Page 44 of Rushed

“Sir, this woman has a cut on her temple that I’ve staunched, but she’s been unconscious the whole time.” I hear my angel speaking, but I’m still staring at the area we were just in. “I checked her pulse earlier, and it was weak, running around sixty.” Wow, that seemed extremely clinical.

“Thanks, we’ll get her right in. This other lady with you, she seems okay? Take her to the tent at the rear. We’re dealing with minors over there.” The field doctor pulls over a gurney, and the angel gently places her on it. Others rush over quickly, taking her away into the inner workings of the makeshift hospital.

“Come on, let’s get ya over to the other side,” my angel says, looking down at his injury free, yet bloodstained hands, smiling dryly at me.

“I don’t think the other lady is doing well at all.”

“No, she isn’t. She’s in good hands, though,” he says, turning to leave.

“Hey,” the doctor calls out, tapping my angel on the shoulder. “We could use another set of hands.”

“I was gonna go back to searchin’, but I could help if ya need it.”

“As you can see, we need all the help we can get in here. You can get there on your own, right?” The doctor asks, addressing me.

“Oh, yeah…of course. See? Fit as a fiddle. Don’t worry about me, I can make it there alone. Go on.” I smile weakly for his benefit. “I’ll be fine.”

Before he has a chance to answer, I turn from the entrance of the triage towards the flow of minor walking injured.

“Kenangan,” I hear him say.

“What?”

“Kenangan. It means ‘memory’ in Indonesian. I think that’s a good name for ya. Not normal or dollylike at all.” The angel grabs a set of surgical gloves and turns towards the scrub shirts stacked in the corner. “Look after yerself, okay?”

“I promise I will.” And with that, he turns inside the tent, leaving me.

I’m now more alone than any of these other souls. I can feel it. I have no memory of my own. I don’t know where I belong, and the only person that I had a connection to, or possibly knew, is now in surgery.

Kenangan. I roll it around on my tongue, turning it to sound the way he did it. KE-Ne-Nagan, Kenanagan, Keegles, Keekee, Mimi, Nancy, blah! It feels foreign. Well it should, dumbass, it’s Indonesian. It’s not like you know Indonesian!

Passing along beside others who are like I am—zombies of the apocalypse, tortured and mangled, yet intact on the outside—I trudge past the minor triage. No blood or guts gushing out, and with no apparent damage other than my memory, I think I can look after any minor injuries later. Identity would be my priority.

The whole lower area has makeshift sections. Worn out rescuers are in one area drinking water to rehydrate before going back into the thick of it, while another has a group of survivors laid out on chunks of metal and concrete where they’re all exhausted and browbeaten looking. So crossing the debris, it all comes into focus. Destruction. Lives destroyed.

I may not have my memory, but I have my life.

I’m alive.

I make it across the space where a large selection of weary people are lining up. I decide to follow in behind two gentlemen whose suits are torn to shreds, showing their obvious overweight middles through their stained white undershirts. I try to ignore all their conversations, as it seems like single-minded drivel. ‘Did you see what happened? I watched it all.’ They’ll be the first in front of the TV crews once they leave the disaster field, wanting their fifteen minutes of fame. Not me. I don’t care to be like them.

“Next.” The men move up to the petite elderly woman behind the desk, and I can’t help but overhear her questions.

“Names and location before it happened?”

I listen to them as they answer her questions. She then hands them each a badge that clearly marks them as located and identified before they’re directed off. Will I get one of those? Well, it’s almost my turn in the spotlight. I guess we’ll find out.

“Next.”

“Uh, hi.”

“Hi. Name?” she says curtly.

“I don’t know,” I say, smiling to her sweetly.

“Sorry? Dear, did you say you don’t know your name?” she asks, but nicer this time.

“No, sorry. I don’t. I honestly can’t tell you what tower I was in, where I live, or why I was here. I was pulled out by a man over there.” I point to where I was pulled out. “That right now is my zip code, and I’m hoping you can help me figure out the rest.”

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