Forgetting August (Lost & Found) by J. L. Berg Page B

life.
    I was a man brought back from the brink of death to what? Usually you read these amazing stories of coma patents waking up to be reunited with their families…wives and loved ones.
    I had no one.
    Nothing but a box of memories I didn’t understand.
    I pulled closer the ancient laptop the hospital psychologist had loaned me and rested it on my lap. Booting it up, I tapped on the Internet icon and waited for it to load. Staring at the blank screen, I tried to decide what to search—knowing full well my session would be monitored later.
    Sneaky doctor.
    “Major events in 2013,” I started with, feeling good with my decision. Might as well go with the headlines first.
    Thirty seconds later, I regretted my decision and made a mental note to never watch the news again. Boston Marathon bombing, typhoon in the Philippines…the U.S. Government shutting down. Hell, couldn’t anything good headline the news every once in a while?
    I scrolled down and saw the Pope had resigned. I found myself chuckling.
    Couldn’t really blame him.
    I couldn’t continue. For once, I realized Dr. HappyFeelGood might actually know what he was talking about. That simple search solidified so much for me.
    Life really had gone on without me.
    People had been born, died…fought for our country, all while I lay helpless in this bed.
    And here I was, still so incredibly helpless.
    How did I get it back?
    I wanted it all back.
    *  *  *
    Several days later, I found myself back on the other side of the hospital, in the familiar office of Dr. Schneider. From the floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelves to the impressive Tiffany style lamps, I could tell the happy doctor was a lover of the classics. Even the couch he offered me was like something right out of a Sigmund Freud museum.
    “Did you use the laptop?” he asked, fully aware that I hadn’t. After my initial perusal on the Internet, I’d decided the past was better left there. I couldn’t handle any more bad news.
    “No,” I answered casually.
    It’d been less than a week since I’d last seen him and I think, based on the way his forehead creased together and the annoying way he tapped his pen against his notepad, he didn’t believe I was making enough headway in my recovery.
    Of course, as he put it, every brain injury was unique, so how he could definitively decide what was normal or “enough” in this case was beyond me.
    But then again, I was just the patient.
    He was the guy sitting in the fancy leather wingbacked chair, in an office littered with diplomas and plaques all singing his praises and educational accolades. He obviously should know better.
    I sat back with my arms folded tightly across my chest, an unconscious response to my personal distaste for being here. I was frustrated to my very core—with the man sitting across from me. With this hospital.
    With myself.
    If I’d been given an option, shown what life would be like minutes before my eyes fluttered open in that hospital room weeks earlier, I’m not sure I would have chosen to wake up.
    Who would choose this life?
    “You seem more agitated today,” Dr. Schneider commented, writing something down on his notepad, before lifting his foot up to rest on his opposite knee.
    I stared at the yellow pad of paper for a moment, the dark black chicken scratch of his writing illegible from where I was sitting.
    Did all doctors have messy handwriting?
    I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs.
    “Just frustrated…”
    More scribbling.
    “I noticed you didn’t utilize the laptop much.” He looked up, waiting for a response.
    “I didn’t really see a point.”
    His face scrunched together in that way that told me he was displeased, or maybe even a little disappointed. Perhaps this was what a child felt like when calling out answers in a classroom, over and over—watching the teacher shake his or her head, let down by the failure of her pupils.
    I had no memories of my childhood, so I wouldn’t know.
    Maybe I had