Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 43.1: October 7th, 2011

This is an untitled, unfinished novel that was technically left alone in late 2008. However, the last time it was modified and checked for errors was 2011, where upon I decided that the absurdity of the plot combined with the sloppy British research was too much for the story to continue.

However, seeing as this is Whims of the Time Traveler, it's a perfect example of my first attempt at long fiction, so I've decided to unabashedly display it.

Have fun.

Untitled: Chapter Three
by Belinda Roddie

I bet some of you are rather confused now. This story, I can tell, is bound to bring up a lot of questions. I’ve already demonstrated some earlier. Now, questions may not make the world spin, but they certainly are what the world revolves around. And I’m sure that I can guess what the new harvest of questions you may have is:

You didn’t know you had been found in a coffin until you were fifteen? How could that possibly be?
Didn’t you mention earlier that you remembered being in the coffin?
Didn’t the cops tell you what had happened? The doctors? What about your friends?
How could the word not have spread to you over a period of five years? Wouldn’t have either the boys or the old men told you at one point?

There may be more, but I really would like to try to answer these as best and as quickly as I can. To begin, retrograde amnesia at such a young age is a real pain in the arse. Not only has the blow to my head been blamed, but also the idea that I must have suffered some severe trauma while in the casket. After all, I wasn’t even a teenager yet, and I’m sure that on the rare occasion that I was awake on the river I involuntarily wiped more vivid memories from my mind because I psychologically couldn’t tolerate them.

I did say that I could give you some small details of being in that coffin now. For a long time, however, they had been blocked from my memory, and it wasn’t until I was thirteen to fourteen years old that whatever was holding them back let them scatter like leaves back into my mind. Even once that happened, I didn’t know that they meant anything at all. To be honest, I thought that they were just really bad dreams. It was like a jigsaw puzzle I wasn’t able to put together, and it took a lot of help from others to finally solve it.

But it is rather curious that no one had told me about it. I think people tried to, but in the end they were discouraged. I’m sure the doctors said to keep it quiet around me because they didn’t think I would be able to handle the truth at such a young age. I’m also certain that the police had told the boys not to tell a soul under penalty of the law; in the boys’ words, if they squealed, they’d cop it. One little boy took it very seriously; it was almost as if he said anything about it to anyone, he would be kicked out of his group; then again, that was what his buddies told him. Later on, I learned, the boys concluded that they didn’t have to tell me personally because they thought I already knew.

The old men didn’t have to be told to keep quiet; they respected my privacy. In the end, however, I know that, in order to protect me, everyone, even the grown-ups I learned to trust the most, hid the truth from me, the entire town, and, in the end, the entire world, for years on end.

In fact, one of those people even moved to create a false reality for me, so I wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore. I would no longer be fragile or vulnerable; I would be safe.

I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t be able to tell a ten year old what really happened to her, either. I always laugh when people on the news refer to it as “The Conspiracy of the Thames” because it wasn’t a conspiracy. In a way, everyone was just trying to save my sanity. It just didn’t last.

***

My second life began in the hospital, where, disoriented, I opened my eyes to the typical walls of white. I sincerely thought that I had died and gone to heaven because they didn’t look like walls to me; they seemed to curve and swell like a tunnel of pearly light, enveloping me in some unnatural warmth. When I blinked, however, I could tell that the warmth was coming from the ceiling lights, and I reached out a hand to peruse the air around me. Pain sliced my fingertips, and I fainted.

I don’t remember much after that. Most of what I remember is just sounds and feelings. In a lot of my old memories, I’m lacking in a lot of visuals. I can describe the strange feeling of the IV needle lodged deep into my forearm, or the callous voice of the doctor, who spoke words that I wasn’t able to understand. Most of all, however, I remember tasting a lot of sweat, salt, and water on my face. I cried a lot in that hospital.

My mind was able to clear again about two weeks later. They told me that I had been out cold for four days, and though my pulse was steady, no one was able to wake me up; I learned in later years that I had probably been going in and out of a coma before they had found me. After I woke up, I became incredibly sick and feverish, and the taste of tears was now mingled with bile as I threw up constantly. Despite the IV, I was incredibly dehydrated most of the time. I could feel the veins pulsing in my forehead, the swelling in my fingers, and a dull ache in all of my muscles. The most agonizing of the aches and pains I endured in the hospital, however, was the constant throbbing from the right side of my head, which was swathed in thick bandages.

The next thing I remember in full was when a nurse came in to assist me in walking again. I was still horribly weak, and she told me that I would have to work hard in order to re-achieve my coordination. The first few days started with her guiding me across the room and down the hallways of the hospital and the final days ended with her directing me to walk as casually as possible around the room as much as I could. When I finished, exhausted, the nurse smiled behind her hospital mask; I knew this because her eyes would crinkle, a dead giveaway.

The doctor told me that some nice people would see me in the next week and I should just relax for the time being. After that, my mind went blank again. It wasn’t as if I didn’t see what was going on, but it was going too fast for me to absorb. It was as if I was watching moving pictures enter from one side and exit to the other side; I didn’t have enough time to remember one image because another would be sliding along across my vision. Many times the fever would worsen, the images became distorted, and from doctors’ testimony, I would suddenly start screaming nonstop. When they ran in to check on me, they’d notice me lashing out at some unknown enemy, clawing at the air as if the opposing force were hovering just above me. Then they’d try to calm me, and I would sob, a raw, painful sound. After that, they would wipe the tears and sweat from my face, and I would slip into dreamless sleep. The doctors said that besides the screaming and crying, I never said a word. They told me later that I seemed so small and fragile in their arms; they were even thinking that I couldn’t possibly be ten. They thought that I must have been so much younger, because of my size and my weak state.

Throughout all of this, however, I steadily grew stronger and healthier. I was able to gain a little weight, but I would always remain rather slight in appearance. After a while, the nurses gave me clean clothes to wear and allowed me to walk by myself down the corridors as long as I was still attached to the IV. Other than that, I was mostly free of the needle and could eat solid foods and drink cold water again, much to the delight of everyone who tended to me. The best part of it all was when the fever slowly diminished, and I was able to see and conceive everything around me with a brand new awareness. It was like sight was the new sense for me as I looked at every crack in the wall, every wrinkle in a doctor’s face, every glint in someone’s eyes. I felt as if I had never been able to see this before, as if I had been reborn.

Unfortunately, I didn’t just feel reborn in a positive way. Despite the aches disappearing and my strength returning, I would lie awake at night instead of my usual deep sleep. Everything was so new to me, and spookily unfamiliar. Even when I looked at myself in the mirror they brought to me one day, I couldn’t identify with whoever was staring back at me. I saw a scraggly girl, short and skinny, with hair like damp straw and a babyish face. I saw purple circles under my eyes, swollen cheeks, and deep, ugly scars right between my right eye and right ear. That was all I saw. There was no name to this girl, no background, no story. It was as if I was staring at someone I didn’t know. And in truth, I didn’t know her. I didn’t know me.

It was one relatively warmer day when the door to my room swung open and two investigators came into the room with the chief constable. I had just finished lunch for the first time without anybody’s help and was relieved to see one of the doctors run in after the three officers. Without him there, I would have felt very small under the imposing eyes of the authorities. As the doctor cleared away my breakfast tray, one of the investigators, a wiry middle-aged lady with enormous pink lips, pulled up a chair beside me and looked at me. Her hair was pulled back tightly so I was able to watch her eyebrows arch and flex almost comically as she spoke.

“All right?” she asked, a simple way of greeting me. She looked uneasy, as if she wasn’t good with talking to children. I tried to make her feel better by nodding.

The other investigator, an older man with droopy jowls cropped with gray stubble, was watching me intently. Of course, with the lack of knowledge I had about the situation, I didn’t know why. He wasn’t the only one who observed me so curiously; doctors and nurses had made a habit of looking at me with some sort of intrigue. They didn’t whisper or suddenly grow quiet as I passed; they simply looked at me, deeply, intricately. It sent an icy feeling down my spine.

“It’s nice to see you’re doing well, miss,” the female investigator said, a smile on her puffed out lips. “We heard that you had a close shave with death a few times. You’re quite a lucky girl.”

I suppose so, I wanted to say. But I didn’t say anything.

“We’re going to ask you some questions—” the female investigator continued, then cut herself off and looked at the constable as if awaiting his permission to go on. He nodded slowly, his brow furrowed in a stereotypically authoritative way. The woman continued. “First we’d like to know if you can tell us anything about your condition.”

I looked at her, confused.

“Do you have any idea why you’re here?”

I didn’t know any facts except that I was hurt. I shook my head.

“Nothing?”

I shook my head again and looked apologetically at all three of them. The constable was rubbing his chin, looking contemplative. The male investigator’s expression didn’t change.

“The doctors tell us that you’re almost ready to leave the hospital, and, well, we

can’t really let you go unless we know where to take you. So you’ll have to tell us everything. Do you understand?” the female investigator asked.

I nodded again.

“Can you say anything?”

“Yes.”

The sound of my own voice startled me; I didn’t recognize it at all. It was your average voice, girly and oh so British, but it sounded so foreign, as if I had heard it for the first time. The female investigator stood up and retrieved a notebook from her coat pocket as the male investigator replaced her in the chair. He was still gazing at me with that same sense of wonder, and it made me uncomfortable.

“I want you to answer these as best as you can, all right, lass? Then maybe we can get you out of here,” he asked. His accent was rich and lingering; a Scotsman, I guessed.

“Okay,” I said, slowly, trying to get used to how I said it.

“Swell,” the man said, smiling. “Then I’m guessing that you wouldn’t mind telling me where you live.”

I opened my mouth quickly, ready to give him a full-out answer, and stopped. My breath caught in my throat. This wasn’t right. I should have been able to answer the question. The doctor looked at me with concern as I mouthed words but couldn’t put them together.

Because, try as I might, I could not remember my home address.

“Lass?”

“I…I…”

“Could you tell us where you live, lass?”

I struggled. “I can’t.”

“You can’t tell us?”

“I…”

“Or you can’t remember it?”

I stuttered. “I can’t remember it.”

“Not even the city?”

“No, sir.”

“Then could you tell us what your father’s name is, so we can contact him?”

I was trying to say it, but it was like I was continually hitting a wall. Nothing came out. “I can’t.”

“Your mother’s name?”

It was getting worse. I felt so empty. “No, I can’t remember either of them.”

The investigators were looking more and more worried. The constable’s frown deepened, and I couldn’t tell if he was confused or frustrated. Perhaps it was both, but it was nothing compared to what was going through my head. My mother. My father. My own parents. Obviously I must’ve known them before. And I couldn’t remember their names or even what they looked like. I began to shake.

The questions began to pick up speed. The female investigator was writing hurriedly as the man leaned closer to me, his breath hot against my face.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

I slammed into that mental wall again. “I don’t know.”

“Do you have any grandparents?”

I concentrated, shutting my eyes, gritting my teeth. Bam into the mental wall. “I don’t know.”

“Uncles?”

   
Bam.

“Aunts?”

Bam.

“Cousins?”

Bam.

“Anybody we can talk to at all about where you come from?”

It was hopeless; I was probing into an empty void. There was nothing there.

I could feel the tremor in my voice, distorting the sound, as I spoke again. “I don’t know where I come from, sir.”

“Not your birthplace?”

“No.”

“Not your hometown?”

“No!”

         

“You can’t remember anything about where you come from?”

I was becoming desperate, and I knew they could hear it as I answered. “No, no! I can’t!”

The man’s voice grew soft. “What’s your name, lass?”

This was by far the worst part of all my time in the hospital, and perhaps the worst thing I would remember for years to come. A name isn’t just good for identification; in a way, it embodies who you are. Your name is yours alone, and no one else’s. A name is vital to your survival in the world, to your location, your origin, and your uniqueness as a single individual; and to your slow understanding to who you are. And I didn’t have one.

At least, I couldn’t remember it. I tried to; the investigators, the constable, and the doctor could tell I was trying. But it wasn’t happening. Nothing was coming to me. I couldn’t recall my name, and I let them know that.

“I can’t remember.”

The male investigator’s voice was still soft, but I could sense a lingering tone of impatience in it. “What’s your name, lass?”

“I can’t remember it!”

“What is your name? Who are you, lass?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know!”

At last it had come: the climax of the situation, the part in the movies where the protagonist confesses his love, or the secret to killing the bad guy is found, or even when the main character dies. But it was worse, much worse. Many people endure different losses, but not very many can identify with this sort of loss, the most awful loss I could have ever imagined; the loss of my identity, the loss of my very knowledge of existence, at the age of ten years old. I felt as if something had died in me, something that was holding me together. And no ten year old should have to endure such a thing.

Needless to say, I broke apart. I was frantic by now. I reached out for something and found the male detective’s face, my fingers bursting out in pain as I clawed at his canine-like jowls. I was screaming in his face, shouting, crying, and words, more words than ever before, swelled from a slow trickle to an inevitable stream, surging outward.

“I don’t know who I am! Why are you asking me who am I? I should be asking you! Who am I? Who am I? What’s my name?” I could feel my eyes burning, my face reddening. The hollowness inside me was growing stronger in my panic, the void that once held my past within it, keeping it safe. “Help me! I can’t remember anything! I can’t remember my own name! Help! Help me! Please help me!”

My voice was rising to a full crescendo, and my words were being lost in sobs and incoherent pleas once the woman was able to pry my hands from the male investigator’s face. Amidst it all my thoughts blurred again, but I could feel the doctor grabbing me and shushing me; I could hear the constable shouting, “Bloody Hell, enough! Can’t you see she’s an absolute wreck?” and the woman verbally regretting putting such a sweet, young girl under so much pressure. Then everything slowed down again, and I lay there limply, crying, for the first time, in complete silence.

They left me alone after that. As I lay there, a crumpled form under the covers, I could hear muffled bits of conversation among the officials and the doctor. I caught words like “children’s home”, “amnesia”, and “trauma”, and immediately I understood what was wrong with me.

Then the talking stopped, and I heard the footsteps slowly fade away. I didn’t move. I lay there, defeated, oblivious, and completely lost. And as I fell asleep, the same question prodded me like frightful, nagging insect:

Who am I?
Who am I?
Who am I?

I don’t know.

I began to cry again, and I didn’t stop for a very long time.

***

The final week I stayed in the hospital was a strange one. Not that it was surreal in any way, but I could compare the experience to being in a prison: I couldn’t leave until they told me to. While the police continued to investigate what could possibly be my true identity, I was told to stay in the hospital. I didn’t really have a choice; as far as they were concerned, I didn’t have a place to go to. The room I stayed in, a small square of white and gray, had become my new home, comforting me in all its stiffness and professionalism.

The doctor came more often than usual, normally with two nurses flanking him, to ask me how I was feeling. I told him I was fine and to please go away, I needed to be alone. However, some days I’d ask him to stay, and I would always ask him how I had gotten here. He first said that it didn’t matter; then he implied that I had been seriously injured. Finally, he said that they didn’t know how I had gotten hurt, but I’d been found knocked out and that must have affected my memory, but he didn’t give me any details. I didn’t bother forcing it out of him; I was too young to think too hard about it. I just took his answer as it was and then told him to leave.

Unfortunately, I didn’t earn a lot of quiet time to myself, especially when I would be woken from my naps to angry voices in the halls. As the days progressed, the arguments grew increasingly worse, and I slowly realized that one of the voices was exactly the same every time.

It was a man’s voice, and he sounded absolutely livid and down to the last line, as if he had been pushed too hard. One of the arguments went like this:

“Now you bloody listen, miss, I have had it with this waiting—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve told you before, she can’t have any visitors,” replied the nurse quietly and calmly, like she had gotten used to his ragging.

“Confound that! I’ve been here every day for the past three weeks, I have, and I want to see her! I was there, I was there when they—”

“Sir, not so loud, she might hear you.”

“Miss, I am going to talk to your boss here. I’ve heard talks of sending the girl off to some ruddy orphanage. And let me tell you that is no place to leave someone like her alone without any idea—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nothing I can do. If you would like to talk to her doctor…”

“I have bloody talked to her doctor! I’ll have a chat with the constable and child services, I’m sure they’ll understand my case!”

Then the arguments abruptly stopped, and I was left to my own thoughts again.

When you don’t know who you are or where you come from or where you’re supposed to be, you’re a shadow. I know that was how I felt, as if I didn’t belong anywhere, a nameless child who they were going to send off in a package to the nearest cluster of the forgotten. The only last bit of hope I had left was the hope that someone out there was looking for me, someone who cared enough to tell me who I was and to get me back to where I was before.

My head throbbed, and I shut my eyes tightly to keep my mind off the pain. As these thoughts came and went, I began to wonder more about the man who had allegedly come every day to see me, and at once the hope I had imagined began to swell. Perhaps this was a turning point for me; this man must have known something that the others didn’t. Why else would he be here, every day, to see me?

The next day, I asked the doctor who the man was. He told me he was an old gentleman from nearby, yes, he had wanted to see me for weeks now, and yes, he was here now, bickering with the officers.

“You can let him in,” I said, quietly. “I won’t mind.” It was worth a try, to find out why he was here.

The doctor looked worried. “But lass, you don’t know him. We don’t trust him much, either. Old man, lives by himself. You never know these days.”

“Then have the officers come in, too,” I replied.

“But miss…”

“I just want to know why he keeps showing up. Maybe it’ll make him go away.”

He looked ready to protest, and I didn’t blame him; I barely knew what I was saying myself. It was true; this man was not exactly to be trusted, but I was desperate for something, anything, to answer my predicament. But at that moment, the constable stepped in looking genuinely thoughtful. He directed the doctor to step outside, and with a hasty apology, they both left.

After that, I could hear lowered voices, and this time, I was too curious to pass this up. With some extra effort, I lifted myself from the bed and walked slowly toward the door. As I pressed my ear against the wood, I found that I was just in time to hear the final bit of it.

“Are you sure about this?” asked one voice; the constable, I realized. “I don’t know what this could do more of, help her or harm her.”

“She doesn’t remember, anyway, chief,” the doctor replied, rather coolly. “And I don’t intend on doing anything that could strain her mental state any further. I mean, for God’s sake, man, she’s too young to conceive any of this. I think it’d just be too much for her to bear.”

“So you’re saying that her, how you say, traumatic state would only worsen if we bring it up in front of her,” the constable said. I heard the doctor grunt in confirmation. “Well, there are other things to consider also…”

Then his voice suddenly lowered, and all I could hear were guttural sounds from both sides. I pushed more against the door to hear, but it was no use. I could feel the disappointment simmering in my gut like a full kettle set aside. After a while, however, their voices started to get louder again.

“…Been everywhere, searched every file, top to bottom,” a voice was saying. I immediately recognized it as that of the female investigator who had visited me earlier. “There’s no case for her, not even a report on a missing person. She’s a Jane Doe.”

“But are you certain?” the chief constable growled. “We don’t want to come to such speedy conclusions.”

“We’ve been working on it for the entire month, even before she failed to answer the questions,” the voice of the male investigator who had also visited me replied. “We’ve found nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Poor girl,” the doctor said. “She doesn’t even know who she is. And I wouldn’t want to see her put in a children’s home under these circumstances. How are we supposed to find where she belongs?”

“I’ll tell you where she belongs,” another voice rang out. It belonged to the man who had wanted to see me. “She belongs with me, in Purley.”

There was a long, stony silence. I held my breath.

“Sir,” the constable said, quite coldly, “We can’t do that. Child services, sir, the complications…”

“You said yourself you don’t know where she belongs. And I say she belongs with me,” the old man reiterated, more gruffly. “I have my reasons.”

“Sir, what possible reason could you have…?”

“Reason? What other reason do I need? I am…” his voice dwindled for a minute before, with great conviction, he announced, “I’m her grandfather.”

My heart leapt in my throat, and I bit my tongue as hard as I could to keep from crying out. There were sharp exclamations from the constable at first, exclamations of incredulity, before their voices became hushed. I strained to hear what they were saying without luck, but after a minute or so, the constable raised his voice again.

“Well, then, now that I think about it, maybe we can take some time to discuss this,” he said, rather softly. “I think I understand…”

“Even if I can only keep her temporarily, like I was acting like a, what do you call it, like a foster parent,” my alleged grandfather said, “until things get cleared up a bit. I can possibly work things out with child services so they can give me custody. I mean, she can’t stay in the hospital forever, can she?”

“Perhaps if it is only temporary, then we can continue our investigations while she’s in a safe environment,” the constable murmured, “but I don’t know…this whole idea we have…risky business, sir…I don’t know if it’s really the best thing to do…if the people in charge of this hospital would allow it…”

Of course it was the best thing to do, I thought to myself. He was my grandfather, wasn’t he?

“Well, if it’s good for her health, I’m up for just about anything now,” the doctor said, sighing. “But sir, do you really think you can take care of her? I mean, you’re a bit…well…what would be her next step if you were to pass away?’

“…Pass away?” mumbled the old man.

“Pass away. You know, die.”

“I know what you meant,” barked the old man. “I’m not senile just yet.” He paused, and then spoke again. “But I don’t intend on dying on any time soon, doctor. Not on my to-do list, it’s not.”

“Perhaps we should continue this in another room, Mister…Engel, is it?” the female investigator asked. “Let’s talk there.”

Then the voices faded, and I listened to their footsteps disappear around the corner. It seemed like hours of silence after that conversation, and I didn’t move from the door. My heart was racing at a sporadic pace. This could be it; this could be how I could find out who I was again. Anything for my name back.

I must have been waiting for hours – knowing my sense of time back then, I could have been waiting for days. Then I heard footsteps coming towards my room, and I scampered to my bed, pulling the covers over me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the constable, doctor, and two investigators come in, and with them followed a large old man in a button-up shirt and slacks. He had hair that was a wispy gray on his crown, he sported a bushy mustache, and he watched me with large brown eyes as the doctor began to unwrap the bandages on my hands and head. I saw the gauze fall from my fingers, and I noticed that my fingernails were just beginning to grow back; for now, they were merely stubs surrounded by deep, hideous brown and white scars.

From what I could tell, by the way the five of them looked at my head as the bandages were stripped away, the scars were much worse than the ones on my hands, and most likely they would never go away. Then the doctor shook hands with everyone in the room, smiled at me, and left the room.

“All right, dear?” the old man asked, breaking the silence.

I bit my tongue again, not wanting to give away that I already knew what he was going to say. I looked up at the officers, expecting them to be looking at this man with the utmost caution and mistrust. Instead, they were looking at me with a certain, gentle sense of kindness and happiness. Then I remembered that I was being asked a question, and I said, “Okay…you?”

The old man smiled, a small, charming smile. “Better, now that I’ve found you.”

At this point, I expected my mind to open up, for my memories to come bursting out of their prison at the sight of who was supposed to be my grandfather. That never happened, and I felt rather empty staring at the smiling man before me. However, the female investigator, rather carefully, came closer to me and put her hand on my shoulder; she must have been worried that I would sporadically attack her just as I had attacked the male detective.

“This is Mister Alfred Engel,” she whispered to me. “In a few days, he’ll be taking you to your new home, in Purley.”

I didn’t know what to say. Ten-year-olds seldom do.

“Hello,” was all I was able to get out logically.

Alfred Engel’s smile grew bigger. “Hello.”

And that’s how my new life began.

***

As much as I may have been thrilled to find someone I must have known back then, I was still quite young and vulnerable. So I was very nervous once I left that small room that in the fast few months had become my shelter.

The sun hurt my eyes a great deal when I stepped out of Royal Berkshire Hospital. As my grandfather led me over to a taxi, I looked around in hopes of finding anything I could connect to. It was all so unfamiliar. I watched patients go in and out, interns leaving from their sessions. Then a breeze blew against my thin figure, and I nearly fell over, shivering. It was summer, but I felt cold even in the jumper that the doctors had given me as a goodbye present.

As I sat in the taxi, Alfred Engel made a move to squeeze my hand. His touch was meant to be welcoming, but in truth it scared me a little. I looked at his large, wrinkled hand, then up at his eyes, as the taxi sped away from the hospital and back into the main part of Reading.

We didn’t talk to each other for about half the ride. Then he asked, “Are you hungry?”

I first wanted to say no, but my stomach gave it away by growling loudly. “A little,” I admitted.

“We’ll stop at the pub later on, get you some fish and chips. You like fish and chips?”

“I guess.”

Alfred looked at me fondly, and with a bit of concern. “I would think you should be asking your old grandfather some questions, I’m sure you have plenty.”

I had several, but one especially stuck out in my mind.

“Where will I stay?”

That wasn’t the question that stuck out, but it was certainly one of the many I had.

“You’ll be staying in the spare room…well, your room…in my cottage,” said Alfred.

“But I don’t have anything to wear, or sleep in.”

“Don’t worry about beds or food or clothing. We’ll get that all settled first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Why didn’t they let you in first thing?”

It still wasn’t the main question in my head, but it was a powerful one. Alfred was quick to answer it.

“Well, they didn’t trust me at first, see. What with you not remembering where you came from, or your relatives. One look at you and I recognized you straight away.”

“But if you hadn’t seen me in the hospital, how could you have recognized me?”

“Because…” he bit his lip hesitantly. “…Because I saw you when they first carried you off in the ambulance, when you were hurt. And I knew…” his voice trembled, I imagined, from intense sorrow and, oddly enough, a hint of fear, “I knew it was my son’s little girl.”

“Then you know what happened to me?” I asked eagerly.

It was there that he became firm. “Now, now child, aren’t you a little young for this?”

“I’d like to know,” I said, quietly.

Alfred hesitated, and then shook his head. “No. No, it’s not important. What’s important is that you’re with your old grandpa now.”

If I had been any older, I would’ve protested. I would’ve demanded more details, more proof, about my condition. If I had been my age now, listening to him, I would’ve been horribly dissatisfied at the lack of information, and I would have questioned him, questioned the validity of our relationship. All of the questions I have mentioned before would’ve come flooding out of my mouth, echoing off the taxi windows.

But I didn’t protest, because I wasn’t any older. So I took it like it was and I dealt with it for the time being.

I didn’t ask any more questions for a while, but the same big question nagged me until we got out of the taxi and headed toward my new home. It was a quaint little place, with two bedrooms, a kitchen, one small living room, and a bath. Alfred let me explore the house for a bit, asking me if it was how I liked it. I told him it was okay; it was better than okay, actually. It was lovely.

“Good, good,” he said, stroking his mustache, “then I think you need a nap, rest up. Then we’ll go to the pub and I’ll answer any more questions you have.”

“Thank you.”

I began to walk towards my new bedroom as my grandfather went to the living room, but I stopped and turned around. “Er…Mr. Engel…sir…grandpa?”

He appeared around the corner. “Yes?”

“You know my name, then?”

Alfred smiled. “Of course I do. Joan Engel. Me mother’s name, actually.” He looked at me. “You like it? Your dad gave it to you.”

Then he disappeared, and I went into my bedroom. I looked at the walls of the tiny space, the bed set with two pillows and a quilt, and I let myself tumble onto the mattress. Everything was beginning to settle, and though no revelations were occurring, I could feel new warmth deep in my chest.

Joan Engel. My name is Joan Engel, I thought. I fell asleep smiling.

It would be my name for five years.

The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since October 7th, 2011.