The Other Mr. Bax by Rodney Jones

concussion?”
    “Who’s concussion?”
    “Roland has a concussion… or had one, I don’t know. Hit his head somehow. Kate and Brian are convinced it caused some sort of weird amnesia. I might’ve believed that myself—I did at first. But now I don’t know.”
    “But, Joyce, if he’s there, then he didn’t disappear. He had to have flown there.”
    “Well…” The noise again, the dull thumping—it seemed to come from the wall behind the TV. “He remembers when we were kids, Selma… but he doesn’t remember me beyond that. Not a thing.”
    “That sounds like amnesia, doesn’t it?”
    Thump thump thump thump … as steady as a heartbeat. Joyce’s gaze shifted from the phone to the dead TV screen. “Brenda, there’s a scar on his back, a burn scar. Roland doesn’t have a scar. Not like that, anyway. I’m not talking little. It’s a big one. I couldn’t have missed it.”
    “A scar? Like how?”
    “He is Roland.”
    “But… okay, so, how’d he do that?”
    “He looks like and sounds like… I mean, the way he talks. His mannerisms… But the scar. How’d he end up with a fully healed burn scar between then and now?”
    “Yeah, well… I’m kind of like wondering—”
    “Impossible… him being here, the scar… But here he is.” Joyce filled her chest with air and let out a big huff.
    “Okay… okay… He’s there, has a new scar, so, now what?” Brenda said.
    The thumping from behind the wall stopped, but then, seconds later, it returned at a more determined pace.
    “I don’t know. I’m too tired to think right now.”
    “You’re flying home tomorrow?”
    “My plane leaves around 1:30.”
    “How about I come hang out with you for a few days?”
    “What about work?”
    “I’ll work something out. I’ll be there… tomorrow evening.”
    “The airport?”
    “I’ll drive.”
    “Really? You sure?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Thank you, Brenda. I really appreciate it.”
    “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
    “I hope the couple in the next room hurry up and resolve their issues. I’ve got to get up early for my meeting with the cop.”
    “Oh, I hate that. They’re arguing?”
    “Well, no. Sounds like some serious making up. Hanky panky.”
    Brenda chuckled. “I’ll let you go. Goodnight.”
    After washing her face and brushing her teeth, Joyce climbed into bed, turned out the light, then squirmed from one side, to her back, to the other side, until she found a tolerable position. She pulled the sheet and blanket up over her shoulders and closed her eyes, but her mind ignored her efforts to forget. With counterproductive determination, she struggled to disengage. Sleep came, but only in snippets—frustrating teases. Hours passed before she finally managed to let go.

Chapter nine – anamnesis
    T he buzz of an alarm came from down the dimly-lit hospital corridor. Joyce turned. It stopped. No one other than herself appeared to take notice. But then it rang again. A voice, from somewhere behind her, said, “Hello?” She cracked open an eye and grabbed the phone from the nightstand. “Hello?”
    “Your wake-up call, ma’am.”
    She thanked the person at the other end, laid the handset back in its cradle, then climbed out of bed and dragged herself to the shower. The night had so begrudgingly doled out rest, and now it seemed sleep would reclaim her were she to simply close her eyes.

    After several minutes of sitting, yawning, fidgeting, longing to be anywhere but the sour smelling police station she had just driven to, Sergeant Waterman appeared.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Bax. You sleep okay?”
    She nodded while attempting to hide another yawn, then followed him down a well-lit corridor—windows to the right, closed doors to the left, posters and public notices artlessly pinned to the walls between them. He held open a door for her, then offered her a chair before a desk scattered with papers. A wood and brass prism-shaped nameplate, with “Sergeant Peter Waterman” in