easily seven feet in height and endowed with a prodigious physique bulging with layers of rippling muscles. His eyes were gray, his hair dark.

The loosefitting gown added to the impression of size, and the sight caused him to compare his appearance to a tent he’d seen once at…

Where?

Berwin clenched his brawny hands in anger. For a second, a gut-wrenching second, a genuine memory almost surfaced. He waited, breathing shallowly, hoping to remember, but drew a blank.

“What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

The harsh voice startled him, and he turned sheepishly, as if he was a young boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I wanted a little exercise.”

Nurse Krittenbauer stood in the doorway, her displeasure transparent, and pointed at the bed. “Get back in there right now.”

Berwin complied, propping his pillow so he could sit upright comfortably, conscious of her watching him.

“What were you doing in the closet?” she asked as she came over to the cart.

“I was hoping to find my clothes. Where are they?”

“Do you have any idea what shape your clothes were in when they brought you here?” Krittenbauer queried, and gave the answer before he could reply. “They were torn up and covered with blood and dirt. Your shirt was ruined, your pants were split down the left leg, and your boots were in pitiful condition. None of your clothing was worth saving.”

“Oh,” Berwin said lamely.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to tell the doctor that you disobeyed orders,” she admonished him.

Berwin folded his arms and watched the nurse wheel the cart from the room. If they expected him to remain in bed for more than a few days, they were mistaken. He felt too good, too healthy, to stay idle very long. He wanted to get into the swing of things, to return to his job, as soon as he could. The head injury had been sustained three months ago. Surely in…

Head injury?

Berwin looked at the closet. He couldn’t see himself in the mirror from where he sat, but he could recall his image, particularly his hair, and there hadn’t been any hair missing or a scar, no evidence whatsoever of the operation he’d supposedly had. He reached up and gingerly ran his right hand through his hair, his fingers covering every square inch. Not until he touched his crown did he discover the scar. His hair had been shaved in a pencil thin horseshoe shape from near the nape of his neck to the top of the head, with the curved contours of the horseshoe conforming to the shape of his crown. He could feel the slight indentation where his skin had been sewn back together. The stitches must have been removed months ago.

So there had been an operation after all.

Puzzled, Berwin folded his hands in his lap. Why was he so suspicious of Doctor Milton? Why did he automatically assume the story about his operation was a lie? Why did he persist in requiring confirmation of every little detail? Was he paranoid by nature? Or was there a deeper, unknown reason? To continue to doubt the physician and the nurse, without a justifiable motivation, would be foolish. And yet he couldn’t shake a persistent feeling that something was wrong.

Maybe the problem was all in his head.

Maybe the accident had affected his ability to reason normally.

Berwin sighed and closed his eyes. He’d never been so confused in all his life. But then, how would he know that if he couldn’t remember his life? It was no wonder he felt continually frustrated, and his impatience with his condition was growing by the hour. He heard the doorknob turning and opened his eyes.

“What’s this about you being out of bed?” Doctor Milton asked as he entered, a clipboard in his left hand.

“I stretched my legs,” Berwin responded. “What’s the big deal?”

Milton stepped to the side of the bed and wagged the clipboard at his patient. “The big deal is that you could cause a relapse if you overdo it. “I’ll be the judge of what you can and can’t do until I’m satisfied you’re fully recovered.”

“I feel fine,” Berwin said defensively.

“Is all the weakness gone?”

“Yes.”

“Completely?”

“Yes.”

Doctor Milton’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you are recuperating faster than anticipated, but that doesn’t give you the right to defy my instructions. Why are you giving me such a hard time, anyway? Do you think you know more about medicine than I do?”

The question embarrassed Berwin and he fidgeted. “No. Of course not.”

“Would you prefer another physician?” Milton asked bluntly.

“No. You’re doing a fine job.”

“Then let me do my job, please, without having to post a baby-sitter in your room.”

“I’ll try to not give you any more trouble.”

Doctor Milton smiled. “Thank you. I think.”

Hoping to change the subject, Berwin nodded at the clipboard. “Did you get the test results?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied, and looked at the yellow sheet secured by the metal clip. “I have good news and some not so good news. Which do you want first?”

“Good news would be a nice change of pace.”

“Okay. The good news is that there doesn’t appear to be any organic damage. Your inability to remember doesn’t stem from any contusions in your brain or scarred tissue.”

“And the not-so-good news?”

“Is a confirmation of what I originally surmised. The shock of your accident induced your amnesia. Fortunately, the condition is reversible.

You could recall every aspect of your life in five minutes, two days, or next month.”

“Or next year?” Berwin said.

Doctor Milton nodded. “Or next year. Although personally I believe you’ll recover your memory much sooner than that. But rest assured that we will do everything in our power to help you overcome the amnesia.”

“What can be done?”

“Association with your family and friends will be of immense help,” Doctor Milton said. “Amnesia can also be treated by hypnosis and with drugs.”

“Drugs?”

“Yes. Sodium amytal and sodium penthothal are sometimes effective in correcting the condition, but I should advise you that the drugs can cause unpleasant side effects,” Doctor Milton stated.

“Do you recommend using hypnosis or drugs?” Berwin asked.

“Only as a last resort. I would rather try to jar your memory naturally.

We must proceed cautiously. When would you like to begin?”

“How about right now?” Berwin requested.

“Very well. What would you like to know?” the physician asked.

“Everything. Those technicians who administered the tests wouldn’t answer any of my questions. They told me to ask you. And Nurse Krittenbauer has revealed very little.”

Doctor Milton nodded. “They are performing their jobs properly. I prefer to impart information in a controlled environment, face to face, so I can gauge your reaction. Ask me any question and I’ll answer it.”

“Where in the world am I?”

“Boston.”

Berwin did a double take. “Massachusetts?”

“Is there a Boston somewhere else? You appear to be stunned,” Milton remarked.

“I am,” Berwin admitted.

“Do you remember anything about Boston?”

“No.”

“Give it time,” Doctor Milton said. “You were born and raised right here in Boston, Massachusetts, in the good old United States of America—”

“The United States?” Berwin said, interrupting in surprise.

“What about it?”

“Didn’t you say something about a war? World War Three?”

“The United States won the war. You’re an American citizen. Quite patriotic too, I understand.”

“I am?” Berwin said skeptically. He pressed his hands to his temples as a headache began to bother him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. I seem to recall something about the war, but it’s vague. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Are you experiencing any discomfort?”

“I’m beginning to get a headache,” Berwin disclosed.

“Then we’ll stop for a while.”

“But I want to learn all about my family. I want to see my parents and my sister.”

“And I’ll arrange for them to visit you in several hours. For now, why don’t you lay down and rest,” Doctor Milton recommended.

“I’m not tired,” Berwin said.

“Rest anyway,” Doctor Milton directed. He regarded the giant patient critically as the man reclined. “And under no circumstances are you to get out of bed.”

“What if I want to tinkle?”

“Use the urinal bottle under the bed. If you have to go number two, use the bedpan.”

“I’m capable of using a bathroom,” Berwin stated.

“What do you have against bedpans?” Doctor Milton joked, and chuckled. “Very well. I’ll instruct Nurse Krittenbauer to escort you to the bathroom if you have to go.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Milton nodded and left the room, insured the door was shut tight, and walked to the right, to the junction where Krittenbauer awaited him. “I was wrong,” he informed her. “We do need to worry. His aggressive personality is beginning to assert itself. The damn drug isn’t as effective as we’d hoped.”

“Or perhaps his will is simply too strong,” Krittenbauer speculated.

“What do we do now?”

“We expedite the process,” Milton said. “You know what will happen to us if we fail.”

“Yes,” she responded grimly, “and I’ve never been very fond of firing squads.”