Forget Me Not
Chapter One: Betrayal of the Mind
Disclaimer: Still own nothing.
Santa Barbara, 1986.
"I can't, Dad! I can't remember!"
The young kid in front of him was close to tears, and Henry hated to push him further, but knew that it had to be done, it was in his best interest. "Yes you can, kiddo. I know you can. Now close your eyes."
Shawn swallowed hard, wrenching his eyes shut. He lifted his fingers to his temples, wincing as they brushed against his head wound, and lightly touched the stitches.
"Good. Now, what were you doing?"
"I…I don't know."
"Think, Shawn. Where did you go yesterday after school?"
"Gus…Gus and I…we went to his house…because…because you had to work…and Mom…Mom said she had to go out…"
"Alright, then what happened?"
"We…we went outside, and we were playing…we were playing…"
"What were you playing, Shawn?"
"We were playing eye spy…"
"I'm sure that was a fair game," Henry muttered. "And then what?"
"I…I don't know, Dad…"
"C'mon, pal. Did you hear anything?"
Shawn's face wrinkled, in pain or concentration, Henry wasn't sure. He was just about to let the kid go when his face cleared, and a smirk of satisfaction played across the young boy's lips. "Music…there's music…the ice cream truck! The ice cream truck! But it wasn't the ice cream man! He tried to grab Gus, and I kicked him, and Gus got away, and he started screaming…he grabbed me, and I bit him…he threw me, and I hit my head off of…that big rock in Gus' neighbor's yard…"
"That's good, kid…"
"YAG8159."
"What?"
"That's the plate number…and the plate…it was from Washington."
"Good job, kid." Henry ruffled Shawn's hair as reached past him for the phone. "I'll get them to run the number down at the station."
Santa Barbara, Present Day
Henry stared sullenly out the window, half-expecting to see a motorcycle pull up and his son to come pounding on the door, demanding some sort of help on his latest case. He knew that wasn't going to happen though—he'd probably blown it this time, he hadn't seen Shawn this angry since he was eighteen…and next thing he'd known, Shawn was gone. He'd high-tailed it on that death-trap vehicle of his, and that was the end of that. For a good while, they hadn't talked at all—and then, eventually, he started getting postcards, and then pictures of his son in awkward situations: hanging out of a dead creature's mouth, on top of a giant hot dog, and numerous photos of his hands and feet. He highly doubted he'd even be getting that now.
He'd had Gus stop over the apartment, and all the signs pointed to Shawn ditching. Gus had found his cell phone in the garbage dispenser, and his wallet, full of his i.d. and credit cards, in the trash can. The emergency cash stash was missing, ipod, laptop, and a couple of photos were gone. Shawn's leather jacket was missing, and the money to terminate his renter's contract was in an envelope on the counter. Gus had recognized that Shawn wasn't coming back anytime soon, they'd be lucky if he decided to come back at all if the argument was anything like Gus suspected it was. In the back of his mind, the young man hoped that his best friend hadn't ended up in handcuffs this time.
Henry had refused to divulge the reason behind the argument, hanging up on Gus, and calling back five minutes later, demanding to know if Shawn called, emailed, or attempted any sort of psychic contact…And when Karen called the retired police officer, asking where her consultant was, he told her he wasn't sure, but thought he'd gone to help his mother, and he didn't think that the kid would be back anytime soon, if ever. The last part he kept to himself, though. Henry really didn't want to think of the possibility of Shawn never coming back. He'd driven past the agency earlier, and saw Gus hanging a temporarily closed sign.
Sitting at home, staring at the pineapple that his son had dropped off earlier that week, Henry felt white-hot anger course through him, making his chest tight and his heart race. Though if he was angry with his son, or with himself…the pineapple flew against the wall. "Goddamnit, kid…come home…please, just come home."
The words echoed in the silent kitchen, leaving Henry with nothing more than a smashed pineapple, and an empty heart.
*~~*
There was a strange beeping sound. It was echoing around him…where was he? He was floating, he felt hazy…. The beeping was back. How much time had passed? It didn't matter, he was safe, and warm…so, so…oh, it hurt, it hurt, his head was going to explode…
"Lowered morphine…"
"…wake him up…"
"Missing persons…"
"…no reports…"
"Uhhhh…"
"Close the blinds."
It hurt, someone make it stop…the fuzzy warmth was leaving…something was pulling him, the pain was pulling him…this had to be what it felt like to have your brain splattered all over God's green earth, except in slow motion….His eyes blinked open, they were heavy, so heavy…
"Hello, there."
It sounded like someone was dying, someone should go and see to that person, and put them out of their misery, make them stop moaning…
"Cut back the IV drip, see if we can make him more coherent…"
It was him, he was making that noise…
His mind cleared in stages, the pain less encompassing, less debilitating, but still reminding himself of its presence with every beat of his heart. Finally, he was able to pry his eyes open, and recognized that he was looking at a white coated doctor, and a nurse. "Hey there," the doctor smiled gently. "We were hoping you'd wake up. Welcome to LA. I'm Doctor Sullivan. If you're wondering how you got here, you were air lifted in when you were found bleeding out on the side of the road. How do you feel?"
He attempted to clear his throat, wondered who had stuffed cotton balls down it, and then was offered a straw, and sucked down the liquid, increasing the pain in his head with each pull, but the water cleared his throat, and even though it didn't quench his thirst, the cotton balls started to dissolve. They moved the cup away before he'd had his fill, and his mouth attempted to follow it, letting loose a disgruntled whine when it was placed out of his reach.
"Easy, you've been out of it…almost four days now. So, how do you feel."
"Head…hurts…" he had a feeling his voice wasn't supposed to be that raspy.
"I would expect so. We're trying to cut back the morphine, so I don't think that'll be going away anytime soon."
The doctor gestured to the nurse, and he felt the bed being adjusted, the whine of the mechanical bed as it strained under his weight grated on his ears.
A penlight flashed in his eyes, causing him to wince. "How's your vision, double, blurry?" "Fine, as long as you don't do that again." He heard the nurse snort, and glanced over, eyes drawn immediately towards the friendship bracelet on her wrist, a mismatch of colors and uneven knots. "How old is your daughter?"
"She's seven…how'd you know?"
"The bracelet. Girl Scout's, right?"
"Yeah…" The nurse smiled, confusion playing across her features.
"Can you wiggle your fingers? Your toes?"
"Check, and check…don't ask me to shake my head, I have a feeling that'll just make me hurt worse…"
"Well, I can assure you I won't do that…now, we just need some information for your chart. Name, date of birth, that sort of stuff."
He froze, expression that of a deer caught in headlights. "Name?"
"Is something wrong?"
He tried to push his mind back, but it only resulted in stars exploding across the universe that was his head, quickly followed by a comforting endlessness that could only be a black hole.
The next time he woke up, the pain had abated some, but the doctor was still there. "We ran a couple of imaging tests while you were out of it. Appears that there is some swelling in your brain…which is probably what is causing your memory loss. Unfortunately, we've checked for missing persons, and there is no one that has reported someone of your description missing."
"So what do I do next, Doc?" He pulled himself up on his elbows, bringing himself to a sitting position, and fingering the stitches that graced his face.
"I talked to a neurologist, he looked at the images, and believes that you should heal fine…and is hopeful, that you may regain your memories."
"May?"
"Well, the biggest issue is we don't have anyone who knows you…patients with amnesia usually benefit from being in familiar surroundings. You're going to be released soon, and there isn't anywhere for you to go…" The doctor sighed. "My first suggestion would be to get a place to live, and a job. I'm prescribing therapy, hopefully that may help…"
"So, do I get a cool name, like, Dirty Dancer, Ruler of the World and all things Musical?" The doctor appeared un-amused. Maybe he just didn't appreciate Patrick Swayze…Why could he remember who Patrick Swayze was, and he didn't even know his own name…I think I just got a lap dance from Patrick Swayze…
He was pulled back to earth by what sounded like a broken muffler, only to realize the doctor was clearing his throat. "Are you even listening to me?"
He nodded, and then almost gave up hold on his internal organs as his head reminded him of its connection to his stomach. Swallowing past what must have been his liver, it felt too big to be anything smaller, he attempted to listen to the rambling doctor.
"For now, why don't you pick a simple name…something that seems familiar…and I'd say the same for the job." The doctor tossed a book into his lap. "Here's a book of names…I'll be back in about half-an-hour, and the nurse should be in with your lunch soon."
"Thanks, Doc. Maybe I'll pick out a cool new name for you too."
The doctor left the room, shaking his head ruefully. He flipped through the book, and flirted shamelessly with the nurse, ignoring the grey lump on his tray and skipping straight to the blue Jell-O.
Trying again to push his memory back, he nearly ended up vomiting up his Jell-O, and decided that attempting anything involving his head was probably a bad idea for the next few days. But he felt a vague sense of accomplishment. When the doctor came back, he knew what name he'd use.
*~~*
"Do you think we should file a missing person's report?"
"No, Gus. I think he needs to cool off, and you know it could take him years to do that. I'm sure he's off riding that death trap down to Mexico right now."
And Gus had to admit, that Henry Spencer was probably right. If Shawn needed him, he'd call. If not…well, sometimes, it was best to just leave well enough alone. As he made his way through the kitchen, the sweet smell of rotten fruit caught the Super Smeller's attention. Against the wall were the splattered remains of a pineapple, Henry apparently hadn't been able to scrape the entirety of it off the paint yet. Hoping that the crushed fruit wasn't some sort of foreshadowing about his best friend, Gus made his way to the car, marveling on how silent it was now that there wasn't someone next to him to change the radio station settings every forty-five seconds, and wondering why he missed it so much.
*~~*
"Hey, Doc!"
"How'd you know it was me, you didn't even look up."
"You are wearing soft-soled shoes, and you have the habit of tapping your wedding band of your clipboard and your clipboard off your thigh. Unlike the nurse, who is wearing rubber shoes, they squeak anytime she drags her toes, which is about every fourth step."
"I wonder where you learned to do that…"
"Wish I could tell, ya."
"So, any names seem familiar to you?"
"I keep thinking of some dog, and a kid in a well…"
"Lassie?"
"Yes….no…Lassi…Lassi…Yeah. I think that's my last name."
"And first name?"
"Henry. Henry Lassi."
"Well, Henry Lassi, it is nice to meet you. Do you have any idea what you are going to do when you grow up?"
Nodding vaguely and biting his lip, while congratulating himself when lunch didn't land all over the floor, he sighed. "This is going to sound really weird."
"What? Are you going to say you're a psychic or something?"
He snorted. "Yeah, that's real funny. A psychic. No…you see…I think…I think I was…a cop."