“Yes. Is Melanie already here?” Rolland asked the same questions each time he was introduced to someone new, but Horace never got tired of them.
“Yes, she is.”
“Have I seen her before?”
“Occasionally. She’s a tiny woman. About five-four. She wears dresses all the time. Brown-skinned. Nice lady.”
“Is she black?”
“Yes, she’s a black lady.”
“Okay.” Rolland closed his eyes and tried to picture her, as his brain flipped through the women he’d met at the facility. He still couldn’t place her, but the frustration he used to feel from not remembering someone didn’t come today. “What else do you know about her? Is her hair short like Purdy’s?”
“Nobody’s hair is like Purdy’s, and you don’t want it to be with that permanent hairnet she wears.”
Rolland laughed and pumped the weights. “I don’t think I’ve met Melanie. Has she seen me?”
“No. She hasn’t seen your crazy-looking self.”
Rolland took the ribbing in stride. “I’m a lot better than I was. I don’t know what I looked like before, but this isn’t bad, right?”
“You are correct there, my friend. Do ten curls, slowly. Melanie arrived two months ago, but she had to go through training on how to do things the Ryder way, and then she took over cases for Barbara Greenspan who went out early on maternity leave.”
“The lady with the cats.” Rolland chuckled. “I’m glad she’s gone.”
Horace held his curled arm for a second, then guided it down. “You scared of cats?”
“I don’t know, am I? She had like fifteen cat calendars, cat mugs, cat hats and cat chair covers. Her office is enough to scare anybody.”
Horace laughed and Rolland kept pumping iron, alternating arms. “She had a cat clock that chased a mouse. Do they screen people before they hire them here?” Rolland put the weights on his leg and watched Horace lie on the floor and laugh. “Get up. You’re making me look bad.”
“You’ll like Melanie,” Horace told him. “She’s really good. She’ll help you return to society with hardly any glitches.”
“Not if she has cats, she won’t.”
“Now listen, in all seriousness.”
Rolland stopped moving. This was their code phrase when to listen closely. “You’re almost done here. Physically, you’ve passed every test. The four-mile ride, and then you shook your head when Shelby was talking to you. Coordination, balance, stamina. You did it.”
Rolland leaned back and smiled. “Really? Well I’ll be—” he frowned. “I’ll be what, Horace?”
“A son of a gun.”
“That’s right. I’ll be a son of a gun. Why aren’t we celebrating with some of that bad chocolate cake Purdy cooks in the lunch room?”
“You have high-class taste buds, too, but don’t say that too loud. I like Purdy’s food.” Horace looked around as if Purdy had spies. He crouched down in front of Rolland. “The truth is that physically you’re healed. You might have a little difficulty with balance, but otherwise you’re okay. And you’ve got your cane, if you need it.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Okay,” Horace said, putting his hands out, knowing how Rolland felt about it. “We didn’t know Barbara was going out early on maternity leave, or we’d have already started you with someone on the last phase of your treatment.”
“I’m not mad about that, Horace.”
“I know the cat thing. Melanie is taking you on as a favor to Barbara. You have to get past Melanie Wysh before you can go into the world. You may never remember your old life, but you can start a new one. She’s the gatekeeper.”
“Melanie has the key, right?” Rolland said slowly.
“That’s right. Your memory is getting better every day. You’re remembering all the new things you’ve been taught. I feel as if my child is growing up and going off into the world.”
“I’ll miss this place.”
“You can always come back to visit, but once you’re gone you’re going to be fine. I promise. Besides, you’ll always know where to find me. Let’s finish up and get some cake.”
Rolland did ten triceps presses and stretched. The other therapists watched him and he realized they’d been charting his progress all along. These people had become his friends to replace the ones he didn’t know if he had.
“Horace, I’m going to shower and change. I want to meet Melanie today. Let’s get this last phase started.”
The door to the gym opened and Horace looked around him. “I guess you’re going to get your wish sooner than later. There’s Melanie now.”
“Dude, I’m sweaty.” Rolland threw the towel over his face and mopped himself dry.
“She won’t care. She’s down-to-earth people, like me. Melanie,” Horace called. “You might as well meet your new client. Melanie Wysh, this is my pal, Rolland.”
Rolland pulled the towel off his head and shoved it under his arm before extending his hand. “I’m sorry for my current state. I’m Rolland.”
Her eyes were the color of rust, her skin warm-looking like honey-baked bread. She’d been smiling as she walked, her hair bouncing in frivolous curls. Then she gasped twice and her hand flew to her cheek.
Her lips lost their smile, and she licked her teeth showing just a hint of pink tongue.
“Is everything all right?”
She nodded in a jerky manner.
Her hand fluttered in mid-air and he took it, knowing it would be as soft as it was. He’d learned people would sometimes react oddly to him and he forgave her.
“I’m Melanie Wysh,” she said. “And your name again?” She reclaimed her hand and put it behind her back. Her hair was red. He loved red hair.
“I don’t know. Three months ago it became Rolland Jones.”
Chapter Two
The colored letters on the side of Rolland’s case file seemed to follow her as she walked barefoot through her cottage home. Melanie carried the glass of wine to the living room sectional and sat down, folding her legs beneath her.
Plumping the pillows, she leaned back and felt her back relax, yet the tension in her body remained until she reached for the file that had dominated her mind. She used her fingernail and opened it.
John Doe aka Rolland Jones had been in a car accident in Las Vegas, Nevada, June 16, a little over three months ago.
His injury list was extensive. Broken nose and eye socket. Dislocated jaw. His front six top and bottom teeth had been knocked out. Sustained lacerations to his upper body, arms and hands. The injury list to his knee was gruesome and she winced, and then read, Traumatic Brain Injury. He’d been pulled from a car that had burned, but he had been spared injury from the fire.
After lying in a coma for twenty days, he’d been brought to the Ryder Rehabilitation and Spinal Center in Kentucky for complete rehabilitation.
His physical recovery had been nothing short of miraculous, except for the resulting symptoms from TBI. He knew how to write alphabetical letters and words, but he couldn’t write numbers anymore. He reversed things, his shoes occasionally, words, which hand to shake with. He had image memories of his past, but not of the past six years. Sometimes things had to be defined for him. He didn’t