Unspeakable Beauty: A Novel: The Song of the Dove, #1

By Joshua Elzner

When Adam awakes in the hospital, he does not remember his past, and he is impelled to ask the question, "Who am I?" And yet this question itself is already cradled in the awe of first discovery, in which his heart is stirred to childlike wonder and playfulness at his contact with a beautiful world that he had almost lost forever. But whenever his memory comes flooding back in, and his whole being is shaken by the trauma of a painful life, will he be able to retain his childlike wonder, and will he be able to answer this question, both for himself and for others? Alojzy is Adam's great-uncle, a man from Poland who has sent ripples throughout history, but of whom Adam knows almost nothing. When he at last encounters him, in the most unexpected of ways, these ripples begin to echo within Adam's own heart. Throughout this novel, these two lives, and the lives of many others, are woven together in a tapestry that—while composed of light and darkness, of joy and sorrow, of profound hope and inexpressible anguish—is nonetheless a masterpiece of unspeakable beauty. While written to stand alone, this is also the first book in the series, "The Song of the Dove." The second volume, carrying on the story begun here, is entitled "Love Interlacing."

Quantity

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Elzner
• Release date: Jun 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201525446

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Like a Child

He awoke in darkness , even though the room was filled with light. He awoke in silence, even though sounds surrounded him on every side and filled his ears with their noise. Long beams of fluorescent lights lined the ceiling in rows, suspended on a checker-work pattern of square panels. He stared at the blazing lights until his eyes hurt and he had to look away. He diverted his gaze to the right and then to the left, and saw where the many sounds were coming from—the rhythmic beeping and humming of machines on either side of him, to which he realized that he was connected with tubes and wires. On one machine he noticed a screen that showed a squiggly green line rising and falling like a sharp and artificial mountain range—up and down, up and down. He realized that the beeping corresponded with this, letting out its sound whenever the line jumped up again. And there was the whirring and buzzing of something a little further off, up above, and he raised his eyes again. One of the panels on the ceiling looked different than the rest; it was a kind of opening, with a series of concentric metal bars covering it, and he felt cool air blowing through it, down upon his face.

He didn’t know what to call any of these things, nor what emotions to have in response to them. He just felt this tingling sensation inside of him, and sensed that the tingling was awakened by the many things on the outside, which passed in through the eyes and the ears. Then he realized the sense of touch also, and noticed that his hands were folded over his abdomen. He pushed them together and felt the pressure of finger against finger. Then he raised them to his face and felt his cheeks, his mouth, his chin, his ears, his hair. The inner tingling sensation increased. He recognized his legs underneath the blanket, and wiggled them. He pushed his head back against the pillow, and let out a sigh, wondering at the feeling of the air as it left his lungs and whistled through his slightly open mouth.

As he did this his mind began to awaken. Recognition began to gently dawn upon him, and the things that before were enigmas to him began to reveal their names, their contours, their meaning. At first it was like a gentle trickle of water dripping down into the empty caverns of memory, but soon the trickle became not a trickling of a bit of moisture on hard and dry stones but a steady splashing of water into water, of remembrance into remembrance. He knew now where he was, and what this room was for, and the kind of people who laid in beds like this. However, as for memory of his past, and of whatever path led him to where he was now, lying in a hospital bed hooked up to IV’s and a machine to monitor his vitals, this he did not know. In that sense, it was like awakening for the first time to life, and yet with a knowledge of the names and use of the concrete objects that were to be encountered within the world. The concrete story of his unique life—and living relationships with the world around him—this is what was lacking.

At that moment the sound of a gentle but sharp click startled him, and his eyes went immediately to the wall on the opposite end of the room, where he noticed a door swing gently open. In stepped a marvelous creature. He glanced down at himself, at his own body, and looked up again immediately. The first thought that crossed his mind was that this being that stood before him was beautiful. Then more remembrances flowed in, and he knew what a man was, and what a woman.

Welcome back, Mr. Kumiega, she said in a soft but energetic voice.

He remained silent and looked at her.

She wore a light purple shirt, all of one color, with a v-shape at the neck, and matching pants. On her feet, he noticed, were a pair of black sneakers with bright green lines on them. In her right hand she held a clipboard. Her hair was tied up in a kind of loose bun over the back of her head, light brown with streaks of blonde. She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties, with a thin, aquiline face, smooth and fluid along the lines of both her chin and her nose. Her forehead was high, with a little loose hair falling over it—bangs that hadn’t made it into the band holding the rest of her hair back out of her face. The whole of her expression gave off an aura of gentleness and sensitivity, but the way that she held her mouth, her lips thin and contracted, and her eyebrows low and set, revealed that she was one who lived in a place of constant reflection and thought that was inaccessible to others, and a place that was also marked with suffering.

How are you feeling? she continued, and took a few long steps to the side of his bed.

He continued looking at her, and found his gaze fixed especially at her eyes, which were hazel, with a vivid green in them—not like the green of her shoes, but more natural, hiding a kind of depth, like veins of some precious mineral jutting its way through rock. For some reason her eyes were like magnets, and he felt himself trying to gaze into their depths—and he found something coming out to approach him through them. Then he realized that she was looking steadily into his eyes as well. There was a kind of meeting, a recognition. It was as if she gave herself to him through her eyes, like water flowing from some deep underground well. He knew that this underground, this profound something lived inside her, inhabiting that body and bursting forth through its every pore.

You— she began saying, but he didn’t hear the rest of the sentence.

You... he mumbled under his breath, startled by the feeling of his vocal chords vibrating in his throat. You, he breathed again. And then continued, Me... He glanced down at himself again, though his body was hidden under the blanket, and then immediately raised his eyes to her again. To be a Me before a You, to be able to pour out the mystery through the eyes, the mouth, the heart, and to receive in the same way from the other—he remembered now what it meant to be a person.

She smiled a radiant smile, and he felt his own mouth spontaneously widen. He was smiling too. The woman’s smile lit up her entire countenance like a gentle revolution, like a dawning sun breaking across the dark sky. And what he had seen before—the interiority of thought, the heaviness of suffering—burst forth in a blazing flash of deep and authentic joy.

You have been out for a long time, she repeated.

Out, he said, a little louder.

Without ceasing to smile, the face of the woman revealed another emotion, which danced across her face and then disappeared. Hmm... she went on, Can you talk to me, Mr. Kumiega?

Me... You want me to talk? I... It’s hard to remember.

What do you remember? she continued, a little strain in her voice. The smile mostly disappeared and was replaced with a serious expression of concern. But once he had seen the smile he couldn’t forget it, and he knew it was there, burning under the thin veil of her heaviness.

He remained silent, though for some reason he felt his face burn a little and he lowered his eyes. It was hard for him to keep gazing into her eyes.

We know there was quite a trauma to the brain after your accident, but you seem to have been recovering over the last couple weeks quite well. We expected you to wake up any time. She paused. But it remains to be seen how far the recovery will go, and how much you will remember, or be able to learn. After saying this the woman hesitated, as if realizing that perhaps she should not have said all of this.

Her face flushed red and she turned quickly to look at the monitor displaying his vitals. He raised his eyes and looked at it too. He studied the numbers on the screen, and watched his heartbeat rise and fall.

Everything looks good in this department, she said, I just don’t know how well you understand what I’m saying. I haven’t really been trained for this particular case, so I’m going to call in one of the doctors to assess you, is that alright?

I understand, he answered, and nodded his head. I understand what you are saying. But some words I don’t. Slowly... and he paused a moment for thought, slowly I remember them.

Well, good... A wave of relief washed over her face, and she turned to him and leaned over his bed. She sighed a deep sigh, almost as if she had been a long-time friend and was personally touched by the good news of his recovery. It looks like you remember language—or are ‘waking up’ to it. I hope you can remember everything else too. She stared at him with a pensive expression, the depths of which he could not quite make out.

He felt more tingles inside of him as he looked up at her.

Can you tell me your first name, Mr. Kumiega? she asked, in an expectant voice.

He sat silently for a long time, just looking up at her.

Me? I am... he breathed. Ah, sorry. I don’t remember my name.

Adam, the woman said in a voice so soft that it was almost inaudible. You are Adam Kumiega.

Adam, he repeated. Yes, and you are...? He looked at her inquisitively.

My name is Natalya, the woman smiled. But it’s not spelled the usual way. My parents wanted a little adventure, I guess. It is N-A-T-A-L-Y-A.

Natalya. It felt good to say it.

You and I had now become Natalya and Adam. It was like the wells that poured out through the eyes now had titles—names. Not titles that exhausted their meaning, but rather pointed to it, sheltered it, like a veil, or a coat on a cold winter day, or like a box in which a present is placed to be given to another. There was a flurry of thought in Adam’s mind, and a surge of emotion. But his thought followed narrow lines, for he had language, even concepts, but no memories and images in which to place them. It was like he had all the rules of grammar swirling around in his head, yet the words didn’t have any meaning. Or rather, the words had been detached from their objects, and were like containers waiting to be filled with reality. Wasn’t this backwards? But even so, when he encountered something on the outside, there was a kind of correspondence with what was already present within him. The name and the thing met, and were united.

However, at the moment, his mind dwelt on the meaning of Adam and Natalya. These were different than the other names which had been gradually awakening in his mind: bed, door, ceiling, legs. The silence in which he had awoken was now swirling with names and things, but the two personal names, of himself and the woman who stood before him, remained like immovable pillars in the midst of the swirling waters of his thoughts. These names were not for a what but for a who. And through saying the name, it was like the heart reached out to touch the heart of the other person. Adam continually went back and forth between You and I, and he couldn’t help sensing that this was, indeed, the most important thing to know—that everything else was, in a sense, contained in this. You and I.

You, Adam, are in Cedar Creek hospital, Natalya said, and you have been here for sixteen days. You were in the ICU, then, noticing that he was struggling to remember the meaning of the acronym, she said, the Intensive Care Unit—for almost a week. When your condition stabilized they moved you into this room. I’ve been assigned to watch over you ever since—that is, whenever I am on duty.

What happened? Adam asked. He knew what a hospital was now, though the edges and the details remained blurry. But he had no recollection of the time before entering Cedar Creek, or of whatever event had led him here. Indeed, he didn’t even know where Cedar Creek was exactly, though there was a kind of amorphous awareness of a world out there, beyond the walls and the door. What inhabited it, he couldn’t seem to remember.

Well, perhaps you can discuss that with the doctor, Natalya replied. I think I am going to get him now. She smiled at him again—a little different this time, Adam noticed, though her gentleness and sincerity showed through regardless of the particular expression on her face.

She turned away, but stopped suddenly. Turning back to Adam, she bent forward and grabbed his hands, which still rested on his abdomen, holding them in her own. She looked him steadily in the eyes and said, Adam, we are glad to have you back with us.

All he could do was look back at her and squeeze her hands gently in his own.

He noticed that her eyes gleamed even more than usual, and he was surprised to see a tear resting on one of her eyelashes. She tightly closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, the tear loosed itself and slowly rolled down her cheek. With a final smile, she turned away and walked out of the room.

+ + +

Adam leaned back hard on his pillow, though he had never entirely sat up, and gazed at the ceiling—wisely avoiding staring at the fluorescent lights. He noticed a sharp pain along the top of his head, running to his left temple and back. He immediately reached up with one of his hands without thinking. He felt a thin strip of bandages on top of his head, and some also on the left side of his forehead. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed them before.

Then he closed his eyes and held the image of Natalya before his mind’s eye, sealed, as it were, on the inside of his eyelids. Memory, he thought. Imagination. He knew what these words meant. I see without seeing. I see what is not visible to the eyes. And there in the noisy silence of the room he tried to remember. He tried to bring up before his mind images or thoughts of the past—other faces, other experiences, other feelings. But there was nothing. It was like this was the first day of his existence...and yet he had been born with a knowledge of language and concepts, with the containers of words just waiting to be filled, just waiting for the jarring experience of physical encounter, or of being used in a sentence, to rediscover their meaning.

Yet what perhaps startled him the most—if startled was the right word—was that there were only two people he knew at this moment, though he already remembered many more words about things. Adam. Natalya. He had also heard of a doctor, and knew that a doctor worked with sick people, but he did not yet know him as a person. He knew that there was a difference between being a doctor and being a man. There were many doctors, weren’t there? But each man was one-of-a-kind. And the only thing he knew about this man was that he was a doctor. He did not yet know him as a man, as an individual—as he knew Natalya, as he knew himself—and therefore he really felt that he didn’t know him at all.

But there was something else that flashed across his mind, a sudden insight. He thought again of Natalya’s beautiful smile, and her glimmering eyes, and the tear that escaped from her. No one had ever explained to him the meaning of a smile, the meaning of tears. Somehow he knew—knew the meaning of these gestures—without the need to have them explained. It was not that he had once had them explained a long time ago, as he imagined the title of doctor had once been explained to him. Rather, he felt as if he always knew, as if he could always understand and experience the meaning of a smile or of tears, or of looking into another person’s eyes to share this smile or these tears.

Why did Natalya have tears in her eyes, and even let one loose to roll down her cheek? Adam understood the meaning of tears, though he couldn’t find the word to express it. Or maybe there were many words. Why, though, had it happened? Somehow he felt that it was odd for a woman like her, who had been with him for less than two weeks, to cry at seeing him awake again. But then again, it was not odd for him. He would probably have done the same, for he felt that he could cry just at the joy that he had been able to look at her and touch her hands. He just wondered at this sensitivity he saw in her, as he wondered at everything else. He wondered at it because it felt both so natural and so mysterious.

He felt that everyone should cry every time they saw someone else—or that they should jump and dance for joy.

But somehow he knew that people didn’t do that; he remembered in a vague way, without any concrete image, that most of the time people just brushed shoulders without even looking into one another’s eyes. And there was certainly no dancing, no tears of gladness.

This vague and yet deep-seated memory was confirmed whenever the door swung open again and a man in a pair of slacks and a long white coat strolled in. His hair was jet black, parted down the middle, and a thin and finely trimmed goatee surrounded his pursed mouth. His eyes seemed to scan the room before falling on Adam. And then immediately these eyes continued their movement toward the machine, and then back toward the door. Two other persons—nurses—wearing similar clothing to that worn by Natalya, came in behind the doctor, shutting the door behind them. Natalya was not with them.

Well, Mr. Kumiega, the doctor said in a high and artificial voice (how did Adam know it was artificial?), It looks like we’ve saved your life, even if you didn’t want it saved.

Adam was puzzled and continued staring at the man, wishing he could look him in the eyes too. The man exuded a sense of hurriedness, a sense of inner restlessness, and Adam felt almost sorry for him as his eyes moved back and forth between the machines, the nurses, Adam, and the file folder that he held in his hands. He flipped quickly through the papers in this folder, scanning them with his eyes, his lips moving but no sound coming out. Adam turned his eyes to the nurses—one a man about the same age as Natalya and another a woman with a lean and wrinkled face and stringy white hair, probably in her sixties or seventies.

The doctor looked up, By the way, I’m Doctor Bengazi. He stretched out his hand and Adam shook it. Then he returned to his papers. Frontal fracture of the cranium and a severe concussion. It’s quite a fall that you had.

I had an accident?

You sure did, he sighed. You could say that. Doctor Bengazi glanced again at the machine with Adam’s vitals. Looks like everything is remaining steady now, after your regaining consciousness. Good news for you. I imagine we can remove these wires and tubes from you pretty soon, and get you some liquid and real food—going in through the right place, mind you. I imagine you’re pretty hungry. Sixteen days without a bite.

Doctor Bengazi paused again, and took a breath. His manner of speaking made Adam smile. When he spoke, the words flowed out all in a jumble, almost like one word was tripping over the other to come into the light of day. His speech was breathless and fast, but once he had churned out a chain of words and ideas, he stopped for a while and retreated back into thought. Adam could imagine his mind ticking away behind his fast-moving eyes.

I suppose I should have seen first how much you understand and remember, before going on about food and your health and whatnot. So, Mr. Kumiega...

I understand everything that you said, Adam answered simply.

Splendid! the doctor exclaimed. He got up and went to the corner of the room, where there was a counter built into the wall and a number of cabinets above it. Without turning around he said, Julie, could you remove Mr. Kumiega’s IV? And Rob, could you...

—It’s Mark, the male nurse corrected gently.

Oh, right. Well, Mark, could you find the other nurse, the one who has been watching him, and ask her to send for some food. And then you can remove the feeding tube. It’s almost dinnertime; it would be good to get him back on a normal schedule.

Mark quickly left the room.

Adam couldn’t help feeling that Doctor Bengazi was unable to remember names because he didn’t remember people—or, rather, because they never really entered into his mind and heart deeply enough to find a sticking place. The doctor’s mind was full, but there was a business-like efficiency that passed from category to category and task to task, without stopping to receive and reflect on the mysterious beauty and uniqueness of each encounter, and to recognize which things were more important and which were less. Adam, for his part, marveled at this, as he marveled at everything else. He wondered at the mysterious beauty and uniqueness of this encounter—at the creatures before him, his eyes passing back and forth between Julie and Doctor Bengazi.

But Doctor, Adam began, there is a lot that I don’t remember.

Yes, yes, Doctor Bengazi said without turning around. He was writing in the folder as it rested on the counter. That is well to be expected. We can see it in the brain scan. But there is possibility of regeneration. We’ll have to send you to the mental recovery center. But it’s good that you understand speech, and reason, and whatnot.

Adam tried to reflect on the meaning of the word whatnot, which Doctor Bengazi had now said twice, but it remained a puzzle to him. He couldn’t help yearning to be alone with one of the nurses—Natalya or even Julie or Mark, and to look deep into their eyes. He felt a sense of loneliness tugging at his heart, as if there were a large and unbridgeable gap between himself and those who stood like strangers in his room.

From the moment of his awakening to consciousness, everything had been like in the first morning of the world. Persons had been persons, and things had been things. But everything had been marvelous and beautiful. And Adam had possessed an awareness of himself, of his consciousness, from the first moment that he woke up. He had felt a bizarre kind of solitude, like there was an infinite horizon opening out in the very depths of his mind—at the center of his heart, as it were—and reaching out for something. Something.

All of the things, the what’s around him reflected back to him his own solitude, and the wonder of his own being. He had marveled at his senses—his sight, his hearing, his touch—and at the sights and sounds enveloping him on all sides. But only when he encountered a "who did he fully experience the meaning of this solitude. It was like there was the click of two puzzle pieces fitting together. This happened in that moment of recognition, in that deep and heartfelt intuition when he felt the You of Natalya standing before him...and their hearts communicating through the vehicle of their eyes. He understood in that moment the depths of his own I, and knew also that he was a You" for the woman who was before him.

She stood there like a miracle out of paradise, and because he saw this miraculous beauty so deeply in her, he felt it even more keenly about himself too.

Adam was pulled from these thoughts as Doctor Bengazi returned to his bedside and began to speak again. We’ll let you have some dinner and then, while we’re arranging for your transportation to the other unit, we’re going to get you some fresh air. They say its good for amnesiacs to see something besides hospital walls.

The doctor closed the folder which he was still holding open in his hands, and then said, I think we’ll ask Natalya if she’ll take you out. Her shift is about to end. If she’s willing, that is.

Adam felt like this was an answer to his unspoken wish.

+ + +

Soon after Adam had finished dinner, which he consumed with a voracious appetite, both physically and mentally (because he enjoyed rediscovering the names and tastes of the foods more than he did eating them), Mark came into the room.

Let’s get you dressed in something besides that gown, my friend, Mark said, tossing a pile of folded clothes onto the foot of the bed. I’m sure you don’t want to go strolling through the halls in what you’ve got on.

Thank you, Adam replied.

Do you think you can walk? Mark asked, coming to Adam’s side.

No idea.

Well, let’s give it a try, why don’t we? Can you sit up and swing your legs off the side of the bed?

Adam meekly obeyed, though he found the task a little more difficult than he expected. Not only had he not moved his body for over two weeks, but every movement felt like a remembering or a waking up after a long and deep sleep. Nonetheless he was able to situate himself on the side of the bed, and to dangle his legs off until his feet touched the floor. He noticed that they were in yellow socks with little rubber pads on the bottom for traction. The kind they give in hospitals. This made him smile. How did he know this? Had he been in hospitals before? And why did he remember this and so little else?

Little random details seemed so familiar to him, but they were like flashes of light out of the darkness, and he couldn’t trace them back to the greater network of reality in which they found their place. If anything, this allowed him to be grateful for the little things—things that often get swamped in the great mass of existence and the flurry of experience. So Adam was grateful to be wearing yellow socks with pads on the bottom.

Can you stand? Mark queried with a laugh.

What are you laughing at? Adam said, looking up at the nurse standing over him.

Nothing... he paused, but then continued. Well, I guess just at your expression and the way you hold yourself. You are like a little child discovering the use of his body for the first time.

It sure feels that way, Adam said, smiling too, though he couldn’t exactly understand why.

Well, want to try to stand? Mark continued.

Adam leaned forward and in a moment he was on both feet, tottering back and forth shakily.

Need a walker, old man? Mark laughed, as a grin spread across his face.

Er, how old am I? Adam wondered out loud, looking at Mark and feeling a sense of security in his presence. He felt that the warmth of this man’s heart, and his humor, was a sign of something important within him, though he couldn’t think of the word right now.

Oh, wow, Mark said, and stopped laughing. A serious expression crossed his face—as it had crossed Natalya’s face earlier—but immediately it was submerged in humor again. Hope it comes back, my brother. Your memory that is. But then he went on. You are both a little child and an old man, Adam.

Yes, I suppose so...

But your physical age, said Mark, is twenty-eight.

That’s young.

Yes, it is—though you’re still a grown man. Myself, I’m thirty-four. Been a nurse for almost ten years. Wanted to do this ever since I was young—really young, mind you—in seventh or eight grade. Let myself be convinced by my friends—the culture, you know—and didn’t pursue it right away. A couple years out of high school, though, I decided to follow my dream. And now here I am. Fits like a glove. I love it.

I can tell, Adam said, ignoring some of the words in Mark’s explanation which eluded his understanding.

How’s the standing?

Fine. I think that despite my ‘age’ I can do without the walker.

Good. Mark bent over to pick up the pile of clothes off the foot of the bed. Now, take these and change in the bathroom.

Adam took the clothes.

There it is... Here. Mark showed him to a door at the side of the room, and opened it for him. Need help? Not sure how much you remember.

This stuff, Adam answered, I’ve got it. Little things I remember. It’s the big things I don’t.

Okay. I’ll be here waiting. Natalya should be in any moment to take you to the courtyard.

When Adam came out, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a plain blue t-shirt, Mark was still the only one in the room. He was sitting on a swivel chair and slowly pushing himself back and forth with his feet.

He looked up when he heard the door click behind Adam.

You’re set, he said, and then, gesturing to the chair in which he was sitting and making a movement with his hand to indicate that he was talking about his riding back and forth, he added, Just trying to stay awake, you know. This is the end of my shift, and I’m beat.

Can I try? Adam asked.

Well, I suppose so. What’s the harm in that?

Mark stood up and offered the chair to Adam, who felt much surer on his feet now. He dropped himself down into it, and, to Mark’s surprise, spun himself in circles with his feet and then lifted his legs into the air, letting out a childlike laugh.

Laughing himself, Mark commented, Well, I guess you are a little child, huh?

Chairs are for sitting, Adam said, and chairs are for spinning.

At that moment the door opened and Natalya stepped in.

Hi Natalya, Mark said. Are you ready to take the prince on his grand tour? He was just showing me how to ‘ride a chair.’

Oh, really? Natalya raised her eyebrows and grinned, and Adam was glad to see her radiant smile again. Well, I’m afraid we can’t take the chair with us.

I can walk, Adam affirmed sheepishly, and rose to his feet.

He then turned to Mark and thanked him for his kindness, and left the room at Natalya’s side.

+ + +

Natalya led him down the maze-like hallways of the hospital, glancing over at him continually to see how he was doing, to study his reactions, to ask him questions about his thoughts and feelings. For Adam it was all quite an experience—an overload of sensory information flooding his mind. They passed people who were both sick and well in the halls; they passed nurses and doctors going about intent on their business, or chatting outside the partially open doors of patients, all with numbers on the outside—306, 304, 302, 300—and Natalya could tell Adam was wondering where the odd numbers were. He looked at the other side of the hall and she saw his face light up. Then she noticed him studying the names posted by the doors: R. Collins (Myeloma—Norm. M.); A. Willington (Kidney Infection—Obs.); J. Venderberg (Terminal—F.T. and Resp.); etc.

They took the stairs down to the bottom floor (Natalya decided to avoid the elevator at the moment) and after a few more turns were standing in a kind of circular concourse that wrapped around a series of tall glass windows. They were in the cafeteria, and were surrounded by the low mumbling of many quiet conversations all joined together in an indistinguishable ruckus. Or perhaps a symphony. But there was another symphony that mingled itself together with the sound of the multitude of conversations, and at times it rose above them and distinguished itself. Adam stopped and was intently listening to the music playing over loudspeakers that were built into the ceiling.

Music, he said.

Yes, you remember?

I remember what music is, but it’s like the first time I’m hearing it.

Natalya didn’t know what to say and just stood beside Adam until he was ready to move on. They could have stood there for hours, considering Natalya’s patience and Adam’s ceaseless wonder, but all of a sudden Adam’s eyes lit up and he rushed forward toward the tall glass windows. He had seen the sky. He stood close, almost pressing his face to the glass.

Infinite space, he breathed.

What? asked Natalya.

The sky is an infinite space, reaching out beyond what the eyes can see, and asking the heart to follow.

Shall we go out?

Adam turned to look at Natalya. Yes.

Natalya led him out of a door near to them and slowly walked ahead of him into the courtyard. Adam followed with his eyes and his head turned upwards, drinking in the majesty of the evening sky. The atmosphere was almost entirely clear, only a few stray wisps of cloud floating lazily here and there. It was still full daylight, but the sun was hanging low in the sky, dipping already behind the buildings of the hospital. The air was cool though somewhat humid, and perfectly still.

Then Adam turned his eyes back down to the earth and realized that they were standing in a kind of enclosed garden, with intricate cobblestone paths winding their way through the midst of all kinds of greenery. Stone benches stood here and there, some with people sitting on them, quietly talking, and some vacant. Adam studied all with great interest, especially the flowers.

Observations? Natalya asked, standing at his side with her hands in the pockets of nursing outfit.

The tiny is reaching out to infinity, Adam said quietly. Flowers reaching out to—to...what’s the word?—the heavens.

Hmm... Natalya stepped forward to the very edge of the flower garden that Adam was examining and bent down, taking a flower in her fingers, careful not to harm it. She drew her face close to it and smelled it.

Adam spontaneously imitated her, and then, with a smile, began moving from one kind of flower to another—obviously comparing the smells. And the feeling against his fingers, against his cheek. After a while he stood up again, and turned to face Natalya directly.

This is just... then after a pause, Shall we sit down?

Sure.

Adam sat on the nearest bench, where Natalya joined him, and they both sat in silence for a while, looking at the garden directly opposite them. Adam’s eyes would pass gradually from the plants and the flowers back to the sky, and then down again, and then over to Natalya for a moment—as if he were trying to take everything in with his eyes, and never found that he could quite capture what he was witnessing. Or perhaps he had no desire to capture it. Just like a child, his inquisitiveness was not a form of possessiveness or control, but rather simply a form of wonder and the desire for discovery.

After a few minutes of silence, Natalya spoke, A penny for your thoughts?

Excuse me?

Oh, sorry. You probably don’t understand the idiom?

Just a second, Adam leaned his head against his hand, and pressed gently against his temple, as if trying to press out a lost memory—or a flood of lost memories.

After a while he lifted his head again and turned directly to face Natalya.

It’s like there is this web of connected ideas in my mind, all of them joined together, Adam began. One leads to another, and can’t be understood fully without the other. And so each thought, each idea, is tied in with something else—and by tugging on one thought I find another one emerging from the darkness and becoming clear.

Natalya just looked at him and nodded.

I understand what learning is. I...remember. Usually you take in ideas from the outside—something you didn’t know, right? But for me it’s like everything is on the inside, already there just waiting to be rediscovered. Well, he added, not everything.

With a smile he went on, For example, you. I don’t have a memory of you. So it’s like discovering on the outside. But flowers, it’s hard to explain. I remember them. I see them on the outside, yes. And it’s like they are new—like I’ve never seen them before. But I already, at the same time, know what they are. Actually, I even know the names...gradually, that is. They resurface in my mind: roses, daffodils, geraniums, lilies.

He paused for a moment with the final word, and then repeated it. Lilies...

Natalya looked down quickly and began to absentmindedly run her fingers along the stone of the bench. Adam was puzzled with this expression and looked at her silently for a moment.

It’s like, Natalya, it’s like I have all the ‘fact’ knowledge that I learned in the past. But as for the ‘story,’ my particular story that surrounds all the facts, there’s nothing.

Nothing? she said, and looked up at him.

I can’t... I don’t know. It is like it’s beyond my reach.

You paused at the word lilies just now, Natalya continued. Do you have some memory of lilies?

Adam glanced back to the garden and looked at it. There were indeed lilies there.

I...I feel some significance, but nothing specific.

Well, said Natalya, I imagine we don’t want to go too quickly. Perhaps it’s good to remember things slowly. I think in the other unit they know how to bring things out, little by little. The bigger things. Past. Memory. It might, it might, you know...be too much all at once. Forgetting and then remembering, I mean.

Sure... Adam replied, and then all of a sudden his expression changed, and his demeanor became very serious. Natalya...?

Yes?

He turned to her slowly and, looking into her eyes, he drew in a deep breath. Then he burst into tears. His face was soon streaked with them, as they ran down his cheeks and fell on the bench between them. Natalya stayed where she was but placed her hand on one of Adam’s shoulders.

In the midst of his tears Adam looked up and saw that she was both startled and moved. He cried like a little child—not the cry of a temper tantrum, not the cry of an early-budding selfishness, but the cry of weakness and defenselessness. It was a heart-rending cry begging for help, a cry that was like raw exposure of the heart recognizing its helplessness and limitations. He was sobbing out loud, but also with a certain restraint.

After a while he was able to stop himself and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

Sorry, he said, Yes, you apologize for tears at times, I guess? Though I’m not sure why...

Did you remember something?

No, Adam said in a thoughtful tone, and continued slowly, "but that’s exactly it. I just realized, I just felt deep inside, that I don’t remember." And he began to cry again, this time silently, with gentle tears rolling down his cheeks and clinging to his chin.

The two of them sat there for a long time in silence. Indeed, they sat looking directly at one another—Adam, with his eyes gently releasing tears, and Natalya, her eyes fixed on him, uncomfortable with the intimacy of this moment, but overcoming her discomfort through both her inherent sensitivity and a deliberate act of the will. She remained before him, quiet and immobile, neither drawing near nor moving away, her hand still resting on Adam’s shoulder.

At last, Adam exhaled deeply and said under his breath, Tears...it’s like the grief comes out through the eyes.

Grief, Natalya mirrored.

I am...Natalya, it’s like I have died. It’s like my whole past life—all the people I knew, whoever they were, all my relationships and experiences—it’s like it has all been taken away from me. I feel like I have been robbed of everything. Everything.

But, Natalya replied quietly, hesitating, but you are here.

Yeah, that’s right, Adam answered. I died, but I came back like a little child.

A little child with a mature mind, said Natalya. It’s like you have the heart of a child and the mind of a man. She was visibly moved on saying this, as if she didn’t realize its implications until it was out of her mouth, and it was her turn to hold back tears. She turned away and stared at the sky. She was able to push back the tears and to return her expression to normal. Adam wondered what this conversation had awakened for her, in her own memories, in her past experience. Obviously it touched a chord of some kind, and Adam didn’t want to pry. After all, they had only met, and it was clear that she had encountered in Adam something that made her uncomfortable, yet something that also deeply touched her.

So he looked up with her into the sky. It was now darkening into twilight, and in the far west a tint of pink and purple was beginning to make itself visible. Some of the higher clouds glimmered in a radiant light, shot through with the vivid color of the departing sun, while other clouds, lower in the sky, were already dense and heavy, dark blue like the coming night.

CHAPTER 2

The Conversation in the Garden

Adam and Natalya sat together on the bench, surrounded by plants and flowers, and gazing at the darkening sky, until the last streaks of twilight had disappeared and stars began to dot the firmament. The stars were few, but splendid—so Adam thought—proving that their natural brilliance was stronger, as far away as they were, than the much dimmer city lights which seemed stronger simply because they were close.

They spoke a little, but mostly just remained silent, both of them lost in thought. Many times Adam opened his mouth to ask a question, but usually decided against it. By the time that it was fully night, the garden was deserted except for the two of them, the kindhearted young nurse and the man with no past.

Finally, Adam turned to Natalya and said, Would you mind if I asked a little about you, Natalya? Unless, of course, you need to get going—to see your family or something. I just... You know, I don’t know anyone in this world—not personally, though I am beginning to recall, through our conversations, the many movements of the human mind and heart, and the ways they express themselves in different people.

Personalities, you mean? Natalya replied, without answering his question.

Yeah, I guess that’s the word for it, Adam answered. Personalities are different than ‘persons.’ A personality belongs to a person, right? And each one is unique—and it’s good that way. But personalities can grow and change, to match the person more... I mean the real person, inside...

Sometimes personalities can hide the person, too, Natalya added.

Yes...

Sometimes a person can feel trapped by their personality, locked inside things they don’t like about themselves.

Not like flowers, Adam said quietly.

What? Natalya asked.

Not like flowers. Flowers don’t hide anything. They give you what they are. No fear, no hiding, no play-acting. The word is ‘blossom,’ right? When a flower opens it’s petals?

Yes.

But it opens its petals only when it grows. And to grow it must receive—must drink. It drinks in the sun, drinks in the water and the richness of the soil. And because it receives, it can give. After a long time of receiving, it offers its beauty, its fragrance, its color, to everyone.

And, Natalya added, it continues to receive in the act of giving.

Exactly. Adam stood up. Let’s walk a bit, okay?

Sure, said Natalya, and the two of them began to walk side by side, very slowly, along the cobblestone paths weaving through the rich foliage surrounding them on every side.

The person is like that, Adam continued. I felt that the moment I woke up today. Or, better, whenever I encountered you. I was grateful for you—grateful I wasn’t the only person in a lonely mechanical world where there are only beeping and humming machines and bare walls. More...in being grateful for you I was grateful for myself. But in being grateful for myself, I could be even more thankful for you. Does that make sense?

Adam, it sounds like, in losing everything, you found what most people have lost—even if they seem to have everything.

Well, I... Adam couldn’t continue. He really had no idea how to respond.

When she saw that he wasn’t going to say more, Natalya said, You mentioned personality not being the same as a person. Would you say that personality is like the blossom of a flower? It opens when we first receive, deep down. And when it blossoms, it is a gift to all, and yet also a way to keep receiving in a deeper way still? It’s like the petals of a flower opening wide?

Yeah...

But, Natalya went on, Sometimes personality tries to be the opposite, like a flower that refuses to open its petals. How can someone be grateful for receiving such a personality? Isn’t it like a curse, not a blessing?

Receive personality, you said? Adam asked. Yes, just like a flower receives it petals, its roots, its stem, and each flower unique, right? But there seems to me a difference. Flowers can’t choose to open their petals or keep them closed. They do it automatically. But we aren’t stuck with the lot of what we’ve got—isn’t that right? We receive it, good and bad and all, but then our receiving becomes responsibility. Responsibility to make something beautiful.

Natalya was silent, listening. So Adam went on.

But responsibility is really just an act of continual receiving. I accept what I’m given, and I live it. If I hate who I am, what I have, then I won’t receive, I won’t live, and I won’t let it be beautiful...like it is. Adam turned to look at Natalya in the darkness. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Everything seems beautiful to me—because I feel like I lost it, or I could have lost it. Even if there are bad things, broken things—yeah, I know, I sense that there are—even though there are, I still see that the beauty is so much bigger. Like the sadness I have at what I don’t remember. It’s overshadowed by a greater gladness, the gladness of being alive, of being able to be here and have this time with you.

Natalya turned away and took a few steps away from Adam. What you’re saying is hard for me to hear, Adam. I can’t explain it to you, but maybe you just don’t understand everything. You’re naive like a child, even if you have a head like a man. When you encounter the brokenness, the darkness, maybe you’ll understand what this life is really like. Ah...maybe you’ll forget, forget these nice dreams and ideas. She threw her arms up in the air in a gesture of pain and exasperation.

Adam stood still like a statue.

You asked, Natalya continued after a few moments, you asked about me. Do you mind if we sit back down?

When they were beside one another on the bench, Natalya spoke again.

Adam, you have a very small world right now. This little paradise of a garden, this handful of nurses who have been nothing but kind to you. But you see, she sighed, the world is much bigger, and there is a lot of darkness and evil out there.

I remember the word evil, and it hurts, Adam said. It hurts to think of it.

But you don’t have any memory of it! You see, its the images that overwhelm you; it’s the memories that fill the mind constantly. At this moment she stopped herself. No, they told me not to upset you. Now I’m saying things I shouldn’t. Unkind things. Things that could hurt. Just because I’m upset.

Natalya...

Maybe someday we can talk, but that’s enough of this for now, you see? They want you to go gradually—and the way I see it, maybe you should stay with the beauty for as long as possible.

Who are they?

The people who are going to help you recover.

Oh, so you spoke with them?

Well...yeah. You see, they, um, they want me to help you along while things come back. If things come back... Or, rather, to help things come back.

I don’t understand.

What do you mean?

Well, Adam said, I mean, I want you to be here. You’re the first person, after all, that I ‘met’ after coming back... Anyway, never mind.

Natalya seemed content to leave it at that as well.

After a moment of silence, she said, You wanted to know a little about me... Do you know where we are?

I’m assuming you don’t mean Cedar Creek hospital?

No, I mean the city.

Adam shook his head.

We are in Dallas, Texas. Natalya then paused, and allowed that to register, afraid that maybe this would jar his memory too much and too early.

I don’t remember, sorry, Adam said. There’s still a thick wall over my past.

Well, you see, Dallas is one of the largest cities in Texas, and Texas is one of the largest states in the United States of America. They always joke that we like ‘everything bigger in Texas,’ though I never really got why that’s funny. Seems like an ego-trip to me.

I understand what your saying about the United States. I don’t understand why all this sticks and other things don’t, but... Adam said, please continue.

Well, I live in Forth Worth, which is, you could say, part of the same massive city as Dallas. They call it the Dallas-Forth Worth Metroplex. I work four days a week, twelve hour shifts, and then am off for three days. I drive in on the days I work, but on my free days I usually try to stay home. You see, I’m a quiet and reserved person. I live alone and prefer it that way, I guess. The little apartment complex I live in doesn’t allow pets—except fish—but I’m fine without them too.

Adam could hear a tinge of loneliness behind her affirmations that she preferred to be alone, but he remained silent, with his hands folded on his lap, looking at her as she continued to speak.

"I grew up in a large family, six kids. In our culture they say that’s crazy. ‘Why would you do that to yourself?’ I always thought more children was easier than less; kids take care of kids, you know. But anyway, I was—or rather, am—the last of the bunch, and quite a bit younger than the rest. My parents had their hands full, but we always seemed to find time just to enjoy each other’s company. With kids, you see, parents either have to learn how to be playful—or to squash all the play out of the kids. It was good for the first years of my life, having Dad and Mom together like that. And the majority of us at home—the first, you see, was already off at college.

But later on things got more difficult. Well, yeah... The play stuff became pretty serious. Natalya shifted uneasily on the bench, and her eyes flitted quickly and involuntarily as she looked at Adam and then looked away. You see, there’s a ‘sickness’ called workaholism. Your worth depends on how devoted you are to work, to productivity—on what you do rather than on who you are.

Adam sensed that this sickness wasn’t the main difficulty that Natalya was referring to. But he also recognized that it was perhaps interrelated with the something that she had allowed to surface for a moment before quickly hiding it again. It was like a doorway—or a key—into a problem, into a hurt much deeper. Adam began to feel more palpably the weight of woundedness that had been more or less hidden until now in the gratitude and beauty of his newly discovered world. But it still remained something formless, shapeless, more a feeling than a concrete, flesh and blood reality.

My family was really an exception to this, you see, at least at first Natalya went on. "If anything, we knew that this wasn’t how you were supposed to live. My dad, especially, was playful, and brought a sense of joy and lightheartedness into the house. Whenever we got home from school—or the older kids did, when I was still little and stayed at home—Dad would round us all up in the living room and we would have games: wrestling, or red-rover, or red-light-green-light. Things like that, and very creative games, too, which we always delighted in.

But as I said, things changed later on. I was eight then. I have some idyllic memories from the first years of my life—and I’m grateful for these. But the weight of the later years is, well, there’s just a lot more of it.

Natalya paused for a moment, and Adam just looked at her in silence. He didn’t know what to say, and could tell that she was also trying not to say too much. He sensed that she was treating him like a fragile child, or like a piece of glass that could easily be broken, and had to be handled with extreme care.

Oh, I didn’t even say, she continued, I’m not originally from the area. Grew up much further south. In the Houston area. To the west of the city an hour and a half or so. The area there is mostly rural, with lots of farming families, their roots going way back into Eastern Europe, great-grandparents immigrating here in the late 19th or early 20th century. Most of the families are Czech, though there are a a few families that trace their line back to Poland. And quite a few have more recently immigrated from Mexico. Anyway, there are many surnames with a lot of consonants and very few vowels. Dvorak, Blatnik, Drlik, Svrcek...those were probably the worst.

Natalya paused and looked back at Adam.

Sorry, I’m probably overwhelming you with details and names and dates.

No, go on, Adam replied, the puzzle pieces will come together eventually, I hope.

Anyway, yes. It’s the twenty-first century now. Early February...it’s the 2nd of February, right? Yeah, that’s right. And the year is 2022. She said it like twenty-twenty-two. Sorry, we never even told you the date. Anyway, it’s rather surprising that this little enclosed garden is so rich with flowers in the winter, but the climate of Dallas is usually quite temperate. But even so, outside in the surrounding world, things don’t look as alive as they do here. This courtyard serves as a kind of greenhouse, a little paradise in which this beauty is free to blossom even in the weather of winter.

Adam continued to look at her in silence.

So I grew up in a rural farming community also—and am Czech like most of the others.

What’s your full name?

Natalya Anne Ruzicka, she replied.

That’s a beautiful name, Adam affirmed, with complete honesty and transparency. What does it mean?

Well, a name’s a name... Then after a pause, she continued, "but I did look it up one time, because I was curious. Our surname means ‘Little Rose.’ Natalya means ‘Birth,’ as in Dies Natalis or ‘nativity,’ and Anne, well, that was my grandmother’s name, on my mother’s side. It means ‘full of grace.’ Do you know, Adam, that your name is Polish?" After asking this, she paused again, probably for the same reason: out of fear that she might have unnecessarily jogged his memory. But there was nothing.

What’s my full name? He wasn’t sure if she would know, but it must have been on his informational charts for the hospital, because she replied immediately.

You are Adam Matthias Kumiega.

Do you know what it means? Adam inquired.

Sorry, no, Natalya said. "Well, I mean, Adam and Matthias are names with a history, but that’s for another time. Kumiega was a pretty rare name...I mean, I think it is, and would be wherever you were. Except perhaps in Poland itself."

Adam sighed, I guess a name is both unique and also carries a history. Like you said, you carry Anne from your grandmother, but yours is one that belongs to you alone. We’re always coming from somewhere—or better, from someone—from many people—and yet there’s something in each of us that reaches even deeper than family history.

You sure think a lot for having such a small world, Natalya said. You know, in our culture—in America, I mean—we have pretty much forgotten our history. We don’t know where we’ve come from. We don’t remember the meaning of our name. We don’t remember the many generations, the many centuries, that led up to us. And therefore it seems we don’t really know where we’re going either. It’s like what you were saying about flowers blossoming, I guess: we can’t grow and blossom unless we first receive.

It’s an interesting thing, Adam said. I don’t remember anything, but I feel like but I’m still receiving. It’s like my roots are planted in history without my knowing it, and in something deeper than history, something beyond history. Ah, I can’t explain it. Like the roots of the heart go deeper than the soil of humanity.

He turned his gaze back to the garden, but the flowers were almost invisible in the dark night air, with only a few lamp-posts burning here and there to illuminate the courtyard.

"But in humanity too...for I’ve received from you, from the others. And I don’t know what I’d be like without receiving this. And to think of all that I’ve received that I don’t remember, but which still lives inside of me..."

They both remained in silence for what seemed like a long time.

Finally, Natalya stirred and said, You know, Adam, I probably need to drive back to Fort Worth soon. It’s late. I don’t work until next Monday, but I’m tired. Oh, sorry, it’s Thursday today. The next days are my days off.

So you won’t be here?

Well, actually, I don’t know yet. It depends...whether you need me.

Oh, please don’t worry about seeing me. I’m sure that others can take care of me.

With that Adam stood. Natalya stood with him.

"Let me take you to your room