The trip to the doctor's office is incredibly weird. Nothing looks familiar, except the ancient subway trains that are somehow still running, and both the subway itself and the walls of the stations we pass through are plastered with signs advertising products and services I've never heard of. Gay dating websites, online universities, and lots of other strange things. I sit quietly beside Jake on the noisy train, holding tight to his hand, and try to stay calm. The doctor will help. We'll figure out what's wrong with me and then I'll get my memory back and know where my parents are and where I live. It'll all be fine. It has to.
We wait for a few minutes in silence at the walk-in clinic before our number's called and I have to explain my condition to the woman at the front desk. At least, I try: she doesn't want to hear it.
"Health card," she says, cutting me off without even looking at me.
"I don't have one."
She looks up. "Why not?"
I look at Jake, since I don't know what to say, and he offers, "She was mugged last night. That's why we're here, to make sure her head is okay."
The woman's eyes shift between me and Jake. She frowns but says, "Take a seat over there and the doctor will see you in a while."
"A while" turns out to be nearly two hours. Lots of people seem to get in ahead of us, but I assume they must be sicker than me. Everyone around me looks different than I remember, far less grunge and far more really long dresses and sleek jeans. Fashion's changed a lot in eleven years, apparently.
To pass the time, Jake shows me how his black rectangle, an iPhone, works then lets me play a variety of adorable games, flinging birds at pigs and chopping fruit in half and feeding candies to a cute little monster. I'll have to get one of these phones. Once I have a job, and money, and a place to live. Or at least, once I know where all those things are. Maybe I already have an iPhone.
A doctor, a tall black woman with straightened hair and red glasses, finally calls my name and Jake comes with me to the doorway.
"Just her," the doctor says. "You can wait out here."
I shake my head. "I need him."
She glances between us but says, "Okay. Come on."
We sit in her office and together manage to explain what little we know about what's happened to me while she types notes into a computer on her desk. When we're finished, she gently examines my head and looks in my eyes, then sits down and types some more before saying, "Well, you're definitely not a teenager. Thirty-two or so seems about right."
"Okay." It's not, actually, but it's starting to sink in, and having a doctor say it makes it sink in even further. I'm in my thirties. "But what's wrong with my head? Why have I lost the years?"
She sighed. "You definitely have a bump there, and it's possible you have a mild concussion. But it's not serious enough to cause the amnesia. So I don't know."
I shut my eyes, misery sweeping me. She's supposed to know. She's supposed to fix it. It's 2011. Can't she just wave a little thing over me like on Star Trek and make everything okay?
Her phone rings. She listens then says, "Got it. Thanks," and hangs up. "Jake, I'd like to talk to Kate alone for a minute."
He stands up and I look up at him, alarmed.
"It's okay," he says gently. "I'll be right outside the door. Don't worry."
I am worried but I let him go.
When the door closes the doctor says, "Is there anything you haven't told me?"
"I don't think so. I remember being seventeen and then being here. I don't have any memory of meeting Jake but the story he just told you is exactly what he told me this morning."
She nods slowly. "Well, I don't see anything medically wrong with you other than the amnesia. I can only assume--"
But I don't get to hear what she assumes because the door opens and I look up to see a tall and alarmingly well-muscled cop.
"This is not acceptable," the doctor says to him. "You're supposed to wait outside."
"I've waited long enough."
I look from one to the other and then back to the doctor. "What's going on?"
The cop ignores me and says to the doctor, "I don't have much time here. You done?"
Her eyes narrow but she says, "Almost." To me she says, "If you've used any sort of drug recently that could affect your memory, stopping will bring it back."
"I don't do drugs!"
The cop laughs. "Nobody does. All right, let's go."
"Please," I say to the doctor. "I don't understand. Why are you letting him take me? I didn't do anything wrong."
She looks uncomfortable but says, "We're concerned about you. Because of Jake and your memory loss. And your supposed mugging. It doesn't add up."
"Mugging?" I say before remembering that Jake told the receptionist that. "It was more of a fight really. But--"
"I'll take it from here, doctor," the cop says. "Let's go, Kate, or whatever your name is."
"No, please, I need Jake!" He understands this time way better than I do. Something's happened and he'll help me fix it.
"He's busy," the cop says in an unpleasant tone. "Let's go."
*****
The cop and his female partner at the station aren't impressed with my tears, but I can't hold them back. "I swear it's the truth. I woke up in his apartment and I have no idea where I've spent the last fifteen years. I just want to go home, but I don't know where it is."
"Listen," the woman says, her eyes softening, "you're safe here. If that Jake is taking advantage of you we can help. If you tell us."
The other officer grunts and turns away.
I sniffle and force myself to speak clearly without sobbing. "He's not. I don't know much but I know that. He's been great to me. Is he okay?" Poor Jake. If he'd left me outside the bar like his boss suggested he wouldn't be in the police station right now. Of course, I'd probably be dead by the side of the road somewhere, or worse.
They exchange glances and leave without another word. They probably can't think of anything else to say, since they've asked me in every possible way, friendly and angry and rude and compassionate, and I've told them the same thing every time. I've told them the truth, even though they don't believe it.
I lean back in my hard wooden chair and sigh. What are they going to do with me? Is it a crime not to know who you are? How could it be? But will they keep me here or let me go? Let me go where? Where do I belong?
I can't answer a single one of these questions, and I've never felt so alone.
Eventually, the two officers come back, along with a short man who radiates authority. "Look, Kate. Can I call you Kate?"
"Of course," I say softly. He can call me whatever he wants, can't he?
"I ask because we don't think your name is Kate. There's no Kate Anderson in any database, at least not one even close to your age. Either of your ages."
I can't tell if he's mocking me. The other two don't look quite sure either.
"Tell me your story."
I look directly into his eyes and say, "I think I'm seventeen. I think it's 1996. Obviously neither of those things is true. But that's what I remember. Something bad has happened to me. I don't know who I am and I don't know how I got to Jake's bar last night. That's the truth, sir."
He stares back at me for a long moment then says, "All right." To the woman, he says, "Print her, take a picture and DNA, and get her into the database."
What database?
The two men leave without speaking to me, and I say quietly, "What's happening?"
She reaches for my hand and begins rolling each of my fingers on an ink pad then stamping them onto a card. "Missing person database. He believes you."
Relief floods me, warm and soothing as the hot chocolate Jake gave me that morning, but something compels me to ask, "Do you?"
She looks at me. "I don't not believe you."
Huh.
She switches to my other hand. "It's a weird story, you have to admit."
"No doubt. Try living it."
She gives a surprised chuckle. "I bet. How does the future feel to you?"
I shake my head. "All I know so far is, I don't understand Twitter and I want an iPhone."
She laughs again. "That's a start."
When she's finished with my hands she gives me a wet cloth to clean my fingers while she swabs the inside of my cheek, then has me stand against a height chart on the wall while she takes my picture from the front and the side. "Shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, five feet seven, average build," she mumbles as she writes on a sheet of paper, then says louder, "Any distinguishing marks?"
I shake my head.
She writes down what I'm wearing, reading each piece back to me as she does, and is about to leave when I remember. "I have a tattoo."
"That's a distinguishing mark, don't you think?"
"I forgot. I don't remember getting it."
"Yeah, I suppose not. What and where?"
I describe the little ducks around my right thigh and she says, "Cute. Why ducks?"
I look at her and she says, "Right. You don't know. Anyhow, that should help. Whoever's looking for you will definitely have that in their description. Wait here for a minute, okay?"
I do, and she comes back in ten minutes or so.
With Jake.
I'm out of my chair and in his arms before I realize I'm going to move. "Are you okay?"
He holds me back so he can see my face, and I see how worried he's been. "Forget me, are you okay?"
I nod. "What happens now?"
He turns to the cop, who says, "You guys can head out. Kate, if you get a phone, give me your number right away." She hands me a business card. "And feel free to call if you need help. Any time." She holds my gaze for a moment, her eyes intense, then turns away. "Jake, I'll call you when we learn anything, okay?"
He nods, but it takes him a second.
Terror sweeps me. Is he going to ditch me? He's gotten far more than he bargained for when he helped me last night. He'd be smart to stop now. But what will I do if he does?
"Take care," the cop says, and I follow Jake out without speaking. I have no idea what to say. I'm fighting to hold back my tears, but by the time we walk out of the station and onto the street I can't do it any more.
Jake turns back toward me, saying, "So, what do--" then sees my tear-streaked face. "Aw, Kate, don't. Come here."
He holds out his arms and I collapse into them and sob. I'm terrified and exhausted, and sad to a deep and painful degree I'm sure I've never felt before, and I can't do anything but cry.
Jake smooths my hair for a minute or two then says, "Calm down," his voice gentle but firm. "It's going to be okay."
I laugh through my tears. "Which part is going to be okay, exactly? Everything's so screwed up. I can't help being sad."
He holds me at arm's length and says, "Look. You can help it. Sadness, and depression and all that, they're all in your outlook. Change that and things will be better."
I raise my eyebrows. "I have lost fifteen years of my life and don't know who I am. What kind of outlook would make that better?"
He thinks about this, and I'm about to say, "See? It's not possible," when he says, "You can create yourself exactly how you want. Those last fifteen years and whatever happened to you during them, they don't matter any more. You're a blank slate now. You can become anyone you want to be."
I think about this. It has some appeal. But... "I can't get a job. Or rent an apartment or even buy a phone. Not without ID. So how can I be anyone but a homeless person?"
His eyes soften. "Kate, do you honestly think I'm going to let you live on the street?" His cheeks redden. "I was planning to ask if you wanted to stay with me. I just hadn't figured out how to say it."
"You said it pretty good right there," I say, my eyes filling with different, gentler, tears. "Are you sure?"
He gives me an awkward hug. "Yup. Besides, I have to know how this turns out."