1
Schizophreniac
Chapter 2
"Family"
Light filtered into the room from the eastward facing window. The trees on this side of the house usually blocked out enough of the early morning sunshine so that he could have slept longer.--and most people probably would have--But this boy had faithfully obeyed the "early to bed, early to rise" doctrine. Night-time was not that fun anyway, especially here. Most of the birds and other animals were only seen in the day. He could not fish in the dark, and hiking in the late evening could get oneself lost. He would much rather get up early. If it was good for the sun, then it should be good for him too.
He sat up in his warm bed, craning his neck to look out the window. Excellent! He had woken at just the right time. The boy watched two humming birds hover just outside his window. He was very proud of himself. The birds seemed to really like the mixture he had placed in the makeshift feeder hanging from the eave of the house. The mixture took almost a week to get just right; it had to be brightly colored and taste sweet, just like authentic flower nectar; otherwise, the birds might not like it. He could not help but giggle in delight. He remained sitting on the plush, cotton-padded mattress, fascinated by the speed of the humming birds' wings.
Something about those wings seemed familiar. As he stared at the feeding birds, his mind drifted to the edge of his memories, feigning to remind him of a specific event. However, he could not recall the memory in full, only the vague impression of something moving very quickly. Interesting--as he returned his attention to his flying visitors, he fancied that, for a moment, he could actually follow and count the strokes of the birds' wings. Suddenly, having had their breakfast, they flew away. The young fellow was still gazing out the window.
"Sixty-four--"
It was yet another thing he did not understand about himself. Though he was quite puzzled, he chose not to dwell on the idea. He had many wonderful things to do today, and mulling over something for which he had no explanation would only make him grumpy. He still often wondered how he ended up here. Since he liked this place so much, he ignored that question as well.
The boy shifted and stretched. He had not had such restful slumber since his arrival in this strange place. Flipping the blankets back, he slid to the side of the bed. As he reached for the shoes he kept under his bed, he discovered that he had left his gloves on all night. He removed them, and tossed them into a small round basket by the door. He grabbed his red shoes from under the bed, and some socks and a fresh pair of gloves from the chest of drawers next to the closet. He hopped to the floor, walked to the doorway, and set his things next to the basket.
Before he left, he made his bed and quickly scanned the room for any gloves or socks that might have hidden from him. Because the carpet was a dark green color, anything white would be easy to spot on the floor. There was nothing under the bed anymore. He checked the closet to see if the white clothes had wandered in there, but all he saw was that the floor in the closet needed to be swept badly. However, since he had a promise to keep, he would have to clean it later. He placed the clean socks and gloves in his shoes, which all went in the basket. The orange two-tailed fox lifted the basket and carried it out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
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The wolf laid on the hospital bed, wishing someone would find the doctor quickly. His head hurt, and he still remembered very little. Worst of all, though, was that he was extremely hungry. One can only imagine how grateful he was to see an older raccoon nurse enter the room with a tray. The tray was covered with a tan plastic lid, so he could not see what she had brought him, but it smelled wonderful. She sat it down on the cart-like table on the other side of the room. He waited patiently as she checked all the tubes connected to him. No doubt she was examining the work of the younger, less experienced nurse who had already done all this. The raccoon woman seemed to be very pleasant, grinning slightly as she briskly walked around the cot, first looking at the I.V. tube then reading a chart. She was rather quiet--or maybe focused.
"And how are you sir?" she asked, rolling the mobile table to his bedside.
"I feel better than I look, I'm sure," he replied with a chuckle.
He winced. Ow, no more laughing. The nurse's grin widened as she pivoted the table-top over his lap.
"Dr. Quack was found a few minutes ago. He's finishing up, and then he'll be right over," she stated, stopping for a moment to straighten her white apron.
The canine was very glad to hear this, but right now he was preoccupied with the warm tray in front of him.
"My name is Rita. If you need anything at all, or your vision blurs or you have trouble breathing, pull this chord. We'll come down to check on you."
She lifted the lid from the tray, revealing a plate of seasoned grilled chicken, with steamed broccoli, a dinner roll, and a cool quarter slice of lemon. A cloud of steam rushed from the food into the free air, seemingly thankful to be released from its confines beneath the lid. Next to the plate sat a cup full of ripe, red strawberries. A second cup sat on a saucer, containing hot brewed tea. The lupine looked up from the meal to the nurse. He was confused, but his eyes only showed relief and delight. "Not too shabby is it," remarked the female raccoon, visibly trying not to laugh. "Want some honey for your tea?" she jested.
He looked so silly; his eyes were nearly swollen shut now, but his facial expressions were nonetheless quite vibrant. She was able to maintain composure, reminding herself that laughing could either offend him or cause him pain as he laughed too.
"By the way, the strawberries are from your friend," she said with a wink and a grin. The wolf missed the obvious implication, having already returned his attention to his hunger. Nabior selected a large strawberry and bit into it. The flavor was an excellent balance of sweetness and tanginess. He suddenly emptied the entire cup of fruit into his mouth. Rita burst into cheerful laughter. It seemed to be one of her favorite things to do, Nabior thought to himself.
"Don't forget the cord if you need anything. We're just down the hall. I'll come see you in a little to see how you're doing, alright, honey?" She stopped in the doorway, waiting to see if he understood. With his mouth full of the rest of the strawberries, he nodded. He too began to chuckle, trying his best to keep the berries in his mouth. Between gasps for breath, Rita managed to bid him farewell.
"Honey, I hope we keep you around for a while! We need someone like you around here."
Someone like me? Nabior wondered, sipping from his tea. Nabior looked down at the cup of tea, a look of dissatisfaction in his eyes. The nurse was nearly out of the room before Nabior could get her attention.
"Ms. Rita," he called after her, "could I have some milk?"
The raccoon turned around and approached him.
"I'm sorry. What's the matter, honey?" she questioned, quickly coming to his bedside.
"Could you bring me some milk?" he repeated.
"You don't like the tea, huh?" she asked as if she had foreseen it. "Personally, I prefer iced tea with lots of sugar, but the kitchen staff always gives out herbal tea to patients. Supposed to be good for you," she added, chuckling as she reached for the cup on the tray.
"No, it's not that. The tea is fine. Except—there's something missing. It's just—"The wolf strained to think of the reason for his strange request. "I don't know. I always put milk in my tea," he stated simply.
Rita smiled broadly. "Honey, think about what you just said while I get you some milk."
Rita left the room, leaving behind a rather puzzled patient. The wolf thought that perhaps he had said something inappropriate. But if that were the case, then why would the nurse have been so pleased?
Rita reentered the room with a carton of milk in hand. It had been sitting in ice water, so the outside of the carton was very wet. Rita set the blue and white carton on Nabior's food tray and wiped her wet hands on her apron.
"Did you figure it out?" she said, sitting in the chair beside him.
"Figure what out? What did I say?"
"Why did you want the milk?"
"I always put milk in my tea--"
"Do you? Always?"
"I have since I was young."
"That's kind of a strange habit, wouldn't you say? I don't know very many people who do that around here."
"I guess it's a little unusual." Like this conversation, Nabior thought with slight frustration.
"What made you start this habit?"
Suddenly, Nabior understood. Bit by bit, Rita's interrogation had pulled some of his memory to the surface. He remembered the event clearly. It was not much, but it was something nonetheless. The memory began to grow in his mind, connecting to other much older memories. He remembered his father's face and voice. He also remembered that his father had died. Somehow he still could not recall his own name—not even the voice of his father calling for him. Neither could he remember how his father passed away; he simply knew that it was so. Only a portion of his life memories had returned to him.
Why such a simple thing? Why such a bittersweet memory?
Nabior realized that he had been silent for a few seconds. He began to relate his memory to Rita. As he spoke, he tried to fight back the deep sadness that cascaded through his heart.
"One of the last times I saw my father, he was meeting with a friend of his. I loved my father," he said, grievingly. His hazel eyes became agitated and red. Laboring to hold back tears, he continued, though his voice sounded broken at times.
"My father held great respect for his friend, and loved him like a brother. Naturally, I liked him too, in part because he was my father's best friend. He had only come a few times before, but I noticed that my father always had food ready for him. I never knew why until I tried spying on them. Every time the man came, they always ate the same meal before they did anything else. I guess it was a tradition. The last time they met, I watched from the tree above them--to see what was so special about the whole thing. They saw me though, mostly because the small branch I was sitting on broke under my weight. My head hurt for a couple of days, sort of like it does now."
The lupine rubbed his head and smiled. This was not really a sad memory.
"Before I fell, I saw my father's friend put milk in his tea. I already imitated a lot of the things he did, and because this tradition was something personal he shared with my father, he became even more admirable to me. Really, everyone I knew liked him. Some of the ladies would talk about his visits and all the kind things he did for them. The men of the pack said he was one of the bravest men they knew. He was also very intelligent, and was always considerate; he helped me and my friends in our lessons. He even saved my father's life once. I wanted to be that—a courageous, smart, kind, and honorable hero. So I started drinking my tea with milk in it."
Nabior's ears grew red and drew back flat against his head as he mixed the cold milk with his warm tea. His face felt warm. Truthfully, he was embarrassed to be telling a total stranger about his fascination with his childhood hero. Yet, for some reason, Nabior felt very relieved. Maybe recovery would be quicker than he expected, he thought, stirring the foggy mixture in his cup.
"People say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Maybe that's why he tolerated my foolishness," he speculated, sipping from the cup again.
Rita leaned forward in her chair, placing her hand on the wolf's arm, and looked earnestly into his eyes. "That is not foolish. Young people need role models; they need heroes. It is always easier to reach a goal if you can see that someone else has already done it."
Her serious expression faded back to her cheerful grin. Nabior noticed that he could barely see her eyes when she smiled.
"Now," she began, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands in her lap, "what was his name?"
Nabior nearly said something, but he halted suddenly. Frustration marked his face. Within moments, his expression morphed into one of despair. What was his name? Nabior thought, I can't even remember what he looked like.
Rita saw his expression, and leaned forward again, placing her hand on his arm again. "Now don't worry. It doesn't all come at once. If it did, you might end up with a much bigger headache. You'll think of it," she assured him. "You eat your food and just relax for a while," she said, standing up. "I'll come back to look in on you a little later."
As the raccoon left, a female chipmunk, maybe forty or so years old, stopped just outside the room. The two women chatted for a while on the other side of the door, although Nabior was unaware of their presence. Nabior sat in the bed, searching his mind for a picture of his father's best friend, but it was useless. All he kept seeing was a vague impression of the man, like a silhouette of a person behind a window shade, or a reflection of a person in murky water. The patient began to eat his food again, hoping that it would help him calm down. Meanwhile, the conversation in the hall continued. Nabior had just finished eating when someone stepped into the doorway.
"Hi there. I thought you might like some company. Mind if I come in?"
The wolf gestured to the seat next to his bed. She gracefully walked over to it, removed the red shawl from her shoulders, and sat in the cushioned chair. Her gray hair was put up in bun-style; she held a brown paper sack in her lap. The lupine felt that some sort of greeting was necessary, but was unsure of how to go about it.
"Uh, thank you for visiting. I'm sorry, but I don't remember my name, so maybe you should start the introductions," he said, grinning. He mentally rebuked himself for making a joke out of it, but when his visitor giggled, he eased up on himself.
"Oh! Heaven sakes, don't worry about a little thing like that! As for the introductions--" The older woman flipped her gray bangs away from her face. Smiling cheerfully, she stood up, walked to his side, and extended her hand. "I'm Rosie."
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Bunnie gave the medical staff all the information she knew about the event at the pond. They would need this information in order to safely proceed with the lupine's treatment. They had already started a number of tests and examinations of the young wolf when she finally left to speak with Princess Acorn.
Bunnie walked through the hospital doors and bumped into Rotor. Actually, in her hurry, Bunnie knocked over the purple walrus. He fell on his back and his cap flipped off his head.
"Oof! Oh, sorry, Bunnie. What'cha doing here? Visiting one of the kids?" Rotor asked, placing his yellow cap back on his head and sitting up.
"Rotor, sugar, I'm sorry!" Bunnie exclaimed, "I didn't see you comin'."
She helped her friend to his feet, and then answered his question.
"No, I came across a fellow in the woods who nearly got his brains beat out of him. I know it sounds funny—"
She hesitated, thinking that Rotor might think her story was ridiculous.
"I was walking by the pond. Then, he just appeared in the air and, sploosh, fell in the water. He was unconscious, so I had to fish him out and give him CPR. He woke up, but— He couldn't remember anything, Rotor. I brought him back here to get patched up." She turned and walked a few steps away from the walrus.
Bunnie looked so tense and worried that Rotor thought he would try to brighten things up a little.
"CPR, eh?" Rotor said thoughtfully. "Was he cute?"
Rotor sounded completely serious as he made this remark. Since Bunnie was facing away from him, she could not see his silly grin. However, she was not nearly as frazzled as Rotor had expected, so she just played along.
"Yeah, when I found him. Now he's probably swollen and wrapped up in casts and bandages. Hmm—such a waste of a handsome face," she sighed.
Sadly, Rotor was much more gullible than even Bunnie knew. He stood there, staring at her awkwardly. His cheeks felt hot. "That was a joke, Bunnie."
She turned to Rotor with a crooked grin on her face. "I know, sugar, but I still might have to knock you over again," she exclaimed with a laugh.
"Okay! Okay! I'm sorry," he apologized, throwing his hands up in surrender.
"You said he couldn't remember who he was?" he said, trying desperately to change the subject.
"Couldn't remember a blessed thing when I found him," she replied.
"He's the fifth isn't he?"
"Yeah."
"I guess we'll have to check around to see if anyone knows where he came from—"
Bunnie interjected in an instant.
"Why, thank you, sugar! It's so nice of you to volunteer like that. And while you're doin' that, I'll go fill in ol' Sally-girl, 'kay?" Without hesitation, she trotted away. Before she was too far, she turned and shouted,
"Get his room number; you'll want to talk to him! Contact Lupe too; he's from the Wolf Pack!"
Rotor smiled. Bunnie definitely knew how to delegate responsibility.
Bunnie jogged to Sally Acorn's temporary residence. The journey to the Princess' secluded dwelling took Bunnie up many flights of wooden stairs and across several bridges and platforms, to a very far corner of the uppermost levels of the Knothole tree-houses. For Bunnie, it required little effort to traverse the maze. She knew the pathways of Knothole well and she could navigate them more quickly than most people when she skipped five steps at a time with her robotic legs. Soon, she stood at the doorstep of the small house. Before she was able to knock, a relaxed feminine voice called from inside the dwelling. "Come in, Bunnie!" Apparently, the Princess had heard her heavy footsteps outside the door.
The young rabbit opened the door and stepped inside. The small space she entered was only large enough for a bed, nightstand, a couch, a small table, and two chairs. Another smaller door was on the opposite wall from the entrance. Bunnie assumed this was the washroom. As Bunnie shut the door behind her, she noticed the sound of classic guitar playing. Sally sat in the bed on the left, reading a book and leaning against the stack of pillows behind her.
Princess Sally Acorn still retained her place as leader of the Freedom Fighters despite the defeat of Robotnik and recent return of her father, the squirrel, King Maximilian. King Max, as he was called by many of the Freedom Fighters, suffered from a strange condition that caused much of his body to transform into crystal. Although in appearance Sally was more like her chipmunk mother, her personality was much like her father's. She was an excellent leader, but sometimes very stubborn.
Sally placed the book on the nightstand next to the bed. "I think that's enough music for now, Nicole," Sally spoke to something in her lap. "May I suggest a recharge, Sally?" a computerized female voice asked as the music ceased. "Sounds good," Sally agreed and lifted a small handheld computer from her lap. She removed a battery-charger from the drawer on the front of the nightstand on her right. Nicole, the seemingly alive computer, powered down as she was placed in the charger, and set next to the book on the night-stand.
"It's about time you came up here. I know I need to rest, but it gets lonely up here. I'm starting to feel like something placed on the top shelf of a cabinet--never really that far away, but no one remembers where I am. It's very dull."
Sally Acorn hunched forward, leaning her head on her hand, trying to look as bored and pitiful as she could manage. She was unable stay that way for long. Her back was still sore from the fall she had suffered weeks ago. She tensed, and straightened her back. She had gained a newfound appreciation for high places since the accident. Bunnie walked over to readjust the pillows behind her close friend.
"Stop that--no one's forgotten about you," she rebuked. "--And you're starting to sound like Sonic," Bunnie added with a wink.
Sally pretended to be highly offended by the remark, placing a hand on her collar. "I would NEVER--," she whispered.
"That's 'cause y'all don't like chili dogs," Bunnie stated casually.
The Princess grinned. There was no limit to Sonic's appetite for chili dogs. Leaning back against her re-fluffed pillows, Sally Acorn inquired after the purpose of this visit.
"So, what brings you to the top shelf?"
At this remark, Bunnie displayed mock annoyance at the return of the 'top shelf' idea.
"Can't a girl just pop in to talk to her best friend?"
"Not recently. There's way too much happening for this to be a casual visit."
"Well, Sally-girl, unfortunately, you're right. We've got another visitor who doesn't know where he came from."
"I don't mean to sound cold, but is that all? You could have let Rotor and Dr. Quack deal with that." Sally knew that it must have been a complex matter. Otherwise, they would not have allowed anyone to bother her with business while she recuperated from her injuries.
"Sally, he looks like he's been run over by a Swatbot transport about twelve times. He's beat up and burnt. I think he used to be gray, but he doesn't look that way anymore. Something happened to him before he got here, and it nearly killed him."
Princess Sally examined the expression on her friend's face. There was a great concern there, one much greater than she was communicating in speech.
"Bunnie, what's really wrong?"
Bunnie shifted in her stance. She finally decided to move a chair next to the bed so she could sit. The back of her ears felt irritated as she sat. She smoothed out the hair the back of her right ear. They always seemed to frizz out when she was nervous or worried.
"Sally," she began quietly, "he's from the Wolf Pack."
Sally too began to appear worried. She straightened herself up a bit more and began to think aloud.
"Well, I don't know of anyone who would target them because of Drago. The Wolf Pack felt the most betrayed by what happened. Their entire lives are based on honor. In fact, their group has seen the least betrayal out of all the Freedom Fighters."
"No, it's not that."
Bunnie fidgeted in her seat. Obviously, she had not said what was really bothering her. She could feel the irritation on her left ear now, but she forced herself to ignore it.
"Sally, I don't believe any Freedom Fighter did this. The Wolf Pack is a strong bunch. They train their kids in the same survival skills that teach their fighters. One o' Lupe's pals could tangle with a whole mob and come out with less than a scratch! This fellow--he was just too battered. We've got some serious trouble comin' our way. If we can't help him get his memory back, we may not be able to keep this from happening again."
Sally's gaze lowered. The last thing they needed was another war. Knothole needed time to recover from the damage caused by Robotnik's Ultimate Annihilator. Another major conflict now would drastically lower the morale of the already heavily discouraged Mobians. In reality, the people of Mobius may not have the strength to fight another war.
"Should I talk to him?" Sally asked, looking into her friends eyes.
"Are you up to it, Sally-girl?"
Sally thought for a moment, and then carefully sat up in the bed. She removed the linens from her legs. "Help me get freshened up, Bunnie."
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The two leaned closer toward each other. The red panda looked deep into his female companion's eyes. The young gray squirrel blushed and looked away from him. "I thought you loved Samantha," the female squirrel nervously whispered. "Samantha is just a co-worker, that's all. Rebecca, you are the only person who has ever mattered to me."
The red panda gripped her shoulders, forcing the young lady to look at him. "I love you."
Again, they leaned toward each other. Each could feel the other's breath on their faces. Then--
"Ugh--" The television suddenly shut off. A human male of twenty years of age held the remote control is his right hand. "Even here, the hospital TV's only play soap operas--" The man fidgeted in the cot. He hated hospitals.
From down the hall, a couple of individuals could be heard in animated conversation. He listened carefully, straining to overhear any piece of news. Suddenly, he realized that he was not listening to a conversation. A woman was talking to herself with different voices. "Great. The crazies have gotten out." The thin young man rose from the bed and slowly walked to the doorway to observe what was happening down the hall. His legs were still shaky, and with his left arm broken, he had difficulty bracing himself in the doorway. He peered around the corner of the door. No, the voice was on his left. He looked the other direction. To his surprise, his brown eyes saw something much more commonplace: a woman reading a book to children.
The female was an attractive black and white cat. Each of her wrists was adorned with a single gold bracelet. A blue bandana hung from the left side of her neck, and she wore what appeared to be a khaki vest. This reminded the young man of a cowboy from an old western movie. Because his mind was unaccustomed to thinking in Mobian terms, he mentally compared her to the cats he had always seen. –Longer fur than the neighbor's cat, but not really poofy either. Nice voice though--like an actress'. Heh, I always thought cats made the most annoying noises.
He suddenly realized that his comparisons were rather unfair. The cats from his home were selfish and always getting hit by cars. This creature he was looking at was a person. She was visibly much more person-like in appearance. On top of that, she could talk. That was very unlike his neighbor's annoying animal. Neither was she selfish. Out of kindness, she was reading a story to the sick and injured children in the hospital.
The young man was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he had not heard the nurse come down the hall from the other direction. She waited for him to notice her, but he did not look her way. "Excuse me, sir--" she began. The thin human was startled by her address. He turned to face her.
"Aren't you supposed to be resting?" asked the nurse, a collie of about thirty years of age.
"Yeah, but I heard something funny down the hall. I guess it was just story time for the kids."
"How about you take your medication, then I can take you down the hall to listen to the last story," the nurse offered with a grin.
"Sounds okay to me." Anything sounds interesting right now.
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"There! Now you've got the hang of it," Rosie said. On the other side of the hopital, Nabior was learning to crochet from Knothole's foremost expert on the craft. Due to his soreness, as well as his large fingers, it had been somewhat frustrating at first. However, the practice quickly worked the soreness out of his hands, which made it much easier to do as he was instructed.
Rosie was pleased. She had assumed that he had asked for a demonstration simply out of courtesy. Surprisingly, the young wolf seemed to enjoy this exercise. Rosie was delighted in his ability to learn so quickly. He was much slower than she was, but he was able to do everything she showed him. His large fingers, however, proved to get in the way sometimes.
Rosie studied his hands for a moment. As was the case with most Mobians, one hand was slightly larger than the other, indicating the favored use of that hand. Thus, she concluded that this wolf was right handed. She observed some old scarring on the palm of his right hand and the outer side of his left hand. She believed this indicated that his occupation was dangerous: that he may have been a scout or that he worked with machines. Perhaps he was a craftsman of some type.
Rosie's attention was brought back to their project when she noticed that her companion was having some difficulty. She reached out to assist him. As she helped him out of the dilemma, the observer in her crept out to discover just a little more. The wolf's hands were callused, but in odd places. His fingertips were rougher than his palms. This aroused her curiosity.
"You don't remember anything then?" she asked suddenly.
"No ma'am," he replied.
"Well, how about this: I could guess a little about you, and you could tell me if it sounds familiar."
"We could try that."
"Your hands are very flexible, yet very strong. You have scars on them here and here," she said pointing first to his left hand, then to his right hand. "And, your fingertips are callused. I would say that, regardless of what you do for a living, you've made at least a little time to learn to play music."
Nabior was caught off-guard by the bundle of information she had thrown his way. She seemed to know more about him than he himself did. Nevertheless, he was not discouraged by her observations, he was intrigued. This was an opportunity to learn something about his identity, and he would be foolish not to take it.
"You are very perceptive Ms. Rosie. What makes you think I am a musician, though?"
"The flexibility of you hands means that you use them in a range of motion that is slightly unnatural. Rather than just being strong from the same kind of use everyday, they are quick and nimble like a musician's. The callused fingers may mean that you play a guitar. I know someone who owns a guitar, and his hands are the same way. You know, I could arrange for him to come over, if you'd like."
"I would like that. Maybe he can play for me to help me remember."
Nabior hesitated for a moment. "Tell me. Do you play an instrument?" he asked.
Rosie giggled. The poor man was baffled by her strange habit. She thought she had better explain.
"No dear, I don't. Over the years, I've just learned to see these little things about people. Most people overlook them, but it's the little things that can tell you the most about somebody. I like to help people. Befriending them and talking with them is one of the best ways to help. I guess my funny quirks make it easier for me to talk to people."
Just then, the door opened inwards. A white, middle-aged duck of small stature entered the room. He had a doctor's travel bag and a clipboard in hand. He set them down on a table in the corner, and then pulled a wooden chair over to Nabior's bedside.
"Forgive my interruption, Miss Rosie. And I am sorry for being somewhat late as well, young man. I still have to make house-calls once in a while. I am Dr. Quack, the chief physician of Knothole. Now, I've read the report on the way over. It says that you appear to have suffered only a minor fracture in your left leg, other than the burns and some minor bruises and cuts." Dr. Quack showed the wolf the x-ray images and a few other reports.
"These burns seem to have been caused by electrocution, and the fracture and bruises by a series of falls."
"A series of falls, doctor? They didn't all come from falling into the pond?" asked the young wolf.
"No. The leg fracture and large bruises on your side and arm are probably from that, though. The other bruises are consistent with a fight. And these cuts on your head--maybe from some kind of metal prongs--look like the origin of the electricity. Being that close to your head, you could have easily died, but you seem to be one lucky fellow. I think that your lost memory is a result of the electrocution, not the fall."
Dr. Quack looked concerned. The information was sketchy, and without the memory of his patient, he would be unable to obtain the answers he desired. His patient also appeared to be distraught. As Dr. Quack browsed over the reports again, he saw a note that he had not previously noticed.
It read:
Had difficulty getting accurate readings with a number of the tests, especially the x-ray. Cannot explain anomaly. Interference during and after tests. Unless all equipment needs repair, patient must be the cause. Dr. Quack must PERSONALLY REPEAT ALL TESTS.
The doctor was clearly puzzled. He remained in deep thought for a couple of minutes.
"Doctor--"
Dr. Quack awoke from his trance-like state. "Oh, forgive me Miss Rosie. I'm sorry young man. Something in these reports got me thinking about--something else. Hmm...if you're feeling up to it now, we need to run a couple of tests again. They'll be the same ones you had earlier. We want to double check the results on a few of these."
"I feel well enough, thank you," answered Nabior.
"Good! Then, if you will help me, Miss Rosie, we'll go ahead and get them done before evening."
Rosie and the doctor helped the patient into a wheelchair, and went down the hall to one of the special examination rooms.
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Steam rose from the pot of boiling water over the small fire behind the house. Using a folded towel to protect his hand from the heat, the boy gripped the handle and poured the water into a wash basin. Satisfied with the amount of water in the basin, he dumped the contents of the small round basket into the water. As he washed the white gloves and socks, his mind once again drifted to how he had arrived here. He could not remember anyone living here before-- at least, not anyone like him. Aunt Catherine had been here a long time, yet she too seemed to know things that she could not have learned on her own.
The boy realized that he had stopped washing the clothes, so he forced himself back to the task at hand. Why look back on unexplainable things when he could look forward to an enjoyable brunch with Aunt Catherine?
The heat and steam from the laundry made the boy breath heavily. It relaxed him. "That's what I need," the boy said to himself. He finished the laundry and hung them up to dry on a rope he had stretched from the corner of the house to the tree. He filled the pot again and placed it over the fire once more. This time, however, he took the hot water to an odd looking wooden box.
The box was rectangular and was slightly taller than the young boy. It had no top or bottom, except the stony ground beneath it, and was hollow. One of the sides was set on makeshift hinges like a door, so that the box had the function of a booth. The boy climbed atop the step ladder next to the box and poured the steaming water into a large black, kettle-like tank just above the box. He repeated this process a number of times until a sufficient amount of water was in the tank. He then removed his shoes, socks, and gloves, and set them in a neat pile on a rock just outside the box. He stepped into the box, shutting the door behind him and putting on the latch to keep it closed. A metal apparatus, consisting of a pipe and what may have once been a watering can nozzle (it still had floral designs on it), protruded from the top of the box. A chain hung from the base of the nozzle, which was connected to a strong metal hinge and plate. When he pulled the chain, a steady stream of water was released from the tank. This was his own creation--his homemade version of a common shower.
The water cascaded over his head and body. He was very relaxed. He bent his head forward to allow the hot water to splash against the back of his neck. A few of the water droplets escaped the main stream of the falling water, landing on the back of his ears. His pointed ears twitched reflexively.
He stood upright again, bumping his right elbow against the door. He retrieved the brush from the small shelf to his left, and began to wash. The long-handled brush scrubbed the hard-to-reach spot in the middle of his back. If it had been warmer weather, much of his thick orange-brown fur would be brushed out as he scrubbed. Unfortunately, he would have to deal with his winter coat for a few weeks longer.
The fox child finished rather quickly, and exited the shower-box. Still dripping, he unplugged the hole on the bottom of the water tank. A small trench he had previously dug carried all the water away from the house. He began to dry himself with the towel he had used for the pot. Though he was mostly dry, it was difficult to rid his thick fur of the dampness. His two tails were still quite wet. He spun them around rapidly for a few seconds to more thoroughly dry them. This, however, threw him off balance, and he nearly landed in the laundry basin. This was fortunate though, in that it reminded him to empty the laundry basin and extinguish the fire. He put out the fire with the water from the basin, and then put on his socks, shoes, and gloves.
The young fox took his towel to the clothes line. Just as he was hanging it up, he saw that he had made a mistake. He had not been careful enough to face a different direction when he dried out his tails. The breeze he had created kicked dust up onto some of his clean clothes, many of which were now wrapped over the top of the rope. He removed a damp glove from the line. It was now a dingy brown color.
Miles laughed at his mistake. He had created extra work for himself, but he got a good laugh out of it.
Catherine Ames was an older, white-skinned woman who had once had light brown hair. She was now getting up in years (although she never let on, she remained very energetic and healthy), so her hair was beginning to gray. She had strong, nimble hands, bright hazel eyes, and she always wore a long skirt and blouse. She usually wore some combination of blue and orange because she liked bright colors, especially those found in the sky. She had never grown very tall, but you should never tell her this because, like most people who are not very tall, she learned how to act even taller than most tall people. It came very easy for her because she had grown up with two older brothers who later became athletes.
What is so special about this woman, you ask? Every aunt is like this? Perhaps this is true--my aunts act much like this as well. However, this woman was the only person that a certain young fox knew. And when you consider that this woman was a human who also did not belong here, then you might begin to understand the bond they shared.
Catherine was an expert musician. She taught her young friend everything she knew about the instrument he had always wanted to play, the violin. She knew the cello and piano too. She loved to garden, and knew almost anything there was to know about the herbs and flowers of her former home. Being an intelligent woman, she kept many books in her house as well. The only thing she could not do was cook.
This was very unfortunate since it is the responsibility of all aunts to cook well for their nieces and nephews; Mrs. Ames just never learned the art. She was always busy studying, playing music, and spending time with her husband. Strangely enough, Miles, her young "nephew," could cook very well for someone his age. In exchange for music lessons, he taught her to cook. Both learned very quickly.
Aunt Catherine, as she was nicknamed by her young companion, lived about a mile from the only other house on this side of the mountains. Both of the dwellings were on a small area of land surrounded by high mountains. Neither had traveled far enough to reach the base of the mountains, but this was because each thought it would be unsafe.
Aunt Catherine stood over her small wood burning stove in the little kitchen shack built about twenty-five feet from the main house. She had just finished cooking the surprise dish for her companion when she saw him walk into the clearing around her house. She quickly set the plates on the picnic table.
"Good morning!" called the orange figure from the other side of the clearing.
"I'm quite sure it's closer to noon now!" the older woman loudly replied, laughing.
The table was set, so Catherine turned to face the approaching visitor. "Good day, then," the boy said, producing from behind his back a small animal. "Oh, a sugar glider..." Catherine muttered. The creature resembled a mixture of a flying squirrel and an Australian possum, having the fur and membranes of a flying squirrel and the head shape and coloration more similar to the possum. It was small enough to stretch across the woman's hand as the young boy handed it to her. It was mostly gray, having black ears, a black stripe down the center of its head, a pink nose, and a long black-tipped tail. The sugar glider was absolutely adorable. It nibbled on a small piece of acacia bark. Surprisingly, the critter was very calm. It even ascended Catherine's arm to sit atop her shoulder. "Thank you, Miles. I've never gotten to see one this close before."
Miles pulled out a chair for Catherine. They both sat. Catherine lifted the lid from a small tray on the table, revealing a dozen pancakes, perfectly round and rather warm. Miles was thrilled. She had finally mastered her project. She handed him a plate on which she had placed several of the cakes. Miles could feel the heat radiating from them. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the meal prepared for him. Though he could easily smell the cakes and butter, something else caught his attention. Noticing this, Catherine offered him a small bowl containing a brown substance. Wonderful! Miles thought to himself. She had gone to the trouble of finding maple sap to complete the dish.
Miles eyed the bowl of maple sap hungrily. Catherine assured him that she had a bowl of sap for herself, and she watched him pour the entire bowl over the stack of pancakes. She looked at his expression eagerly, hoping that he would approve. This was the test of her new skill. She was pleased to see that he thoroughly enjoyed the brunch. "The only thing that could make this better," Miles began, "would be a tall glass of--" Before he could finish his sentence, Aunt Catherine stood up and left the table. Miles sat for a moment, wondering what she was doing. She returned quickly with a pitcher. She poured something into a glass on a small table behind Miles. She reached over his shoulder, setting a glass of cold milk in front of him. She took her seat again as the fox guzzled half of the glass before returning to his attack on the pancakes.
Catherine grinned contentedly. She had always wished she could cook, though her greatest desire was to have a child. Catherine loved to be with children. Although he was somewhat older, Miles fulfilled these two dreams. Her relationship with Miles allowed her to impart to a child, while at the same time, learn and develop herself.
It was truly strange. She did not know where she was, or how she got there. She should be shocked to see an animal walking upright on two legs, especially a fox with two tails. She should be terrified of such an animal that was large, intelligent, and could speak. In fact, she should be afraid of everything in her surroundings. Yet, for some reason, she was not. Something about the fox made her feel as if she belonged in that place, at least for a season.
Suddenly, she realized something. He was not a fox, really. He was a boy, just like the children she used to see playing in the street or following their parents about the supermarket. She felt an attachment to him, a strong emotional tie that she could not shake. There was more to it though. A feeling in her stomach, like a voice calling out from the depths of her spirit, told her to consider another idea. Although there was no possible physical relation, Miles was family. He really was her nephew.
Miles saw the distant look in Catherine's hazel eyes. He wiped his mouth with the blue napkin that had been sitting on his lap. "Aunt Catherine, what are you thinking?" inquired the young boy with a smile. At first, she gave no reply. She simply looked at him. Finally, she answered with another question.
"Miles, what have I told you about my life before I met you?"
"Only that you had been here by yourself for a long time."
"It seemed like a long time." Catherine was visibly pained, as if she had to say something, but wished she did not need to say it. "Miles, I mean, what have I told you about my life before I came here."
The young fox leaned back in his chair. "Um, you lived in a farm house in Missouri with your husband. You rented your land to grow crops. Your husband was an automobile mechanic, but had served as a corporal in the army."
"Yes, Patrick was a cook in the army. Kind of ironic—I never learned to cook because someone else in my family always knew how to. Pat cooked for his family when he was young. All boys in his family, you know," she chuckled. "He learned to work on cars and tractors from his father."
Miles placed a couple more pancakes on his plate and began to butter them.
"Who taught you music?" he asked.
"Oh, we had a musical family. Mother knew some piano, and could sing very well. Father taught himself the fiddle, as he called it, and he could sing pretty well too. I took lessons for cello from a man in town named Steven Kindle. I wanted to add a new instrument to my family's orchestra," she said with a giggle.
"My family reunions always had lots of music. My brothers were content to dance, though. Tom and Dan preferred athletics. Maybe that's why they were drafted too. Tom and Dan both made it home, but Dan was in bad shape. He was tired and weak; he died two weeks after being back in the states. He and his wife, Miranda, never had any children. Tom married a couple years after he came back. Her name was Iyko. Her parents were Japanese immigrants. They had twin girls who ended up going to college in New York."
Catherine seemed to remember whatever it was that had saddened her before. She looked down at her napkin and began playing with it. Miles swallowed the last bit of pancake and stretched back in his chair again. Then he noticed her expression.
"You miss them."
"I miss them all very much," she muttered, a tear running down her cheek, "but I probably won't see them again."
Miles, too, began to feel sad. His memories were vague and distorted. He did not even have the luxury of missing someone. He wiped his face with the back of his hand to hide the wetness on his own face.
Catherine looked back to Miles. "I wish there was some way we could get back there. I think you'd like it there. Patrick and I have always wanted a child."
The fox grinned as he thought about it. Although he knew he would enjoy working on cars and tractors with Mr. Patrick, he wondered about what would happen if people found out that a talking animal lived at the Ames residence. Still, it made him feel good that Aunt Catherine would want to take him.
Miles thought for a moment longer. He had ignored many of his strange feelings lately, but perhaps it was time to talk to Aunt Catherine about them.
"Aunt Catherine," Miles began, leaning forward, "do you think they're still looking for us?"
"I'm sure of it. If your family is anything like Patrick, they've probably got everyone in the county searching for us," she said, smiling and wiping her eyes with her napkin.
Miles shifted in his seat. Catherine saw the look of uncertainty on his face. It was as if he wanted to say something, but did not know where to start. Catherine decided to encourage him to speak.
"Have you remembered anything about your home?"
Almost immediately, the child began to weep uncontrollably. He was bent over, resting his forehead in his palms with his elbows on the table. Catherine jumped up from her chair and rushed to his side. She stood next to him, and placed her hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, Miles. Let's go inside for a bit. We can clean up later," she suggested.
She hugged him as he stood up, and the two walked toward the pale blue house.
-Takeiro-
I'm still not sure I liked how this turned out. I can't tell you how many times I scrapped the whole thing and started over. After having a friend look over my first brainstorm draft (which I recommend that all of you do before posting anything for the public to see), we both concluded that that I should never write anything at 3 A.M. ever again. This is so much better than the first simply because I didn't rush myself. I figured, if you can be patient (like you had a choice…), I could be patient too.
Will have chapter 3 up soon, I half-heartedly promise with my fingers crossed behind my back!