Page 3 of Help Me Remember

“Yes?” she asked, still looking me over.

“I was, uh, hoping to get looked at,” I told her quietly. It probably didn’t matter if the other people in the lobby heard what I had to say, but I didn’t want to make a show of myself either. “Had a…had a fall.”

“You certainly look like it,” she said, turning toward a computer that looked like it had probably been brand new over a decade before. “I’m going to need your name and an idea of what your injuries are. You’ll need to fill out some paperwork.”

“I don’t…” I began, lowering my voice. “I don’t know my name.”

I didn’t know this woman, but I would swear she was fighting the urge to roll her eyes as she grabbed a nearby clipboard with a piece of paper clipped to it. She slapped a pen on top and handed it to me. “We don’t need to know who you really are, and we don’t care what you were doing to get so beat up. Fill out what you can, bring this back, and wait until someone can see you…unless there’s an emergency?”

“Just a head wound,” I told her, taking the clipboard automatically.

Her eyes moved to my hat. “Right. If you start feeling like you’re going to be sick or keel over, try to give me a shout. Otherwise, fill that out and get comfortable.”

I wasn’t sure it was possible to get comfortable on the hard plastic chairs, but I did as I was told. It was still better than standing around on my aching legs. My head was still throbbing fiercely, but I wasn’t going to bother to ask for anything for the pain. I was quite sure the woman would only send me back to my seat.

The paperwork turned out to be a nightmare as I quickly realized I couldn’t fill out half the information properly. The best I could do was make up my name and what I hoped was a good guess about my age and assume my ethnicity. The address I left blank because I couldn’t think of one place that wouldn’t be obviously fake. But at least I could tell them my injuries and hope whatever doctor or nurse I talked to would be able to help.

I wasn’t surprised when the woman at the desk said little when I handed over the paperwork, save to glance at it and send me back to my seat in the corner of the room. There was a certain comfort in finding the one spot in the room that gave me the best view of everything.

To try to ignore the pain and exhaustion filling me, I distracted myself by noting everything happening around me. There were a few people who, if they weren’t coming off some drug, were undoubtedly still flying high. Another man nursed a bloodied arm and was the first to be called back by a woman as grim looking as the one working the desk. She strode out from the only other door in the lobby, whisking the bleeding man away and out of sight.

I wasn’t sure if it was because I didn’t know what was happening or if I had real-life experience that made it easy for me to watch everything with such ease or if it was some remnant of my essential personality. Whatever the reason, I was happy I could entertain myself for long periods of time when it took them nearly two hours to call me.

“Stanley Brown?” the woman called, looking down at a folder in her hand. I stared back blankly as she arched a brow after a few moments of no response. “Stanley Brown? Is he still here?”

I jerked to my feet as I suddenly remembered the name I’d jotted down. My response was stilted as a fresh wave of pain shot through my head at the sudden movement. “Th-that’s m-me.”

She looked me over. “Are you able to walk?”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling the waves of pain lessen with each passing second. The throb was still agonizing, but at least the edges of my vision were no longer wavy and gray. “Just…stood up too fast, is all.”

“Alright, then come with me,” she said, watching me warily.

Flashing a smile to show I understood because I didn’t dare move my head more than was necessary, I followed her. The waiting room had been dismal and miserable, and the hallway she led me down wasn’t much better. The tiles were cracked, and the fluorescent lights in the ceiling flickered against the sterile, somewhat stained walls. The smell of cleaning products was still apparent, so I had to assume the place was simply run-down rather than dirty.

“Here,” she said, motioning to the last door at the end of the hallway. “Take a seat on the exam chair.”

I had to use the small step stool beside the chair to haul myself up, not willing to risk using my arms or relying on my balance. Sitting down gently to the sound of the paper used to cover it, I clasped my hands between my knees.

“So, Stanley, you put down that you suffered a fall?” she asked, rechecking the folder, which I assumed held the paperwork I’d filled out.

“Yes,” I said, wondering if I needed to elaborate and choosing to wait instead.

“Off of?”

“Through a floor…a couple of floors.”

“Through…how many stories in total?”

“I was, uh, a little disoriented, but it was at least two.”

“And how did this happen?”

I grimaced. “I…don’t know.”

“Of course,” she said, closing the folder and setting it aside. “Well, hopefully, you can tell the doctor what really happened, and she might be able to help you. I’ll take your vitals.”

I frowned but didn’t bother to object, figuring I’d be overridden or ignored no matter what I said. Instead, I stayed on the chair and let her poke, prod, and take whatever measurements she wanted. It was a relief that she didn’t feel the need to carry on a conversation with me as she worked, muttering only that the doctor would be in to see me shortly before leaving and closing the door behind her.

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