And Now I Remember

By Nicholas Morell

The haunting recurrent nightmare that Ben Harris relived over and over were responsible for the loss of his job status, his marriage, and his position in society. Yet when faced with a decision to risk his life to save others, there was no question as to how he would act. This is a story of how Ben lost his memory, but slowly regained so much more because of his unselfish act of courage, and the support of his new found friends who became his family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479799732

Nicholas Morell

Nicholas Morell is a retired Obstetrician who worked with Kaiser for over thirty-five years. His wife Cheryl is a practicing Pediatrician with Kaiser. They have three sons, two of whom have gone into medicine, and the third into research.

Book preview

One

They drew closer to him. As they did, they looked at each other.

Do you think there’s something wrong? Look at the way he’s breathing, Penelope said. Sometimes it’s really fast, and then it really slows down, like he’s running and then stopping. Do you think he’s OK, Ms. Agnes?

Well, he’s not sweating, so likely he ain’t got a fever, Agnes answered. Maybe he’s just extra tired from whatever he’s been doing, you know, working and such.

Yeah, but I’ve never seen him sleep this long before, said Penelope in a worried tone. And the way he was tossing around this morning. There was a big ruckus coming from his tent around daybreak, and I stayed covered up but looked out of the corner of my eye. There were weird sounds and movements coming from there, like a fight, for about ten minutes, and then everything got real still. I waited to see if anyone would come out of the tent, but no one did, and then the noise from the traffic started to get louder, and that was that.

I’m sure he’ll be fine, and when he gets up, he’ll fill us in on what’s up. Or not, Agnes commented.

Agnes had a way of assessing things and coming up with solutions, though not always the fastest, usually well thought out. She was raised in the south, just outside of Mobile, and had wonderful memories of growing up on the small farm that her parents leased and worked. From the time she started her memories, she remembered helping with the chores. At first they were just simple ones, like feeding the ducks, and later on, more difficult ones, like planting and driving the tractor. Soy beans. She thought she had never seen so many rows of plants, all needing to be picked at the same time. And she remembered the bad times as well, times when the rains were not as good to them. Still, her father would always say that she could have all the things that the other kids had. And she remembered the late-night arguments, when she was supposed to be asleep, when her mom would be scolding her dad for spending money she said that they didn’t have.

Agnes had three older brothers. When she was little, it was fun to think of herself as a princess, surrounded by her protectors. But as she grew up, those brothers became, at times, more of a problem, like when she wanted to date boys. Many potential suitors balked at the chance to ask her out when they found out about the family, for fear of retribution should they step out of line or should things not work out. She used that as an excuse for being an old maid. Either that or the right guy just never came along. One way or another, she found herself without a life partner at a time when one would have come in handy. She eventually grew up and moved away from the farm, finding jobs that suited her, ranging from waiting tables to cleaning houses. She never found a job that offered any sort of long-term security in the form of retirement savings and now found herself in this current predicament. No job, no income, no future outlook. But she did have the camp. And with the camp came a kind of security, a sort of family feel. In a world in which no one really cared if you lived or died, or for that matter, if you even existed, the others in the camp did care. They looked for you when the sun came up and when the time came for sharing what little food was around. They cared about the stories you had to tell about the past and the adventures that were locked up in the minds of those who most people on the street looked right past, the invisible people. The stories were rich with love and pain, joy and envy, silliness, and hopes. They needed to be told. And Agnes was grateful that she was one of those who were around to hear them, and sometimes tell them. It was unfortunate that the setting for relating these stories had to be under the street crossing bridges near Madison Street, not too far from the train station. The makeshift tents and the overhead structures did offer shelter from the elements, but the wind blew hard at times, and the rats were always around to look for what was left of the meager meals. But it was what it was, and there was some security in numbers, since they did look out for each other and warn against strangers in the area.

Just then, there was some stirring from the tent, and Penelope elbowed Agnes. I think he might be waking up. He sure doesn’t seem himself. Maybe we should get him something to eat. I’ve got some leftover beef jerky in my bag…

Two

As he was beginning to wake up, he could feel the warmth, and he noticed the darkness and the muffled sounds coming from his right side, but he couldn’t move, just like all the other times. He tried and tried again, but nothing happened. Then there was the initial flash of light followed by the muffled voices, and the smell of smoke and sulfur. The voices got louder and more frantic, and then there was a bark, yeah, a bark, from a large dog, and then the lights were shining all around like the beams of a searchlight shining in the sky. He tried to force his eyes open, but the smoke and the dust made them burn. He heard someone call out his name, and then he felt something very heavy being lifted off his legs, but it caught on his pants and pulled his right leg up with it. There was such a burst of pain that everything went white, then black, then nothing.

He woke up in a sweat, with Penelope and Agnes looking down at him. He had gotten used to this situation, being down, looking up at someone. Many times, it was someone he didn’t know. But this time, they were welcoming faces.

Did I say anything I need to be ashamed of? he asked in a half-worried tone.

Why, do you have a guilty conscience? asked Agnes with a smirk. Should have had my tape recorder for all the juicy tidbits that flew out of your mouth just now!

Now you’ve got me really worried. I didn’t give away the secret code to the Swiss bank account that holds all my millions, did I? he kept up the bantering.

Just couldn’t make out the last few numbers, so would you mind repeating that, and slowly this time? said Agnes.

OK, I guess I’m safe. Sorry if I worried you, but sometimes I have these dreams, and I toss and turn a lot. I’ll try to hold it down from now on, he replied.

He got up, shook his clothes around to make them all face the right way, and found his shoes. His mouth felt like the inside of a three-day-old coffee cup, so he found his bottle of Scope, took a swig, swished it around for a while, and, when the ladies were not looking, spit it out beside the tent. Even in a homeless camp, there was still the need to keep up some form of etiquette. Then the three made their way over to join the group that had formed by the fire can. On most mornings, several of the inhabitants in the camp would congregate around the barrel located just under the second underpass. It was noisy from all the traffic, but that was usually fine with most of them. They could hear what they wanted to hear and ignore what they wanted to ignore, under the guise of selective hearing. That morning, the crowd was thinner than usual, probably because it was already close to nine thirty, and some of them were heading for their chosen spots for the day. As they got closer to the group, they passed Wilfred, an older black man with a weathered face and a grey beard, dressed in a blue-and-black flannel shirt and worn jeans. His shoes were loafers held together with duct tape on the sides, and he carried a battered guitar that he played on the corner of Third and Jefferson. The guitar wasn’t much to look at, but the music he coaxed out of it was special. Wilfred’s story was simple, and complex. To some, he was just another washed-up musician who got lost in the world of entertainment, once high in the circles of fame, with gigs, more gigs than he could count. And the ladies! That was a whole other story, until that one special one came along and changed things forever. Now, he just wakes up in the morning, grabs his guitar, and plays on the corner for spare change and passing smiles. Then he goes back to the place under the bridge at night, falls asleep, and wakes up the next day and does it again.

Around the fire can were Big Jim, Herman, and Blanca with her daughter Teresa. They all exchanged the usual nods of good morning and found sitting perches on the scattered crates and boxes or old cinder blocks left over from the construction. The mornings were a little chilly, so Big Jim had started a small fire in the can to make it more pleasant. Jim was a retired boxer with hands that looked like they belonged to the Incredible Hulk. He had fought some fairly famous fights in the past, but he never was one who could get out of the way of that quick left cross, and found himself looking up at the referee’s fingers too many times. He had a cauliflower ear on the left and scars over both brows from cuts when his eyes were almost swollen shut. He also had problems remembering some things and occasionally needed help finding his way back to the camp. But he was a loyal friend, and pity the poor soul who would ever try to harm any of the folks in the camp. He usually stayed around during the day and looked after things while most of the others went off to do other business.

Agnes greeted Blanca and complimented Teresa on her dress, just as she did every morning. It was a blue cotton dress with yellow and pink flowers, short sleeves, and ruffles at the bottom, but there were a few smudge marks on it that Blanca had tried to rub out, to no avail. Agnes still told her how nice it looked on her, and Teresa always blushed and hid behind Blanca.

I think you look prettier every day, said Agnes. And you are just getting so big. How old are you now? Let me guess… seventeen?

Four! Teresa burst out with a giggle.

Oh my, my mistake, Agnes corrected herself with a smirk. You’ll be going to school soon.

Blanca and Teresa were there from Mexico and, since coming to the US, had been trying to get a visa to stay in the country. Blanca learned English in Mexico and was teaching Teresa to speak it also. They had spent what little money they had on a not-so-reputable lawyer who took that money and later said that he had done all that he could but could do no more. Now they were left with nowhere to go and with no money. Agnes found them and offered to share her tent with them until they could figure out what to do. Blanca was trying to get a job and wanted to get Teresa into kindergarten next year, but it was very difficult without a visa or citizenship. Still, she tried almost every day, going to nearby restaurants and businesses while Ms. Agnes was good enough to sit with Teresa and keep her occupied with made-up games and stories about the times when she was a little girl and how the world was so different. Blanca would get very far into the interviews, but when the time came to show her documentation, the door would suddenly close. But she continued to try because she had nothing else.

The quietest of everyone there was Herman. He was a middle-aged man from the Czech Republic who escaped the country during all the turmoil. He made his way through the European pipeline and landed in the south, and from there was told of the glamour of the West Coast and Hollywood. So he set off to get established there. In his country, he was a watch repairman by trade. Unfortunately, he spoke very little English, and that made interviewing for a job next to impossible. He found it too difficult to describe his abilities, and as a result, no one was willing to hire him. That was until he got a break with a job at a small jewelry shop in Glendale. But that was when the trouble began. A clerk in the store began to steal pieces of jewelry and made the paperwork show indications that Herman may have taken the merchandise. When confronted with the accusations, of course Herman really didn’t understand what he was being accused of and looked as guilty as the boy with his hand in the cookie jar. So he was fired and was out of a job, with no way to support himself. He ended up wandering around near the camp, and Penelope saw how tired and hungry he looked. She invited him in for tea, and that was that. He joined the group. All the ladies had been helping Herman with his English and teaching him phrases he might need to get along in the city. They called him a very fast learner, though Agnes said he had a funny accent.

They all shared what food they collectively had. Someone had gotten a box of bran cereal that had fallen unnoticed out of the back of a car making too sharp of a turn. Someone else knew when the donut shop threw out the day-old donuts and scored almost a dozen of the glazed variety. Penelope found a vacant lot that had the best apple tree, and she picked only as many as they needed each day.

Three

The Scope helped with his awful breath, but he felt it was time for a regular visit to the men’s room to freshen-up. Sometimes they would go to the homeless shelter for a shower and a hot meal. But due to the economic troubles that the city of Los Angeles had been going through, the shelter was mainly open only during the winter, when the conditions were either very wet or very cold; and in October, it was neither. So he and his campmates had to settle for the facilities in the local parks that were not too far away. He would rotate them for variety, though he had his favorite. There was always the possibility that the ranger would be late opening the doors, and then he would have to change his route. He would bring his small backpack with his razor and shaving cream, a towel, and a small bar of soap. He would wash more depending on the amount of privacy he had, but he had to be quick about it and ready to move on if there was any hint of the police in the area.

He saluted goodbye to the others, as they knew where he was going. He made his way back to the tent. He gathered the things that he needed in his backpack and headed toward the park. The clouds were beginning to burn off, and the sun was getting hotter on his shoulders and the back of his neck as he walked. He stayed on the back streets for the most part, not because he didn’t like the crowds, but because fewer distractions allowed him to think more clearly. He could remember events in his life. Some seemed so distant, and some so recent, he could touch them with his outstretched hand. Some of them seemed to blend together in a blur, and some were standing alone as clear as they were when they happened. Responsibility for many. He remembered that. He remembered what that felt like. Sometimes it was easy to handle, and other times, it felt like he was smothering, like the smoke that night. There were so many fire alarms to answer. Some were minor, and the men and women would be relieved when they arrived on scene. Then there were ones like that night, when there was chaos everywhere. There were pops and crackles like fireworks, but not the kind the folks set off on the Fourth. These were ugly sounds, with the smell of melting clothes and worse, and the screams of people trapped. That night, almost everyone got out. Almost everyone.

He drew himself back into reality from the recurrent daydream, or day nightmare, that seemed to occupy a lot of his down time, and realized that he was coming up to Hoover. Two blocks over on Seventh would be the park. He looked up into the sun and blocked the rays with his hand. He waited for the walk sign by the stoplight to turn green and crossed the street. So many others were on their way to wherever they were going, and in such a rush. He used to be one of them. He used to worry about the traffic and being punctual and being late. That was so long ago.

All was good. The men’s room door was unlocked. He went in and used the toilet first. Happily no one was in there. It was fairly early in the morning after all. So he quickly went through his ritual of shaving, brushing his teeth, and washing, with speed. Not necessarily as thoroughly as his mom would have liked, but it felt good to be close to human again. Just then, a dad and his young son came in, and he quickly packed his belongings and exited.

Four

As he walked outside into the sunshine, he shaded his eyes and headed toward his favorite park bench, the one under the California