Chapter 2
Elizabeth barely had time to stuff a bag of peanut M&Ms in her mouth when Mark had notified her that her head injury patient had woken up. He had been out for an hour. The hospital was at full capacity. Every nut had come through the emergency room that night along with some gun shot wounds, a nail gun accident, and a guy who had sliced off his toe off by dropping, what she had to guess, was the sharpest kitchen knife in history. "Full moon," someone commented as she jogged down the hall. She was counting down the last 120 minutes left of her shift.
She grabbed the hastily and half-filled out chart outside the patient's door. His name was Fitzwilliam Darcy. A mouthful.
When she came in the room, he was sitting propped up on the bed, brow furrowed in concentration at a TV on in another part of the room. She took a chair next to him. "You're back," She smiled. "How are you feeling?"
Darcy answered, his voice gravely, "I feel as if my head has been stitched up. Moreover, I have no idea where I could possibly be or who any of these people are. In short, I am not feeling well."
Elizabeth exchanged glances with Mark, who was standing on the other side of Darcy, writing down his vitals. "You're in a hospital, sir."
"I gathered that. However, nothing about this is familiar. Everything is wrong and strange. You look like…but you're not. You're different. That's the most unsettling thing. " Darcy felt agitated in his reclining position while Elizabeth and the other man watched him. He was not used to being observed in such a way.
"Can you tell me about your accident?"
"No, I cannot. I know nothing of receiving this injury, madam."
Elizabeth repressed a smirk. She was nothing if not professional, but something about his direct formality made her want to laugh. "Ok. Maybe you've had some short-term memory loss. That can happen. Why don't you tell me what year it is?" she asked.
"1818," he answered without hesitation.
She raised her eyebrows at Mark, over Darcy, which agitated him further. "No, the year. What's today's date?"
"The sixth of February, 1818." He felt confident, but he voice rose in a question he saw their faces.
"Mr. Darcy," she began softly, "the date today is August 6th, 2016. You might have had some head trauma."
She turned to Mark. "Let's get a CT."
Turning back to Darcy she said gently, "Mark is going to take you back to get a CAT scan and check for any bleeding or swelling." He looked at her blankly. "They are going to take a picture of your brain." He still was silent, brow furrowed in thought. "Well, I'll come back and check on you afterwards."
When she patted his hand, in part to make sure he was listening and in part to provide some comfort, he looked her directly in the eyes. "You're coming back, then?"
She looked down at his chart, embarrassed without knowing why. "Yup. We'll figure this out." She smiled and walked towards the door, speaking softly to Mark, "Can you call psych, too, Mark? Maybe this is a prior issue."
"Sure."
She turned to Darcy again, "We'll talk when you get back." And with that she left, leaving him lying on a hard bed only to be rolled out the door a minute later. He didn't possess the energy to try to figure out what was happening to him.
An hour later, Mark met her in the hallway. "Here are the scans."
She held them to the light in the ceiling. "Looks good. No visible brain injury. Did you call psych?"
"They're backed up. Short staffed."
"Well, physically everything is fine. Let's get keep him for an hour and then hopefully we can transfer him to psych. There aren't enough beds to keep him. Rodriguez is going to start complaining."
Elizabeth called to another doctor, Meg, down the hall. Meg was one of the best doctors in their residency and also her closest friend. They met their first year of residency and just clicked. Elizabeth easily pushed the line of career-driven to workaholic, while Meg's easy-going nature reined her back in when necessary.
Meg jogged over, ginger ponytail bouncing, "What's up?"
"I need a consult. I'm not sure what's going. This guy had a head injury, but scans came back negative for any noticeable brain trauma. But he thinks it's 1818, so…"
Meg laughed and then stopped short. "That's not funny. Sorry. Well, let's go talk to him and see if this is an amnesia thing or a delusion."
When they entered the room, Darcy had his head back on the bed, eyes shut, he mouth in a frown. He heard them approach and his eyes flew open. "Sorry," he excused himself sitting up a bit, "I thought I could wake myself up from this dream.
"Mr. Darcy. This is a colleague of mine, Dr. Meg Smith. I just want to get another opinion about what may be happening. So, you said before the year was 1818."
He nodded. "It is. I mean it was. You said it was not. It is…"
"2016."
"I was at my home, in New York, when I noticed a particular door I had never seen. I entered it, of course. All I could feel was blackness and then I woke here."
Elizabeth hesitated, "Mr. Darcy, you were found passed out in an alleyway not far from here with quite a deep gash on your head. You have deep bruises on the right side of your face, including quite the gorgeous shiner. Are you sure that you don't remember anything after leaving your house?"
"No, I didn't leave my house. I entered a room and now I am here. I have no idea what is happening. I do not recall receiving any sort of injury. As far as I knew it was 1818, unfortunately."
"And now you're here in 2016. So, it was like a wormhole in your house?" Meg questioned. Elizabeth shot her a look.
"A wormhole?" Mark echoed.
"Yeah, you know the thing that allows you to travel between universes-"
"I remember Into to Astronomy, too. But I thought it was a bridge to parallel universes, so it would be the same year."
"Well, isn't all just theoretical? I mean maybe you could travel through time," Meg said excitedly.
"Isn't that a black hole?"
Elizabeth interrupted, frustrated, "Ok, maybe we should focus on what we specialize in: medicine. I think this man is suffering from a delusion."
"He is wearing clothes from the 1800s…" Mark pointed out
Elizabeth looked at his clothes for the first time. Boots, breeches, linen shirt, wool jacket. She rolled her eyes. "He's not from the 1800s," she stated assertively.
Darcy had been watching the exchange silently. He finally cut in, "I can tell you with all honesty—"
"You're not," Elizabeth snapped and then colored. She was feeling over her head. She thought she knew how to handle cases like this, but something was throwing her off. Maybe it was the way he was just looking at her. Like she would solve everything. Like she was the only one in the room and they weren't two other medical professionals with degrees and experience.
"Elizabeth…" Meg started.
"Maybe a memory lapse?" Elizabeth interrupted her, eager to go back to being the professional handling every patient with ease.
"Like long term memory loss of the last two centuries?"
"Where would the clothes come from? Maybe he's an actor. Maybe he believes in a reality he's constructed due to a heady injury."
Darcy became indignant, ready now to find some semblance of control in the situation. "I know clearly very well who makes my clothes. I know who I am. I can remember everything to the point of falling. I am not mad," he said angrily.
His medical team stared, embarrassed and chastised.
"We're sorry, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth said and then turned to Mark and Meg, "I'm going to check on that psych consult. Mark will you get some more history from Mr. Darcy here and fill in some blanks on his chart." With that she left, eager to clear her head. Thirty more minutes until the end of her shift.
By the time she got back to the small room, Darcy was alone, sitting rigidly on the bed looking exhausted and a little vulnerable. Of course, all patients were vulnerable. They were sick and hurt and scared. No one wanted to be in the hospital. But there was something in the expression in Darcy's face. She was overcome with the urge to put her arms around him and soothe him. She couldn't wait to get rid of this guy.
She cleared her throat. "Mr. Darcy, we haven't been able to get that psychiatric consult. You're going to have to stay here a little longer until we get that. A social worker will be over to help you."
Darcy looked at his clasped hands. Elizabeth cleared her throat, "Mr. Darcy?"
"Forgive me, but could you explain psychiatric?"
"It's, ah, well, you know."
Darcy looked at her coldly, "I do not."
"Well, it's a doctor that checks your brain, but more like the emotional state of your brain to make sure everything is…normal. That you're not a harm to yourself or others," He was still looking at her, questioning. "We need to see if you have any brain disorder."
He drew back, offended, "I am not mad. You want to lock me up in an asylum? I am perfectly in control of my mental facilities."
"We're not going to lock you up. We just need to double check the damage you sustained."
"I will not do that. I do not give you permission to do that. I know what happens to men that go to those types of hospitals. I'm leaving now. I'm allowed to do that, yes?"
"You would be checking out against your doctor's advisement."
"I will no longer need my doctor's advisement."
"Listen. You are suffering from an acute delusion—" He made a low noise in his throat, almost a growl. "An acute delusion," she continued, "At least wait for the social worker to come and talk about your options. Do you have a place to go tonight?"
Her question threw him off. He hadn't thought about the world outside the hospital and the probable lack of his house in town.
"Will you stay for just a little bit longer then? See the social worker?"
He agreed. Elizabeth sighed in relief.
A different nurse came in. Shift change. "Hi, Jill."
Jill pulled her aside, "Hey, Dr. Eaton. Your patient here is being checked out. Dr. Rodriguez's orders."
"We're releasing him?"
"Medically he's ok…" She began.
"Yeah, but psychologically he's a mess." Elizabeth snapped and immediately regretted it. She knew Jill was just relaying a message. This whole night she was on the precipice of too much emotion and it was messing with her head. She just needed to go home.
"We don't have the beds," Jill said, irritated.
Elizabeth evaluated the situation for a moment. " Look, I'm sorry. It's been a night, right? Is the social worker coming?"
"That's the plan. Everything is so backed up."
"It's that time of year," She rubbed the back of her neck uncomfortably.
"Full moon," Jill said in a mock spooky voice.
Meg came in just in time to inform them there weren't any social workers available until tomorrow.
"What? This is insane. What is he supposed to do?"
Jill shrugged. "There's a shelter down the street. He can stay there."
"Do you think you can handle getting to the shelter?" Elizabeth turned and asked Darcy.
"A shelter?" He wrinkled his brow in confusion.
"You know, a place to stay..."
He looked at her wearily, pushing his fingers on his temples.
Elizabeth brightened, "You know, my shift is over in five minutes..."
"Elizabeth..." Meg warned her.
She read her mind. "I'm not getting too involved. I'm just going to give him a ride."
"Can you come here a minute?"
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and stepped out, leaving the man looking bewildered as ever.
"What are you doing? You don't know him. He could be a creep," Meg hissed.
"He doesn't look like a creep, Meg." They both turned, taking in his 1800s cosplay. "Ok. Better yet, he hasn't acted like a creep. He's just different. But he's lost his memory. He's probably an actor. Maybe he owns a bed and breakfast. I don't think serial killers dress up like a founding father."
"Oh! Maybe he's in Hamilton. When he gets his memory straight he can get us tickets. As long as he doesn't murder you first."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
Meg signed, "Ok. I can see you're going to do what you want. Just text me when your done. Or call me if you think you might be getting murdered."
"Got it."
"I gotta see another patient. Be safe." Meg looked at her seriously.
"Scouts honor." She walked back to the bed behind the curtain. Jill was gone.
"Ok, Mr. Darcy. The hospital needs this bed for another patient. You are being discharged. But there's a shelter a few blocks away. I'm going to take you there so you have somewhere to sleep tonight. You can come back in the morning and we can work on this memory issue. The hospital should be calmer in the morning."
He sat there staring at her. He didn't know what to say; all he wanted was to wake from this nightmare. Elizabeth shifted nervously. "How do you feel about that?"
"I will appreciate somewhere to rest tonight. But, I can assure you fully that nothing is wrong with my memory. I can remember...I can remember most of my life until the moment before I ended up here. The problem is not my memory. I'm...displaced. I can only surmise that I am lost." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "I don't know where I am. I don't recognize anything." He trailed off, his face crumpling. He pulled a hand over his face.
She took a step towards him. She wanted to clasp his hands and tell him she would figure it out. He looked so distressed. She remained professional. "Let me take you to the shelter to sleep tonight. Come back tomorrow and a social worker will try to figure this all out. Maybe think about talking to a psychiatrist."
He pinched his eyes closed in frustration. "I will not being doing that. I am perfectly healthy."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Ok. Well, stay here. I need to finish some paperwork and change and then I'll help you get to the shelter."
He only looked at her blankly.
"Will you wait for me then?" She asked.
He nodded. "I will." He paused, "You are my only friend at the moment."
At the word friend she berated herself for getting too involved. She was just going to drop him off at the shelter. That was it. Just giving someone a ride.
AN: I think there has to be a little suspension of belief here. Like, I don't think Darcy would ever move to the U.S. especially in the early 1800s. But I'm American and I'm not really good at writing Regency and I didn't want to write about another culture on top of that. Also, I'm not a doctor. I just watched ER and Gray's Anatomy in my formative years and that is what I know about hospitals. haha.