Day 2

I am up again at 5:30 and I get coffee and head back outside to sit with the big fireplace on.  I needed a new game plan today.   As I sat there in a fog looking out into the expansive yard, I saw movement.  I watched closely to see a momma deer and her baby nibbling on grass.  They looked up and saw me.  Our eyes met, but they were not afraid.  They continued to graze in the yard and eventually moved on where I could no longer see them. 

Mark again popped out to say good morning and he headed into work.  After four cups of coffee, I went in and scrambled myself some eggs and got cleaned up for the day.  I decided I would get on the Internet and try and find Keith and my kids.  I started with Facebook.  Nothing came up.  They all three have accounts so that was odd.  What am I saying?  Nothing is the way it’s supposed to be.  So, I just went back to Google and searched the name Keith King.  Newspaper articles came up showing him on various boards in town and many plays with the Ardmore Little Theater and then I saw it, an obituary.

Keith King, born 8/21/54 died on June 10, 2009, after a short but courageous battle against cancer.  A memorial service will be held for him on June 14, 2009, at St. Philip’s Episcopal Church.  He is survived by one daughter and one grandson.

The wave of nausea returned.  He beat cancer in 2009.  I was there, I know.  We had our first wedding anniversary his next to the last week of radiation treatments.  He had a dozen red roses delivered to our apartment even though he was so sick.  Tears began to stream down my face and the racking sobs began again.  What am I going to do?  It can’t all just be my imagination.  I curled up in a ball on the bed and cried myself to sleep.

---

A few hours later I woke up, grabbed a jacket and got back in the Beamer.  I drove back into town and straight to the one place I needed to be, St. Philip’s Episcopal Church.  This was our church home and the place where Keith and I got married.  And according to the Daily Ardmoreite obituaries, this was also the place of Keith’s memorial service 13 years ago.

I parked in front of the church and walked up to the big red entrance doors.  I pulled on the door and it came open.  Thank you, God.  I needed this door to be unlocked.  Contrary to what Mark said about me not being religious, I was baptized as a Christian when I was 12 years old and was confirmed into the Episcopal Church in 2005, a year after Keith and I met.  This was a place of solace, comfort and hope for me. 

No one was in the church, so I went over and sat in the pew Keith and I considered ours.  I closed my eyes and just listened to the silence. 

I was suddenly transported to April 18, 2008.  Standing just outside those big red doors in my wedding dress and holding the arm of my 20-year-old son, Craig.

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

“Me either.  I’m the one getting married.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Absolutely not.  I’m about to marry the man of my dreams.”

“How come you wanted me to give you away instead of grandpa?”

“Well grandpa has done that twice for me already.  Besides, it’s really you that I want to give me away this time and for the last time.”

“I’m honored to do it mom.”

The big red doors opened, and the big pipe organ began to play and into the church we went.  Everyone stood for the bride to come down the aisle, but all I could see was the man I had looked for my entire life standing at the altar waiting for me.  My gift from God.  I couldn’t wait to spend the rest of my life showing this man just how special he is.

A hand touched my shoulder and there sat Father Mike.  Tears again were streaming down my face.

“Are you ok?”

“No, not really.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m not sure it will help.  Do you know who I am?”

“No, I’m sorry I don’t.”

“That’s Ok.  It seems to be the norm now.”

“Talk to me.”

“In short, I was in a car accident a few weeks ago.  I apparently was in a coma for a bit and when I woke up everything was wrong.”

“Ok, explain that a bit further.”

“In my mind, I have a husband and two kids.  But when I came out of the coma, the man who came into my room proclaiming to be my husband was no one I recognized.  The life I remember in my head and heart; I can find no evidence of.”

“What did your doctor say about all of this?”

“He said it was not unusual for brain trauma patients to have some memory problems for a bit, but this is a bit extreme.  I mean, the whole 63 years of my life appear to be a lie, but I feel it is my life to my very core.”

“So what brought you here today?”

“Well, that’s the ironic part.  In my memories, I am a member of this church.  Was confirmed here in 2005, married here in 2008 and was still an active member of this congregation at the time of the accident.  When you came in, I was reliving my wedding day right here in this church.”

“What was the name of the man you married here?”

“Keith King.  In fact, I have been looking for him everywhere since I got back from the hospital.  This morning, I found an obituary for him where it said he died of cancer in 2009 and his memorial service was held here.”

“Well that would have been before my time, but our Deacon Joyce was here then.  Would you like me to take you back to her office?”

“That would be great.”

I know Joyce!  I have known her since I was a teenager.  Her husband was a friend of my dad’s.  We reconnected again when I started going to St. Philip’s with Keith way back in 2004.  We were even a part of a prayer group called Daughters of the King before Joyce decided to become a deacon.  We were both Baptist converts.

“Joyce, I have brought someone to see you.  She is struggling with her memory following a serious accident.  I thought it might be good for the two of you to visit.”

“Absolutely, come in and make yourself comfortable.”

“Do you know me?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Well this really is my last straw then.  My memory of my life seems to be a complete lie and I really don’t know what to do now.”

“Tell me what you are talking about.”

I started from the beginning about coming home from Arkansas and waking up in the hospital with a life I don’t know.  Joyce listened very carefully and said, “I can see you are very distressed.  And you think we have met?”

“Yes.  In my reality, you and I met in 1976 when you married a friend of my dad’s, Earl.  You and Earl have a daughter named Cathy.  Earl has a son everyone called “little Earl,” and he and I were friends.  Earl passed away and you started coming to St. Philip’s which is where we reconnected in 2004.  We were members of the Daughters of the King together and then you decided you wanted to become a Deacon.”

“That is interesting. The specifics about my husband, his son and our daughter are true.  Who was your dad?”

“His name was Lonie and he ran the bowling alley here.  Earl worked part-time there.”

“That’s true he did, but his boss was not Lonie.  It was Vernon.”

“Well just more weirdness to the story.  Did Earl’s ex-wife have an affair with a guy that worked there by the name of Grover?”

“Yes!  How could you know that?”

“Remember in my mind, I lived it.”

“So we met again here at St. Philip’s?”

“Yes.  Oh, wait!  The man I recall being married to that I can’t find.  I found an obituary in the Ardmoreite that said he had a memorial service here in June of 2009.

“What was his name?”

“Keith King.”

“I remember Keith.  He was such a nice man.  He was diagnosed with cancer in 2009 and was too far gone for the doctors to do much.  He had his cancer treatments here at the Mercy Cancer Center but sadly he passed away.”

“My memory of this event was that he and I traveled to MD Anderson in Houston in February of 2009 and he beat cancer and was still cancer-free when I had my accident.  We were celebrating every day of life together.”

“I believe his ashes are in our columbarium out in the courtyard.  Let’s go look.”

Joyce and I went out into the courtyard and sure enough, there was a box with Keith’s name.  How could this be?  He was fine just weeks ago.  He was my husband.  We had a life.  What am I going to do?  I sat down on the bench and began to cry again.  I just don’t know how much more I can take.

I thanked Joyce for her time and she encouraged me to come to see her again.  I said I would try. 

---

I drove back out to the strange house north of town, parked the car in the garage and went into what appeared to be my new normal.  The weather had gotten much colder as a front had come through that day.  When Mark returned home that afternoon, I was out on the back patio with no jacket and no blanket.  I was shaking uncontrollably.  He made me come in and put hot water in the big bathtub in my room.  He put me in the bathroom and made me promise I would get in the water and warm up.  I nodded that I would.

An hour or so later I came back downstairs, and Maria had potato soup.  How did she know it was one of my favorites?  I also walked over to the wet bar and poured myself a large glass of cabernet sauvignon.  Mark started to open his mouth to tell me I don’t drink cab, when he thought better of it.  I gave him a look that said, “Don’t say it dude.”

“What did you do today?”

“I visited St. Philip’s Episcopal Church.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Something there must have really upset you.  Maybe it would help to talk about it.”

“Nope.”

“I’m really worried about you.”

“I’m really worried about me too.”

“What can I do?”

“I wish I knew.”

We continued to eat our soup in silence for a few more minutes when Mark said, “Hey, in the small office just on the other side of the master, there are some items I thought you might want to look at.”

“What kind of things?”

“Your high school yearbooks, our college yearbooks, our wedding album and the photo albums your mom gave you from when you and Carol were kids.  She made one for you and one for her.  Maybe it will trigger something in your memory.”

“Thanks.  Maybe I’ll look at them.”

We finished dinner and I poured myself another very large glass of Cab and headed for my room. The only thing I had left was to find my kids.  Did I dream that too?  Since I did not know my ex-husband’s phone number by memory, I went back to social media and tried to find him.  He could give me Loni & Craig’s number.  If I could just make contact with them, I knew the rest would be ok.

I searched for Mike Tucker in the Oklahoma City area.  Several came up and I recognized the picture of one as my ex-husband.  I clicked on his profile.  It said he was married with 2 kids.  Kids’ names were Casey and Roger and his wife was Christie.  Odd.  He is not married and he has no kids by that name.  Why would Loni and Craig not be listed?  There was a phone number so I called it.  When he answered, I recognized his voice.

“Mike?”

“Yes?”

“Thank God you answered the phone.  I can’t find Loni and Craig.  Do you know where they are and how I can reach them?”

“I think you have the wrong number.”

“No wait.  It’s me, Marcy.  I’m looking for our kids.”

“I don’t know anyone named Marcy and I don’t have any kids by that name.  You have the wrong number.”

“Do you really not know who I am?  We met at OSU, we got married and had two kids.”

“Is this a joke?” 

I hung up the phone.  He doesn’t know me, was never married to me and we never had kids. 

I walked into the office and looked at the yearbooks and photo albums and there I was smiling and living a life I don’t remember.  It’s really over then.  I had no life with Keith, and I don’t have my kids.  I can’t do this. 

After downing my third very large glass of Cab, I snuck down to the garage, backed the Beamer out and headed for the last place I could think to go to try and find some proof of my life.  I had to get to our bench in Regional Park.  It’s 10:30 p.m. and I know the park is closed.  I won’t be able to drive into the park.  I got as close as I could and parked the car at the Guest Inn Motel.  I walked around the park gates and continued walking north to our park bench for 4 miles.  It was well after midnight at this point.  The moon was full and bright as I sat down in the cold.  Keith and I loved a full moon.  We used to go sailing on Lake Murray, especially on the nights the moon was full.  I curled up on our little bench and went to sleep hoping that when I woke up, the life that I knew and loved would be back.  What else could I do?