The Other Mr. Bax by Rodney Jones Page A

large window. Between them was a reflection of the room.
    “I have no idea what’s going on,” Roland said.
    “A rough night, huh?” Kate said. “A concussion, they told us. No one said a thing about restraints. What the hell were you doing? Grabbing ass?” She made a goofy face. “The nurse assured us there wasn’t anything to worry about. Your doctor, however, wants to keep you another day—probably to perform some horrible experiments on you.” She shrugged. “Oh, and there’s a bit of a mix-up over your address too… and the insurance crap.”
    Struggling to stay focused, Roland only half-heard what his sister said.
    “But,” she added, “Joyce’ll be here soon. She’ll straighten it out.”
    Joyce? He tried to place the name but couldn’t.
    Brian stepped into the room. “Someone will be here in a few minutes.”
    “Well, Jesus. This is ridiculous. How do they expect you to eat… or go to the toilet? It’s like a mental institution.” Kate released the Velcro bindings around Roland’s wrists—“Just a bump on the head?”—and then his ankles.
    Roland grabbed the cup of water from the bedside table, quaffed it down, then poured a second cup and chugged it, as well. “Have you guys seen Dana?”
    Kate’s face contorted in bafflement. “Dana?”
    A lady wearing a lab coat stepped into the doorway. “Excuse me. Were you the folks asking about restraints?”
    “I just undid them,” Kate said.
    The lady blinked and sighed. “You shouldn’t have done that. Those restraints were clearly there for a reason.”  She stepped over to the foot of the bed, removed a clipboard, and studied the top sheet.
    Kate threw her hands up. “He has a teensy weensy concussion.”
    “‘A possible threat to staff and self,’ it says.” The doctor tapped on the clipboard. “A grade three concussion”—her brow furrowed—“and symptoms of Vascular dementia?”
    “Vascular what?” Roland cocked his head and frowned.
    “Look,” the doctor said, “I only know what’s written on the patient chart here. I am not your doctor.”
    “Who is?” Brian said.
    “Yay.” The lady glanced from Brian to Roland and again at the chart. “Okay. This is… unusual. How can you have…?” She continued reading the form, her brow twisting into deep furrows. “Look, because you’re Yay’s patient, I’ll need to talk to him before I can intervene. I’ll give him a call. But in the meantime…”
    “I don’t need to be tied up,” Roland said.
    The doctor stood there for a long moment, looking at Roland.
    “I have no interest in hurting anyone,” he added.
    She produced an almost inaudible grunt, then turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.
    “Jesus.” Kate huffed. “You might want to check and see that all your organs are still intact.”
    “Yeah, so”—Roland’s eyes shifted from one corner of the room to another—“how’d I get here?” He reached up and touched the bandage wrapped around his head. “This is so frickin’ weird. I can’t remember a thing.”
    Kate lowered herself into the chair next to the bedside table. Brian stood at the foot of the bed, trying to make sense of the same chart the doctor had just consulted. “Maybe you were unconscious,” he said.
    “That’s right,” Kate said, “a third degree concussion.”
    “Grade three.” Brian placed a finger on the chart. “But yes, I think that’s when you’re actually knocked out.”
    Kate shrugged. “Third grade, whatever. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
    Roland squinted toward his reflection in the window. “How long have I been here?”
    “A little over a day, I think.”
    “Dana knows I’m here, right?”
    “Dana?” Brian tilted his head to the side.
    “Dana who?” Kate said.
    “Dana. My Dana.”
    “Uh… when did you get a Dana?” Brian said.
    Roland locked onto his brother’s eyes.
    “Really?” Brian scowled.
    Roland blinked. “I’m serious. Where is she?”
    Brian and Kate exchanged