JANUARY 9, 2002
Nearly a month-and-a-half had passed since the accident, and Al still hadn't regained any of his lost memories. Doctor Streebing's continuous ribbing about how Al should have remained under hospital care prompted Tina to switch to mornings and transfer to the maternity ward. Sam returned to his own home once Al's physical injuries were healed and he had regained his strength, but his visits to the Calaviccis' were quite frequent.
Although Al was learning to cope with his condition, he still felt an empty void gnawing away at him. The high tech world of the twenty-first century was a strange one to the admiral. Foreign devices such as VCR's, home computers, microwaves, and phone answering machines were items that seemed to belong in a science fiction movie; but they were appliances that Al had to learn to live with nevertheless. With every week he grew more frustrated and irritable; and at the same time, he felt incomplete and unsure of himself and his recovery.
"Good morning, Al," Tina yawned after she pushed the snooze bar on the digital alarm clock.
"Yeah, yeah," Al croaked, still buried under the covers, "Same as any other morning. Nothing really great about it."
"Al," Tina sighed, "for God's sake, lighten up."
"Lighten up!" he grumped as he sprang into a seated position. "Could you lighten up after a month-and-a-half of living an incomplete life! I feel like I'm only half-a-person, Tina. Every morning it's the same thing . . . I walk into that bathroom and tell myself that I'll get my memory back. 'Okay, Al, it'll happen today. You'll start to remember everything again. This whole thing'll be over before you know it.' . . . . I say that in front of the mirror every single morning, and nothing ever happens! If this was your problem couldjoo' lighten up? My memory's not getting better, and this whole thing -- "Al clutched his pillow and fired it across the room.
Dumbstruck, Tina just stood at the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed on Al's. Once the initial shock wore off, she slipped into the bathroom to brush her teeth and answer nature's call. No sooner did the bathroom door click shut, when he tumbled out of bed and started to pace, talking aloud to himself.
"I'm minus twenty-four years and she wants me to lighten up. Easy for her to say. Her memory doesn't stop somewhere in 1977. Who's kidding who? It's not coming back. "Absently, Al picked up a rocking horse music box that was sitting on Tina's dresser. "Frosty the Snowman will be taking tropical vacations before I'll be able to remember something. No matter how hard I try nothing. If you ask me, it's all a lost cause."
Al stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes fell upon the reflection in the full length mirror. It was through the mirror image that he saw the music box cradled in his hands. His fingers slowly traced the small gold and white object; and when he turned it over, Al read the black lettering on the gold base: SOMEWHERE OUT THERE. Al flicked a tiny, gold lever which sent a flat knob into a slow, circular motion. The music box then began to plink out a strange, yet lovely tune.
The room rolled into round blurs as tears formed and spilled from the entranced admiral's brown eyes. Tina emerged from the bathroom only to find her husband standing in the middle of the bedroom, frozen in his tracks. He didn't seem to blink or even breathe.
"Al . . . Honey . . . What is it? What's wrong?"
Seeming to be under a spell, Al stepped back several paces until he backed into the edge of the bed. He slumped down onto the firm mattress and, without looking up, he stuttered, "It . . . it's th-this . . . song. There's s-something ab-b-about it . . . ."
"Do you remember it?" Tina whispered as she sat and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
"No, but, I f-- I feel . . . . There's something -- Something happened, but I can't remember what it is. That song . . . It means something to me, but how can it if I never heard it before? What the hell is happening here!"
"That song, it's called Somewhere Out There. It's a love song, and it was playing on the radio the night you asked me to marry you. You told me you loved me . . . . Well, anyway, you bought that as a wedding gift for me because it plays our song, Al. Our song."
"I can't remember, Tina," Al feverishly fought the urge to sob. "I can't remember it . . . I . . . I . . . can't even remember how much I lo--" The lump of emotion caused him to choke on the words. He tossed the music box onto Tina's pillow; and as the upsetting gift continued to play a muffled song, Al cried out in anguish, "God, Tina, I wanna' love you! You're my wife, and I still don't really know you! I don't remember anything about you!"
Tina drew Al into a tight hug, "It's okay, Honey," she found herself in tears as well. "I understand. I know how hard--"
"No you don't!" he protested as he drew back. "You don't know anything about it. My whole life changed when I woke up last Novem--"
"And mine hasn't? Is that what you're saying?"
"You didn't wake up in a hospital room with complete strangers looking down at you. Strangers who say they're your wife and best friend. You weren't the one who all of a sudden found out that almost a quarter-of-a-century went by and that you grew old practically overnight. And you don't have to sit around every day wondering if you'll ever remember those twenty-four years. You couldn't possibly understand what it's like, Tina. It didn't happen to you!"
Al immediately regretted blowing up at Tina; after all, she was only trying to show that she indeed cared. Unable to face her, he shuffled slowly to the window. The quiet neighborhood beyond the pane swirled into swimming splotches that grew into one sea of watery emptiness. As the hot, salty tears spilled from the man's eyes, blurry images of the street and other houses appeared.
"I'm sorry. I . . . ."
"It's okay . . . . You're right. There's no way I could understand what it's like. I don't have a memory loss. All I know is it must be very hard for you to have to live like this," Tina said quietly. "I guess I'd snap if it was happening to me, too." She picked up the music box which was now trying desperately to plink out one more chorus before the key would stop its counter- clockwise motion, flicked the lever back to its original position, and returned the precious item to its place on the dresser. "Honey, why don'tcha wash up and brush your teeth, and I'll go down and drop some pop tarts into the toaster."
Without a word, the admiral dragged his feet across the carpet and disappeared into the bathroom. Tina exited the room once she saw him close the door behind him.
The warm, soft, blueberry pop tarts seemed to hit the spot. Al and Tina weren't quite finished with their delicious, hand-held meal, when the telephone's loud ring echoed throughout the kitchen.
""Hello . . . " Tina grabbed the receiver after swallowing a bite of breakfast. "Hi, Sam,"
"Oh no, not him again," Al muttered to himself. He realized the physicist only wanted to help him recover, but he was tired of the younger man's frequent visits and constant attempts to retrieve the past.
"He's right here," Tina continued. "Do you want to talk to him?" Ignoring the man's 'no' gesture, she handed him the receiver.
"Yeah, hello . . . uh . . . I don't know . . . . I can't; I got computer class then . . . . After 1:00?" The admiral drew in a deep breath and released a heavy sigh. "Okay, okay I'll go. I'll ask Tina to drop me off at the junior college and you can meet me after I get out o' class . . . . See ya then . . . . Bye." Al slammed the phone back on its cradle. "Damn it!" he barked.
"What's the matter?"
"He wants me to meet him for lunch."
"So?"
"Aw wake up, Tina. Every time I turn around, there's Sam. He just won't leave me alone. The guy's worse than a little lost puppy. Ya know, I'm surprised he hasn't handcuffed us together."
"He's only trying to be there for you, Al. Maybe he's trying too hard, but personally I think I'd rather have a friend who cares too much than to have to deal with uncaring people like Streebing who don't give a flying-- You know -- He really does care, Al. He cares about you, and he won't give up on anything or anyone he loves. Just bear with him, okay?"
The dimly lit, noisy eatery was very crowded. The buzz of what sounded like a thousand conversations and the smell of fried foods filled the room. Perched on two stools near the juke box, Sam and Al carried on a casual conversation while waiting for service.
"You know, Sam, I didn't think you were the type of guy who would eat in a place like this. It seems more like my kind of thing; don'tcha think?"
"Al, we used to come here for lunch every day. We, uh, we ate here because we could never stand the cafeteria food at the Project--"
"The Project?"
"Yeah, we have been working on a top secret science project together since the late '80's."
"You mean the Starbright Project?"
"You remember the Starbright Project?" Sam's eyes popped wide open and filled with hope.
Al shook his head. "NO, I uh, I found some old notebooks while I was unpacking some boxes in the basement. They had dymo labels that read STARBRIGHT PROJECT, and all the pages had a bunch o' stuff in my handwriting . . . . Wait, if you're not talking about Starbright, then what are you talking about?"
"Our project -- Project Quantum Leap."
"What kinda project is that?"
"Aw geez. I'd rather explain it to you once you're more familiar with the technology of the past twenty-some-odd years. It's so complicated; I'd have a hard time trying to explain it to anybody."
Before another word was spoken, a middle-aged, red-headed waitress suddenly appeared on the other side of the lunch counter.
"Good afternoon, Doctor Beckett, what'll you have today?" she asked, setting two glasses of ice water before her customers.
"Just some clam chowder," the scientist replied.
"And you, Admiral, the usual?"
"The usual?" confusion reflected in the older man's eyes. He didn't know what to make of the woman's inquiry. "Whatter you talking about?"
"Your usual order, Admiral . . . One tuna melt a bowl of vegetable soup, and coffee with two Sweet'n Low's."
"What the hell is Sweet'n Low?" Al questioned.
"What's Sweet'n-- . . . Are you feeling all right?"
"I uh, I don't remember . . . ." Al found it difficult to say the words. Dealing with his amnesia was hard enough for him; but talking to people--strangers--about it was pure torture. He wanted to be Al Calavicci the man; not poor Al, the amnesia victim.
"You can't remember?" The server's eyes showed pity disguised as genuine concern. Turning to Sam, she whispered, "Does he have Alzheimer's Disease?"
"No he doesn't!" Sam hissed. "He had an accident last November and is suffering from partial amnesia. He doesn't like to talk about it, so let's just drop it. We came here to eat, not to tell all of his problems to the world." Sam turned to face his friend, who seemed to be drowning in deep feelings of embarrassment and shame. Laying a warm hand on the older man's shoulder, he asked quietly, "Al, do you want the tuna melt and soup?"
"I lost my appetite," he said blankly before dismounting the stool and stalking outside.
"I gotta go. Never mind the chowder." Sam leaped from his seat and darted after Al, too concerned about the admiral to think of anything else.
Leaning against the scientist's car, the admiral fought the urge to show any emotion. Every feeling imaginable flared inside him. When he saw Sam coming, he abruptly turned his back to the younger man.
"Al, are you okay?"
"Why don'tcha just stick a sign on my back saying I HAVE AMNESIA. Or wouldjoo' rather put it on the 10:00 news!" Al griped angrily. "Do you have to tell the whole world I . . . ." Al slammed a hand down on the car's hood.
"I was just trying to --" Sam began.
"To tell her that I'm some poor old man who--"
"Al! What is wrong with you?"
Al ignored the younger man's question and stomped around to the passenger side of the vehicle. "Wouldjoo unlock the damn door; I'd like to get out o' here and go home, all right!" he snapped.
Once they were on the road, the scientist questioned his friend as to his sudden change of behavior. "Come on, Al, won'tcha tell me what's going on here. I mean, you were fine; then you turned on me like a snake. What happened?"
"Nothing happened. Nothing at all."
"Look, you may not know me all that well, but I know you inside and out; and I can tell when you're keeping something from me. Now are you gonna talk to me, or am I gonna have to drill you . . . and don't think I won't."
"Listen Kid, you may have been able to get answers from the Al who remembers you, but I'm not that Al anymore. I'm different, and you're gonna have to accept it."
"Something happened to you at home or in class, didn't it?" Sam prodded.
"No."
"Something bad musta happened, and you're taking it out on me."
"Nothing happened!" Al growled.
"There's something you're not telling me."
"Will you shut up!"
". . . And I'm gonna find out what it is, so there's no use keeping quiet. Now are you gonna tell me what's going on?"
"I thought," Al confessed, "I thought I was gonna remember something, but nothing . . . . It's like those dreams you have, and when you wake up, you wanna tell someone about it, but all you remember is that you had a dream. But you can't, for the life of you, remember what the dream was about."
"What were you remembering, Al?" Sam asked his voice gentle and calm. "Can you tell me what it was?"
Al looked down at his feet and answered quietly, "This morning I . . . heard this song on Tina's music box. The song was so -- I don't know. When it was playing, I got this weird, deja vu feeling. There was something about the song. I wanted to remember it, but I couldn't. I'm beginning to think I'll never get my whole memory back." His voice fell on his last sentence.
"Don't say that. Your flashback is proof that you can recover. The trouble is you're expecting it to happen overnight. It won't be easy, and it won't be instant. The flash may not be a real memory, but it's something. You have to have patience and hang in there." A sudden flare of inspiration swept over Sam, prompting him to change the subject. "While you were unpacking, didjoo run across any old diaries, papers, documents . . . ."
"Just those Starbright notes."
"Well, I want you to go through some more boxes and study any personal notes, papers, letters . . . anything in your handwriting or any official documents on you. It would also be a good idea if you started to keep a journal. Write about the amnesia, how you feel on a day-to-day basis, what you dream about at night. If you try all that something's bound to jog you."
"It'll never work," Al disagreed.
"You'll never know unless you try," Sam countered. "It wouldn't hurt."
Al decided to take Sam's advice and try to retrieve memories via letters and personal documents. After he and Tina cleared away the supper dishes and wiped the table clean, the amnestic admiral spread an entire shoe box full of letters across the flat, wood grain surface and immersed himself in his studies. An hour of unsuccessful attempts to call back the past planted seeds of anger and frustration in the man's heart.
"What does he know," Al complained under his breath, "this isn't working either. How does he think I'll get my memory back by reading this stuff? I tell you, Tina, I don't think Sam knows what he's talking about."
"Al, you just started. You can't expect it all to come back after reading a few old letters; it's gonna take more time than that." Tina sighed, helping herself to a light beer.
"Be honest, Tina, do you really think this'll work? It would be the same as trying to remember something that happened in a history book before you were even born. These letters are facts that don't really mean anything to me. I feel like the last twenty-four years are a homework assignment or some kind of script that I have to memorize, but they don't really mean anything to me. I can read up on this junk and walk around appearing to remember, but I won't really be remembering. Just parroting stuff I read," Al said, his voice tinged with a 'get real' tone. "It's exactly like a homework assignment -- 'Okay, Al, your job is to be this guy who has been married five times and has worked on a project called Starbright. You made friends with some scientist named Sam Beckett and are working on some Quantum Leap thing with him. And oh, by the way, you're married again'." "Al?" Tina perked up when she heard the words 'Quantum Leap'. Her face brightened like a well-trimmed Christmas tree during the holiday season, and her excitement came in the form of exploding heart beats, rapid breath, and sweaty palms. "Do you remember Project Quantum Leap?"
Al ran a hand across his forehead and sighed, "Believe me, Tina; I would be bouncing off the walls if I remembered something."
"Then . . . how?"
"Sam said something about it at lunch. He wouldn't tell me what it was about. All he said was that we worked together on it." Al carelessly gathered the letters and stuffed them back into the shoe box, and he reached for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue that was resting on the counter by the phone book. "I know he thinks this is supposed to help, but I don't think it'll do any good." His eyes widened at the sight of the scantily clad forms portrayed on the pages. "Yumola!" he said in awe.
"Al, I think you should keep trying. Maybe these letters didn't do anything, but there are more boxes in the basement that you haven't gone through," Tina suggested.
"I tell you it won't work," he objected, his face buried in the magazine which now possessed his undivided attention. "Anyway, a guy can slip a disk hauling those boxes up here, and I don't really wanna go back into the hospital."
"You can ask Sam to come over and help," Tina advised.
"Yeah yeah, sure," Al absently answered, still lost in his fantasy world of bathing suit models. "Oh wooowwwwwwww," he panted staring at the woman featured on page 25. "Does she have an incredible pair of beach balls or what?"
Disgusted, Tina snatched the magazine away and said with disapproval, "I think you need your memory more than those two-dimensional, little tramps in a bathing suit magazine! I think you'd better call Sam and have him help you with those boxes, so you can look at something more important . . . like papers that could help you remember something."
"Oh, all right," Al grunted under protest. He rose from his seat, grabbed the phone, and angrily punched its buttons. "Hello, Donna, is Sam there . . . . Hello, Sam . . . . Yeah, I was wondering if you could come over tomorrow and help me lug some boxes out of the basement . . . . Okay . . . . See ya then. . . . Thanks. Bye." Al replaced the receiver and passed an 'Are you happy now' glare into his wife's eyes. He then grabbed a cigar, stabbed it into his mouth, and lit it before stomping into the den.