Unintended Traveler (eBook)

1

Consciousness perceived nothing but utter blackness. And it wouldn’t be unusual to think such a deep and endless void might be frightening, but, somehow, it wasn’t. It was comforting, in fact, and there existed a sense of everything with the need for nothing more. Eventually, it became evident that consciousness was not only aware of the darkness; it was bound by it. Strangely, without a sense of attachment - like waking from a dream without knowing the dreamer. Until suddenly, the blackness and the experience of it were the same.

A thought settled in, dim but present. I am…

Discarnate…

Floating?

Next, there was a long, dark tunnel. Beyond the charcoal depths at the end was a faint glow - far away and tiny as a pinhole. At once, the light began to expand. And it was uncomfortable, intrusive, forced with no care of rejection. There was a splotch of color in the sheen, the image purple, blurry, and shifting. It was difficult to make out as other colors came into view: silver, beige, and something small and red.

As the blackened void gave way to increasing light, there was something audible. The sound echoed as though in a large concert hall. It was a human voice. Female. The words were incomprehensible at first, and it wasn’t clear who she was addressing. There was persistence in her tone, and she was repeating the same message.

“Okay, I need you to wake up. Can you wake up for me? Wake up now, wake up!”

A strange weight that hadn’t been noticed before enveloped the senses like a warm, heavy blanket. It was compacting and restrictive, like being confined to a small box. Then, swiftly, there was a sense of embodiment.

My body.

And from limb to limb, consciousness experienced the density of its carnal existence.

      Where am I?

Exposed skin suddenly revealed the icy chill of an air-conditioned room.

The woman’s voice spoke again, “Can you sit up?” It was more apparent now, less echoey, and her tone was soothing, motherly. “My name is Beth,” she said. “I need you to sit up and take a sip of juice from this cup. Can you do that for me?”

Through the fog, he realized who he was…where he was. He could barely lift his head, but he did try, keeping his eyes fixed on the woman who called herself Beth as she came into focus. She had short brown hair and a warm smile, and she was dressed in purple nursing scrubs. In her hand, she held a small red cup with a silver straw, and she brought it slowly toward his mouth. He took a sip, and the instant he felt his esophagus move to accept the drink, he recognized how thirsty he was.

“That’s it,” she said, “Good…”

      Thoughts flooded his mind. Of course! He’d been in the hospital for surgery, having suffered from water build-up on both knees. According to doctors, the trauma had caused swelling due to injuries to his ligaments from years of playing rugby and soccer competitively as a young adult. He was thirty-four years old, but his injuries made him feel eighty-four.

Memories ushered in more images, like scenes from a movie: the unbearable pain he felt from walking; the imposition he was to his family who struggled to help him get around; the debilitating sense that made him feel less of a man, less of a human being; the deep depression resulting in conscious efforts to keep his family and loved ones at an emotionally safe distance. He remembered the doctor saying the surgery would be routine. Was it a success? Would he walk again?

He mentally scanned the lower portion of his body, willing his legs to move, even if it was just an inch. He was surprised how heavy they felt, muscles working extra hard to coordinate the slight bend to his right knee.

Movement!

A sigh of relief. And better yet, no pain! But stranger still, he could feel the hospital sheets against the bare skin of both knee caps.

Why are there no bandages on my knees?

He signaled his left leg to move and became aware of a bandage around the left calf muscle.

What’s this?

He wiggled his toes and moved his feet.

At least they work.

He thought to ask the nurse about the surgery but suddenly felt like he would be sick. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting out a tiny groan.

“You may experience some nausea coming out of anesthesia,” nurse Beth explained. “Here, have some more juice.” She offered the red cup with the silver straw again. He finished the rest, and when she asked if he wanted more, he nodded.             

As nurse Beth turned to leave, a woman entered his room. She was familiar, yet different in some way.

Gina. Sister.

He recognized her eyes, but her hair was different, and she was dressed overtly professionally, not at all the way he’d previously recalled seeing her. He remembered Gina had given him a ride to the hospital. She’d promised to pick him up. The plan was to take some time off work, and he was to stay with her for a few days. She’d agreed to help transport him to and from physical therapy appointments.

But…there are no bandages on my knees.

“I just talked to the doctor,” she said. “Looks like everything went well. How are you feeling?”

“Sick,” he replied. He noticed her makeup. She looked good, but she never wore that much makeup. “Gina, why are you dressed so funny?” He cut right to the chase.

She looked at him, puzzled. “This is how I always dress, ass, and who’s Gina?”

He felt another wave of nausea. “You,” he said, grimacing, “you’re Gina.”

She laughed, “Boy, I’ll have some of what you’re having. Sounds like it might be better than the crap you used to sell way back when. It’s Izzie, Brian. Your sister…remember? The one who left her family and drove clear across town to make sure you could get a ride to and from the hospital? Who stood by your side, fighting the doctors and the insurance company so your surgery would be covered? The one who…”

As she went on, he tuned her out.

He wondered briefly about her comment regarding the ‘crap he sold way back when,’ but was more struck by her calling him by a different name. Why the hell did she call me Brian?

He interrupted her rant and said, “What are you talking about? It’s me, Wally.”

Izzie threw her head back and laughed again, making fun of the name Wally and added some snide remark about an alter ego. She then scanned the room and located his pants, from which she produced his wallet.

“Like I said, that’s some good shit they have you on,” she responded, finding his driver’s license and removing it from its sleeve. “You’re still in la-la land.” She handed him the card with a dismissive look that boarded on sarcasm.

He leered at the identification in disbelief and noticed the location right away. Denver, Colorado? His chest tightened. That’s impossible - he lived in San Francisco, California! He read the name Brian Alexander Walker? Who the fuck is that? That’s not my name! He looked long and hard at the face in the picture, which revealed a familiar, handsome man with dark features, a full head of thick black hair, and a square jaw. Looking at himself in the photo made him feel uneasy because he didn’t recall ever posing for such a picture. Okay, so...