The Other Mr. Bax (6 page)

R
oland peered into the shadowy corners
of an abandoned warehouse, lit only by the light of dusk filtering in through its grimy, gray, industrial windows. He could just make out an open door at the far end of the building—the only way out of that cold and lonely place—a hopeful passageway to something familiar.

“Mr. Bax.”

He squinted into the corner from where the voice seemed to have come, but no one was there.

“Mr. Bax.”

He cracked an eyelid open to a starkly lit room, and pushed his way through the muck separating him from this new and equally unfamiliar world. Grogginess tugged at him as though he was harnessed to the purgatory he had just left.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

He turned toward the voice—a vague impression of someone standing at the partly opened door to his right. But then it slipped off to the side; the dream pulled him back, held him in its somnolent vapors, and attempted to incorporate the sketchy data his senses had just collected.

Something nudged his shoulder.

“Mr. Bax?”

Fighting the gravity of sleep, he forced his eyes open and struggled to understand the form moving about at his side. It seemed to change as it came into focus—a woman, dressed in white, with blond hair, cut pageboy style. She had a small chin, thin lips, and squinty, blue, unsmiling eyes. Roland tried to move his arms, but couldn’t.

“What?” he said.

“You have visitors. Do you feel up to it?”

He tugged at the restrains hidden beneath his blanket.

“Oh,” the nurse said, “you were a bit too rowdy for the staff last night.”

“What?”

“I take it you weren’t wanting to be here.”

“Who are you?”

“April.”

“This… You’re a nurse?”

“Uh huh.”

He tugged on the straps around his wrists. “What is… Why am I strapped down?” Roland glanced toward a shrunken reproduction of a Monet. “How did I get here?”

“An accident, Mr. Bax. You don’t remember? You had a concussion.”

“No. But how did I…? I don’t—”

“Nothing to worry about. Head traumas can be like that sometimes. It’s common to forget things.”

“Trauma?”

She reached up and patted her head. “You banged your head.”

“I… How?”

“Would you like some water?”

“I’d like to know what’s going on.” He jerked on the restraints.

The nurse pulled open a drawer below the bedside table—a pitcher of water and a cellophane-wrapped plastic cup sat on its surface. “Where are the straws?”

“Can you please take these off?”

The nurse sighed. “There we go.” She tore the plastic wrapper off a cup, filled it with water, dropped in a straw, then turned. “Oh, those.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.” She pressed a button on the arm of the bed. “Not without the doctor’s permission.” The head of the bed began to rise.

“This is crazy.”

She held the cup up near his chin—the straw touched his lip. “It’s hospital policy.”

Roland turned his head, ignoring the straw, and quickly scanned the room.
The hospital
… He recalled an argument with a policeman. And a doctor. “What day is it?”

“Sunday.”

He looked at the window on his left. “Morning?”

A knock came from the door behind the nurse.
She checked her watch. “8:06… evening. I’ll have them come back.”

“Who?”

“Your brother and sister. I’ll have them come back later.”

“My… No, no… I need to see them.” Another light tap came from the door.

The nurse lowered the cup of water. “You sure?”

Roland winced at a pulse of pain in his head. “Please.” His mouth and throat were so dry he could hardly swallow.

“Well…” She set the cup on the table by the bed, then went to the door and opened it just enough to slip through.
Click
—the door closed—a low murmur came from the other side. Snippets from the evening before flitted about in his mind: a car accident, an ambulance, police, questions, lots of questions, lots of confusion and craziness. He recalled going for a walk, then to someone’s house.
Before
…
or after
?
After
.
Whose house
?
When was that
? Someone had asked for phone numbers, names, and peculiar things, questions that made little or no sense.
Dana
…
where was she
? Another tap came. Roland squinted toward the door as it eased open.

“Hell-low.” His sister Kate’s face appeared. Then Brian’s, behind hers. “We tried to call and let you know we were coming, but they said you were out of it. How you doing?”

Roland blinked, then slowly shook his head. “I don’t know.” He tried to scoot to a sitting position, but the restraints held him. “What the fuck? They have me tied down.” He peered toward his feet, curled his toes and twisted his feet side to side.

“Why?” Kate said.

“I don’t know.”

“This is fucked up.” Brian furrowed his brow. “I’ll be right back.” He spun around and headed for the door.

“Where you going?” Roland said.

“To find a nurse.”

“You’ll need a doctor,” Roland said. “The nurses won’t help. I’ve already tried.”

“This is nuts.” His brother disappeared into the hallway.

Roland’s eyes burned. He blinked, pressed them shut, blinked again, then scanned the room as though seeing it for the first time—a hospital room like most any hospital room—white walls, an undersized reproduction of an Impressionist’s painting; a bathroom in the corner by the door; a small table to the right, and a couple of chairs. The curtains on his left were pulled to either side of a large window. Between them was a reflection of the room.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Roland said.

“A rough night, huh?” Kate said. “A concussion, they told us. No one said a thing about restraints. What the hell were you doing? Grabbing ass?” She made a goofy face. “The nurse assured us there wasn’t anything to worry about. Your doctor, however, wants to keep you another day—probably to perform some horrible experiments on you.” She shrugged. “Oh, and there’s a bit of a mix-up over your address too… and the insurance crap.”

Struggling to stay focused, Roland only half-heard what his sister said.

“But,” she added, “Joyce’ll be here soon. She’ll straighten it out.”

Joyce?
He tried to place the name but couldn’t.

Brian stepped into the room. “Someone will be here in a few minutes.”

“Well, Jesus. This is ridiculous. How do they expect you to eat… or go to the toilet? It’s like a mental institution.” Kate released the Velcro bindings around Roland’s wrists—“Just a bump on the head?”—and then his ankles.

Roland grabbed the cup of water from the bedside table, quaffed it down, then poured a second cup and chugged it, as well. “Have you guys seen Dana?”

Kate’s face contorted in bafflement. “Dana?”

A lady wearing a lab coat stepped into the doorway. “Excuse me. Were you the folks asking about restraints?”

“I just undid them,” Kate said.

The lady blinked and sighed. “You shouldn’t have done that. Those restraints were clearly there for a reason.”  She stepped over to the foot of the bed, removed a clipboard, and studied the top sheet.

Kate threw her hands up. “He has a teensy weensy concussion.”

“‘A possible threat to staff and self,’ it says.” The doctor tapped on the clipboard. “A grade three concussion”—her brow furrowed—“and symptoms of Vascular dementia?”

“Vascular what?” Roland cocked his head and frowned.

“Look,” the doctor said, “I only know what’s written on the patient chart here. I am not your doctor.”

“Who is?” Brian said.

“Yay.” The lady glanced from Brian to Roland and again at the chart. “Okay. This is… unusual. How can you have…?” She continued reading the form, her brow twisting into deep furrows. “Look, because you’re Yay’s patient, I’ll need to talk to him before I can intervene. I’ll give him a call. But in the meantime…”

“I don’t need to be tied up,” Roland said.

The doctor stood there for a long moment, looking at Roland.

“I have no interest in hurting anyone,” he added.

She produced an almost inaudible grunt, then turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

“Jesus.” Kate huffed. “You might want to check and see that all your organs are still intact.”

“Yeah, so”—Roland’s eyes shifted from one corner of the room to another—“how’d I get here?” He reached up and touched the bandage wrapped around his head. “This is so frickin’ weird. I can’t remember a thing.”

Kate lowered herself into the chair next to the bedside table. Brian stood at the foot of the bed, trying to make sense of the same chart the doctor had just consulted. “Maybe you were unconscious,” he said.

“That’s right,” Kate said, “a third degree concussion.”

“Grade three.” Brian placed a finger on the chart. “But yes, I think that’s when you’re actually knocked out.”

Kate shrugged. “Third grade, whatever. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Roland squinted toward his reflection in the window. “How long have I been here?”

“A little over a day, I think.”

“Dana knows I’m here, right?”

“Dana?” Brian tilted his head to the side.

“Dana who?” Kate said.

“Dana.
My
Dana.”

“Uh… when did you get a Dana?” Brian said.

Roland locked onto his brother’s eyes.

“Really?” Brian scowled.

Roland blinked. “I’m serious. Where is she?”

Brian and Kate exchanged glances.

“Okay,” Roland said, “what?”

“What?” Brian shrugged.

“This isn’t funny.” He looked at Kate, knowing she’d have a harder time maintaining a ruse. Her eyes revealed not so much as a hint of humor, however.

“Roland, we’re not playing with you,” she said. “We really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Roland glanced from Kate to Brian and then back, searching for that telltale sign that he was the butt of some stupid joke. “Come on guys, don’t.” He shook his head. Like him, his siblings could at times be kiddingly irreverent, but rarely insensitive, and never intentionally cruel.

A long moment passed as they studied one another. A fragment of an incident from the night before flitted in and out of his mind—perhaps a piece from the crazy dream he’d just woke from.

Kate looked like she was about to say something, but then didn’t. She eyed Roland, as if mirroring his suspicions, like she too was anticipating a grin.

Brian finally spoke. “I don’t get it.”

Roland gazed into the dull confusion of his mind, trying to find a perspective that made sense—even a little. It seemed a barrier had slipped down between him and his siblings: he, on the one side, asking clear and simple questions, while what passed through from the other was disconnected random nonsense.
Dana
… He repeated her name in his mind, thinking he may have, somehow, inadvertently spoken another name. “Dana,” he said.

His brother and sister both looked at him with convincing consternation.

“What are you doing? You know perfectly well who I’m talking about.”

Their faces held only bafflement.

He lowered his voice. “For fuck’s sake. Come on you two. Stop.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as the drama from the night before leaked from the back of his mind. Questions about where he lived, family, what he was doing in Akron, and other crazy stuff—everything teetering between too much and nothing. Roland blinked. “Dana…” Her name summoned a doubt, like being lost in the realization of being mistaken about being mistaken—a tiring bog of doubt. “Will someone please…?” He stared at Kate. She appeared lost. He turned to Brian.

“Roland,” his brother said, “I’m sorry. I really don’t know Dana. I don’t. Your wife’s name is Joyce. You know that, right?” He spoke as if urging him to answer, yes, I do.

Roland let his focus drift—to nowhere. “No.”

“What is this?” Brian flipped his hands out before him, palms up. His brow knotted with confusion.

Kate turned toward the door as a pair of muffled voices filtered through from the hallway outside. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She got up, slipped past the door, then pulled it shut behind her as though attempting to keep the delusions in the room contained.

Roland glared toward the door. “God damn it, Brian! This is not in the least fucking bit funny.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not. Listen…” His tone was urgent and sincere. “We did not come here to… Jesus, Roland, just think about this. You think we’d be pulling some stupid prank at a time like this?” He threw his hands up. “We’re here because we love you, because we’re concerned. I would never…” He sighed. “Look, Roland, you have a head injury. A head injury. No one’s fucking with you.”