Perhaps the most frightening aspect of my amnesia, is that I’m beginning to doubt my acting ability. I’m an Oscar winner. I have the statue to prove it. But if I’m forgetting things as rudimentary as where I was born and who my friends are, how can I be sure my acting hasn’t lapsed? And I’m supposed to read for the lead role in the new Harvey Wallison picture next week? You don’t walk into that situation wondering if you can act.

The top’s down on my Porsche, and the warm Pacific sun rains down through the trees.

I smell the forest all around me.

The ravine is just ahead, but instead of sailing on over, I bring my Porsche to a stop in the middle of the road, take a deep breath, and buckle my seatbelt.

My heart pounds.

It’s a steep descent into that ravine. I hear a car climbing the hill below, and it occurs to me that I should do it now.

Close my eyes.

Punch the gas.

When they find me, I’ll be bruised but intact.

Maybe a broken bone or two, a few cuts, a bump on the head.

I’ll lay down there until someone finds me. I hope it doesn’t take long. At least Brad is expecting me. That was exceptionally clever on my part.

The doctors will scan and probe and test and scan again, but they won’t find anything to explain my amnesia. They’ll be perplexed as to why I don’t remember a thing about this life, or any other.

But my condition will be accepted. I was in a car wreck. No one will question that. And everyone will fall all over themselves to teach me about my beautiful life.

The other car is close. Another ten seconds, and it will be too late.

I jam my foot into the gas and accelerate toward the edge.

Then I’m falling, flipping, trees and shrubs and sky rushing by, the windshield cracked, a life passing before my eyes that is not mine.

MONTANA

Chapter 26

 

the thawing lake ~ tea with Pam ~ reads his paper ~ debates whether to ask Pam about who he was ~ Montana sky

My nose itches, and the lake is still half-frozen. I heard the ice splintering again last night. The remnants of this past winter—the iced lake, the snowpack on the mountains—seem artificial on a morning like this, when the trees are budding and a sweater is sufficient to keep a body warm.

I hear Pam walking back through the grass. She sets a tray on the folding table beside me.

“My nose itches,” I say.

She rubs her index finger under my nose.

“Thank you.”

“I made tea for us.”

She fills our teacups.

The sun just reaches over that fin-like mountain at the other end of the lake.

“Did you bring my sunglasses?” I ask her.

“Sure did.”

She sets my cup of tea in front of me and puts on my shades.

I drink tea, even hot tea, through a long, skinny straw.

Pam sits down beside me in the grass with her cup.

They tell me she’s only my nurse, but she feels more like a sister. She doesn’t sport nurse clothing. She wears jeans and a wool sweater. She’s attractive.

“That man called again this morning,” she tells me, and I ask which man she’s referring to. I still have to be reminded of things a lot. That may never change.

“The man who called yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.”

“What does he want?”

“To see you.”

“What did you say his name was?”

“Bo Dunkquist.” From the way she says his name, I can tell that she’s had to answer that question several times.

I don’t know if I know him. I don’t know much of anything really. For instance, right now there’s a piece of paper in my pocket that tells me who I am and how I came to be this way, but I couldn’t tell you what’s written on that paper. And when I say “this way,” I mean paralyzed from the neck down and scarred from third-degree burns over seventy percent of my body. That I do remember. The scarring part especially. Sometimes, I forget that I can’t move, but I never forget what my face looks like, all smooth and hairless. I’m glad I don’t forget, because it’d be an awful thing to have to see for the first time, day after day after day.

But don’t feel sorry for me please. I’m not in any pain now, and I have no memories of when I was.

“I want to read my paper,” I say. This woman, whose name I’ve forgotten, reaches into my pocket, pulls it out, and unfolds it for me. It’s sort of funny—I remember that I have this paper, but I never remember what it says. You’d think if I could remember the one thing, I could remember the other.

I read it. I think I read it at least once a day, but I’m not sure:

Your name is James Jansen. You are 43 years old. Right now you are at your cabin in the mountains of Montana near the town of Woodworth. You are paralyzed from the neck down. Your nurse’s name is Pam. She lives with you and will help you with anything you need. Your sister lives nearby in Missoula. Her name is Courtney, and she’s 37. You were injured four years ago in an automobile accident when you lost control of your car and crashed into a ravine. You were in a coma in St. Anthony Medical Center in Los Angeles, California, until last September.

Before the accident, you were a very famous actor. You won the Oscar (a very prestigious award) in 20--, for your role in Down From the Sleeping Trees. You’re holding it right now. Pam will tell you more about your acting career if you would like to know.

Today is April 15, 20--.

I look down into my lap. There is in fact a shiny gold statue between my legs, gleaming in the sun.

Wind comes across the water and blows the paper out of my lap into the bright grass beside Pam. I hear the wind moving through the fir trees. Chimes jingle on the back porch of the cabin.

I start to ask Pam about who I was before the car wreck, but I stop. I’ll bet I ask her that every day, and I’ll bet she gets sick of having to tell me. Or maybe I just think I ask her every day, and so I never do. Perhaps I’ve had this same train of thought thirty days in a row.

So I don’t say anything. It’s easier to sit here and not think and stare at the lake and the mountains and the evergreens.

I’m not sad.

Not at all.

I don’t feel much of anything except contentment to be out in this glorious morning.

Even if she were to tell me things about my old self, I don’t think it would move me any more than the memory of a dream, because the only thing real to me is this moment—the wind-stirred lake and Pam and the blue Montana sky.

THE END

Interview with Blake Crouch by Hank Wagner

Originally Published in Crimespree, July 2009

According to his website, Blake Crouch grew up in Statesville, a small town in the piedmont of North Carolina. He graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 2000, where he studied literature and creative writing. He currently resides in the San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado. Crouch’s first book, Desert Places, was published in 2003. Pat Conroy called it “Harrowing, terrific, a whacked-out combination of Stephen King and Cormac McCarthy.” Val McDermid described it as “An ingenious, diabolical debut that calls into question all our easy moral assumptions. Desert Places is a genuine thriller that pulses with adrenaline from start to finish.” His second novel, Locked Doors, was published in July 2005. A sequel to Desert Places, it created a similar buzz. His third novel, Abandon, was published on July 7, 2009.