"I'm sorry," Neal said, mortification sweeping over him as the nurse handed him a wet cloth to wipe his face. His pounding head had left his stomach queasy, but when Dr. Brandt flashed the penlight into his eyes, it was more than he could stand. Thankfully, the nurse's quick action and a mauve plastic container held under his face kept him from soiling both himself and his bed. But it did nothing to salvage his dignity. This day was such a disaster. For the third time since he'd woke up, his eyes began to burn, and a lump rose in his throat.
"No need to apologize, Mr. Caffrey," the doctor was saying. "Nausea is a common symptom of a concussion. We can get something to help with that." He looked up at the nurse. "ondansetron 24 mg, Meg. And put in for a prescription. Nausea can persist for several days," he explained as she left the room. Neal could feel the doctor's intent gaze. "So can feeling overwhelmed or emotional." Neal swallowed hard, feeling his face flush. "I assure you, Mr. Caffrey, everything you are feeling is perfectly normal given your injuries."
Injuries he'd gotten in an alley in Brooklyn. Injuries he didn't remember getting. In a place he didn't remember being. What had he been doing there?
He saw the answer in Peter's eyes.
Nothing good.
"The surgery to repair the internal damage was a success," the doctor continued. "We will continue the antibiotics for seven days, just as a precaution. Barring complications, you should be able to resume normal activities in two to three weeks."
The whole thing seemed unbelievable, but the doctor droning on about recovery time and physical therapy, a pounding head, a sore face, and swollen eyes made it an undeniable fact. Why was he there? Peter thought he was meeting someone. Was he? Who? Why?
"...but recovery time from a head injury is less predictable," the doctor continued, his voice sounding far away. "The physical symptoms, the headache, sensitivity to light, nausea, dizziness, and fatigue typically pass in the first week, but the cognitive and emotional symptoms can persist for longer."
It took a moment for the words to register. Neal raised his head and looked at the doctor. "Cognitive and emotional symptoms?" he repeated.
Dr. Brandt nodded. "Difficulty in remembering things, paying attention, or staying focused. Feeling mentally sluggish." Well, all of those were him. "Those are some of the cognitive symptoms. Emotional symptoms, as I explained, can be feeling overwhelmed or overly emotional." Yep, he could check those boxes as well. "You may experience mood swings, agitation, frustration, restlessness." The doctor listed them off one by one. "Even bouts of depression can follow a concussion. Dr. Norris will discuss this and answer any questions when he comes to do his assessment."
"What kind of assessment?"
"Neuropsychological assessments are administered in cases of head trauma," the doctor explained. "They help determine your current cognitive and emotional state and make sure there are no other underlying issues that may impede recovery."
He didn't want anyone assessing his emotional state. "When will that be?"
"Any time now," the doctor answered, glancing up at the clock on the wall. "As soon you are finished with that, we get you into a room and get something for you to eat." Just the thought of food made Neal's stomach churn. "I know," the doctor must have read his expression of distaste, "but the meds will help, and we'll start with something simple. Ah," the doctor looked up as a white-clad gentleman entered. "Dr. Norris. I will leave you to it, then."
Dr. Norris was much younger than Dr. Brandt had been. Perhaps only a decade Neal's senior. "How are you feeling, Mr. Caffrey?"
"My head hurts, I'm sick at my stomach, and I lost a whole day." He surprised himself with his honesty.
"Dr. Brandt mentioned the amnesia," Norris told him, pulling a chair near the bed and sitting down. "I'm sure he explained that it isn't uncommon in cases like this. Nor is nausea. It should pass in a few hours, but the headache may persist for several days. Tell what you do remember."
Neal took a breath and gave what little information he had. He was on the way to the office to work, and then, he was waking up with something stuck down his throat.
"That has to be unsettling," the doctor commented when he'd finished. "To have had something so violent happen to you and yet have no memory of it."
It was more than unsettling. "Do you think I..." he felt his throat tighten. He swallowed. "Will I ever remember?"
"That's impossible to say," he replied. "You may regain some memory of the events of the day, or it may always remain a blank. Have you ever had a concussion before, Mr. Caffrey?" He was looking down at the paperwork in his hands.
He'd taken a few blows to the head that left him dazed and dizzy, but there had never been a doctor to diagnose it officially. "Not that I've been told."
"A neuropsychological assessment gauges how well the brain is working when it performs certain tasks," he explained. "It involves some pencil work, hands-on activities, memory games, and logic puzzles." Just listening to the doctor explain what the assessment involved was exhausting. "It will take about half an hour. Shall we get started?"
Of course, it was a rhetorical question, but he nodded anyway. By the end of it, Neal's vision was blurring, his head was pounding furiously, and he was frustrated at his performance.
"The key element of recovery is finding a balance between rest and activity," the doctor told him. "For now, you need rest. Avoid overstimulation and stress." The man obviously didn't understand his situation, his life. Stress was unavoidable. "Keep things calm and quiet. I'll check in with you again tomorrow, and we can discuss your recovery and return to activity plan then."
Dr. Norris excused himself, and less than a minute later, the nurse from earlier returned.
"We have a room ready for you, Mr. Caffrey," she announced as she began removing the wires attached to his chest. "The IV will have stay for now," she explained, "until we see how you tolerate food." She slipped the oxygen monitor from his finger. "You will rest better once you get cleaned up, in a fresh gown and in a fresh bed."
Half an hour later, he'd been moved to a new room, somewhat sponged off, and changed. With his face in such a condition, they'd forgone a shave, and he did feel some better. However, the efforts had left him exhausted. But instead of leaving him to rest, the CNA raised his head, rolled the overbed table in front of him, and posed a question.
"Applesauce, Tapioca Pudding or Lime Jello?" He dismissed all three with a slight shake of his head-the pounding in it prevented a more vehement denial-but she didn't relent. "They are small cups,. Just a few bites," she insisted. "You need something in your stomach." She held his gaze. "Applesauce, Pudding or Jello?"
"Applesauce, I guess."
"Good," she smiled victoriously. "Applesauce it is" she picked up a large plastic cup bearing the hospital logo. "I'll bring you some ice water, too," she promised. "You need to stay hydrated."
Neal closed his eyes the second she left, but there wasn't even time for a catnap. She was back, ice rattling in the cup as she placed it on the table. He opened his eyes as she pulled the foil top off the applesauce and set it before him.
"Take it slow," she encouraged as she placed a plastic spoon in the sauce. "If you tolerate it, I'll bring you something more substantial at dinner. Dr. Brandt wants to switch to oral medication, and you can't do that on an empty stomach."
Sensing she would hover until he did, Neal dutifully picked up the spoon and started on the applesauce. It wasn't awful, and his stomach didn't automatically reject it.
"Very good," she said, satisfied with his capitulation. "If you need anything, just hit the call button."
He made it about three-fourths of the way before weariness caused him to abandon the task. He set the cup down, pushed the table to the side, and leaned back onto the pillow.
"Mr. Caffrey?" A voice intruded. "Mr. Caffrey?" At the insistent tone, Neal reluctantly opened his eyes. A man wearing a suit that made Peter's Brooks Brothers look fashionable was entering his room. "I'm Detective Powell Of the NYPD." He flashed his badge as he approached. "I'd like to ask you about what happened last night."
A wave of dread rolled over him. The NYPD had questions, and he had no answers. Surely Peter had already told them as much.
"Have you talked to Pet...Agent Burke?" Neal caught himself just in time. Such familiarity between agent and asset wasn't looked upon favorably. "I told him already, I don't know what happened. I don't remember any of it."
The detective raised a brow. "Amnesia? Really?" He made no effort to hide his skepticism. "That's what you're going with?"
"I'm going with it because it's the truth," Neal shot back. "I don't remember what happened, who did this to me, or why they did it. Believe me; I wish I did."
"Everything good in here?"
Neal's eyes swept past the detective to see a somewhat disheveled Peter coming through the door. Even wrinkled as if he'd slept in it, his suit did look better than the detectives. Maybe it was a pay-grade thing.
"Everything is fine, Agent Burke," Powell replied as Peter joined him. "Just asking a few questions about the assault." Now both men looked down at him. "Caffrey claims he doesn't remember what happened. That's too bad," he added. "We've brought in a suspect for questioning, and I'd hoped he could look at some photos for me."
"Let him look anyway," Peter suggested. "Maybe seeing one of his attackers will jog his memory."
Neal reached down and pressed the button to raise up the head. He only made it a few inches before his midsection protested, but he gritted his teeth until he was somewhat upright. Sitting wasn't comfortable, but it was better than lying prone while the two men towering over him discussed him. He moved to pull the table over to make a place for the photos, but the pain stopped him. Seeing his grimace, Peter finished the task then discarded the partially consumed cup of applesauce into the trash receptacle.
The detective laid out six photographs one at a time. None of them looked at all familiar. "Recognize any of these?" he asked. "One of these is a trader from a mid-sized firm uptown. You know," Neal felt his gaze. "Stocks. Bonds." The implication was clear. "He's being questioned by my partner as we speak."
Neal refused to take the bait but studied them again, closely. If it was someone from his past, he'd recognize them regardless of his memory of the assault. But none rang any bells, distant or otherwise.
"I'm sorry," he replied, leaning back a bit to give his midsection relief. "I don't recognize any of these men."
With a terse look of disapproval, Powell gathered the photos. "If you don't remember who assaulted you, maybe you can remember why you were down there in the first place." Neal didn't miss the accusing tone. "Who were you meeting at The Watering Hole?"
"I don't know." His stomach, which had begun to settle, was again churning threateningly. This man wasn't going to believe him. No one was going to believe him. "I don't remember. I don't even know where that is."
The detective reached in his pocket and removed a small bag. "I've brought your personal effects," he said. "All but the clothes. They are still being tested. Phone," he removed it from the bag and lay it down on the table. "Wallet, with everything still safe inside" This too, he placed before him. "And this."
The last item was a small origami bird. Neal's vision blurred and his heart began to pound, making his head hurt all the worse.
"Someone gave you directions." The detective touched the small bird. "On the flap of the wing, it says 231 Water Street, Brooklyn." Neal could almost feel the weight of both men's stare but he kept his eyes on the items in front of him. "10 pm."
He'd been meeting with Alex. This was bad. Very bad. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He swallowed as a fresh wave of nausea washed over him.
"Interesting way to send a note," the detective noted. "Who gave it to you?"
Why would Alex want him to meet her? What could she want? Again, nothing good.
He was going to be sick.
"I don't know who gave it to me." He didn't remember getting the note so he couldn't say who gave it to him. He glanced at Peter, hoping he wouldn't ask him a more pointed question. "I don't remember anything after Agent Burke picked me up for work."
"So you keep saying," the detective said. "But rest assured, Mr. Caffrey. We will find out who did this to you. And why." It was as much a threat as a promise.
"I'm going to be sick."
In front of the detective. In front of Peter.
This time, there was no nurse with a mauve plastic container to save him.