Chapter 4

I saw my actions through his eyes, what he must assume were my motives for freeing him, giving him water, and suddenly my actions didn’t feel quite so sincere. I’d need his cooperation, it was true, but I hadn’t been thinking of my research when I ordered the aide to release his wrists, or poured him a cup of water. I’d been thinking of him as a man who needed comforting, which probably wasn’t wise. It’d be in my best interest, and safer, to think of him only as a test subject. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to view him the way I should while watching him sit on the bed, with his chest bare and a five-o’clock shadow dusting his jaw.

I could easily rattle off facts like approximately eighty percent of amnesia patients recover their memory, but I couldn’t comfort him, and that left me unsettled. I’d always dealt with statistics, scientific research, facts and figures, so being face-to-face with a guy my age, who I was undeniably attracted to, had completely thrown me off my game. I needed to pull it together. I took a deep breath.

“May I sit?” I motioned to the plastic chair across the room.

He shrugged his indifference.

Taking it as an open invitation, I pulled the chair closer to this bed and sat, then removed the files from my bag. Just this small act, having the papers in my hands, calmed me. I felt more in control, back to my professional self, and pulled a deep breath into my lungs.

I could feel him watching me. When I looked up, I noted the curious expression on his face.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head, biting his lip.

I looked myself over, making sure none of the buttons on my shirt had popped open or something else awkward. “What’s wrong?” I felt too comfortable, more like I was talking to friend than interviewing a mental patient.

“You look too young to be a doctor,” he admitted finally.

Oh. I tucked my hair behind my ears self-consciously and glanced down at my lap. “I’m not a doctor. Yet, anyways. I’m still in school.” And I knew I looked younger than my twenty-four years.

I read over the questions I’d prepared and suddenly, sitting in this hospital room with him, they sounded stupid. Too clinical. Besides, he wasn’t likely to be able to provide the answers just now, so I’d probably only anger him. Not that I was worried about him becoming irate; I already trusted him on some strange level. I just didn’t want to prod him with useless questions that would do nothing but frustrate him. I wanted him to trust me. To open up and work with me. And if I was admitting it to myself, I wanted him to like me. I closed the folder.

“I know you don’t remember your name, but I’d like to know what you’d prefer I call you. John Doe just doesn’t seem right.” I attempted a smile, trying to lighten the situation.

He swallowed and looked directly at me again. His eyes were piercing. I’d always thought the phrase ‘the eyes are the windows to the soul’ was stupid, but with him, that phrase held meaning. His eyes were rich hazel, with flecks of chocolate brown and deep, mossy green, fringed with black lashes. They were so expressive I could read his anguish at having no idea how to answer the most basic of questions. Not knowing his own name was a deep source of pain.

He rubbed absently at the tattoo on his arm.

“Should I call you Logan?” I nodded toward the tattoo.

He ran his finger over the script, as if trying to decipher its meaning. “Why would I tattoo my own name on me?”

“I don’t know, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

He nodded in agreement.

“I just figured it might be more familiar to you than John, though.”

“I suppose you’re right. Even though there’s nothing familiar about the name Logan to me, I guess I’d still rather you call me that.”

“Okay. Logan.” I smiled. “Are you hungry, have you had breakfast?”

His expression betrayed his suspicion over my concern and I immediately felt guilty. “Let’s just get your questions over with, each day has been a parade of doctors, lawyers and investigators coming through here and not a single one of you can tell me what the fuck is wrong with me. The sooner I can get out of here and back out in the real world, the more likely I am to remember something, right?”

Okay then. That’s a no to breakfast. “It’s possible that certain environmental stimuli could provoke a response…” But I didn’t explain that being under arrest for murder meant he wouldn’t be leaving this hospital anytime soon.

“Would I know it if I was gay?” he asked out of the blue.

“I’m not sure. Studies have shown that sexual preferences don’t change as a result of memory loss. Why? Do you think you’re gay?”

“No. It’s just… Logan is a guy’s name, right? Why would I tattoo the name of guy on my body?”

It was something I was wondering about, too. “You think maybe Logan was a lover?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know what to think about anything.” He lay back against his pillow and closed his eyes. I could see him struggling to keep his emotions in check. I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was feeling, waking up one day in a hospital, being told you’re under arrest for murder with no recollection of your life up until that point. It’s like something out of a dark movie—the kind I was too chicken to watch.

I noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the skin a pale lavender color. I wished there was something I could say, something I could do that would truly help him, but for all my schooling, lectures and textbooks, I was at a loss. I could hold my own in a discussion on the clinical symptoms of amnesia, but I had no idea how to comfort someone who was actually experiencing it. The thought was sobering.

I wasn’t a psychologist, I hadn’t studied counseling, but suddenly I found myself wishing I had the right words to soothe him, to provide some hope, some semblance of normal. However, asking any of the questions I’d typed up this morning would just insult him.

“Listen, I’ll let you get some rest. Would it be all right with you if I came back tomorrow?”

He nodded, and turned his head away from me, closing his eyes.

The conversation between us had been easy; he didn’t seem uncooperative to me. In fact, his response to this situation seemed very normal.

I stood to leave, folding the papers into my bag. “Bye, Logan. Sleep well.”

Just as I pulled the door open, I heard him. “What’s your name?”

“Ashlyn,” I answered.

“Logan and Ashlyn,” he murmured before letting his eyes drift closed.

There was something about his quiet nature, and intense gazes that stayed with me the entire walk home. The way he softly spoke my name together with his, touched me at my core. Like they were something concrete he could catalog and count on.