Confessions of a Forgotten Memory

People have told me, the last thing you remember will be the most important to you. The one thing that is nearest and dearest to you heart.

“How do you feel hon?”

“Foggy”

“That’s expected, can you tell me your full name and date of birth”

“Carmen Santosha, May 29 1990”

“Well, that’s a good sign, Dr. White will be in a bit to check you out.”

I was eating a Rueben sandwich, blinked and found myself in in St. Andrews Hospital. Not the first time I found myself in such a cluster...mess.

“Miss Carmen.”

My eyes moved from the ceiling to the doorway.

“Your vitals are normal, oddly no obvious signs of concussion from the scans, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t incur trauma. I’ll sign your release papers and you can head on home.”

Dr.White floated back out, and my eyes traveled around the room.

They had left my purse on a chair on the adjacent wall. I really like the socks you get in hospitals, just the epitome of a lazy day sock. No tight elastics, they should be just be called foot hats. This time I had pink; all my others had been blue.

I shuffled to my purse and found everything as expected. Crunched up receipts, tampons, credit card, journal, phone and two gluten free granola bars.

Release papers in hand, waiting at the entrance of the ER for my ride. I have a couple close friends to call. Jack drives a beat-up Nissan, runs well enough, just looked like shit.

Jacks’ face appeared at the driver side window; from a car I didn’t recognize.

“You got a Mustang?”

Albeit it was a pleasant surprise, but I hadn’t heard him talk about it before.

As fast I as slid into the bucket seat he was driving away.

“You clear?”

“Yea, just another episode.”

A few traffic lights came and went in complete silence.

“Were you able to get everything?”

“Everything? “

“The account numbers and stuff, you said you could find it easy.”

Did I actually hit my head? Account numbers. Reuben sandwich. It made no sense.

“Um I’ll check”, that should give me some time to retrace my steps.

“Nicole, you either have it or you don’t.”

“Ha. Nicole must be an ex-girlfriend.”

He was getting frustrated. The kind of angry you see a parent get when their little kid helps put the dishes away but chips half of them in the process.

I need to redeem myself. Looking at my purse I pulled out my little black notebook my therapist told me to carry with me. Mostly consisted of doodles and grocery lists and the occasional don’t forget note.

I flipped to the last page with notes on it, and. No account numbers.

“I don’t have any account numbers.”

Increasingly frustrated. “What is on the last page?”

“Um. Nicole Reagan.”

“You wrote your name.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes. You did.”

“It’s Carmen. Jack.”

“That’s your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“Ok. Then who is Nicole Reagan smart ass?”

I had no good answer. Not even a bad one. Is this a hit list? Does Nicole have the account numbers? If I could figure who Nicole was that would be a good start.

“I’ll figure it out Jack. I think I just need some sleep.”

“I sure hope so. I have plans for that money.”

The muffler seemed to get louder as he drove off. My apartment is unspectacular but homey. My feet hats stay in my sneakers as I slide them off. I plop on my couch and fall asleep thinking of my little black journal.