The ring awakened me and I instinctively reached toward the sound and picked up the receiver. I tried to clear my head as a male voice spoke, but it was no use. The words didn't seem to make any sense. I pulled myself up in the chair in which I had fallen asleep.
"Could you repeat that, please?" I said, hoping to gain some time.
I reached for a pencil and paper that I saw lying beside the phone and listened as an exasperated voice repeated the message.
"I've locked myself out of my car again, can you believe it? I'm calling from a phone booth. The car is on Main between Second and Third. Can you meet me there?"
The voice wasn't familiar at all. Nothing was, but I wrote it down: Main Street between 2nd and 3rd.
"Okay?" the voice insisted.
"Okay," I echoed. Maybe it would come to me in a minute. I rubbed my eyes and tried to think. Who was this person on the phone, and why was he calling me? I struggled to clear the fog from my brain as I looked around the room. It was an odd room, a shop really, a key shop for all appearances. But I didn't know whose shop it was or what I was doing there. It was strange, this feeling of not being able to make heads or tails of my environment. I must have been in a very deep sleep and hadn't really awakened yet. I rose to my feet and walked around the room, looking at the rows of keys and the dusty machinery. I walked to the front of the shop and looked out of the window at an unfamiliar street. And then I caught a glimpse of my reflection.
And it finally hit me. I was wide-awake but I had no idea who I was. The realization sent a chill down my spine and I couldn't breathe for a few moments.
I went back to the phone and shuffled through the papers that littered the messy counter-top. There was a pad of receipts with "Thompson Locksmith Service" written across the top. At least I knew that much. I flipped through the Rolodex but it yielded no familiar names. And I looked again at the message I had just written. "Main Street between 2nd and 3rd." Was this a job? He acted like I knew him, though. Was it a relative? Maybe an old customer? It was clear he expected me to unlock his car door. I suppose, from the looks of the work-clothes I wore, it was my business. Was my name Thompson? Did I know how to get into a locked car? Did I even know how to make a key? There was no way to cancel the job; I couldn't contact the man. Did it matter? How can someone who doesn't know who they are be expected to carry on as if nothing had happened?
I paced back and forth for a while, then stuffed my hands in the pocket of my jeans for a clue. I pulled out a set of keys. Did one of the keys fit that blue van parked on the curb in front of the shop? I stepped outside and read "Thompson Locksmith Service" stenciled on the door of the beat-up utility vehicle.
"Why not," I thought, as I opened the door and climbed in. I couldn't stay at the shop. I needed to find someone who knew me, and maybe this person did, or could give me a clue. I was frightened and alone in the world this way. I needed help. I needed to remember who I was.
Main was easy to find, and the street signs led me directly to the block between Second and Third, but beyond that I was lost. Nothing familiar presented itself.
Then I saw him: a young man with blonde hair standing beside a white Ford. He looked vaguely familiar and waved at me as I parked across the street.
"Sorry, Mom," the boy said as I walked toward him. "I promise I'll be more careful."
"That's okay, son," I said smiling. "But I'm not feeling at all well. Can you drive the van and take me home now."
The handsome young man appeared concerned, and put his arms around my shoulders. "Sure," he said.
We crossed the street and I handed the keys to him and walked around to the passenger's side. "I just want to go back home," I said after we were both in the van. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes and began to shake uncontrollably. What sort of life was waiting for me at home. Would I ever remember?
"What's wrong, Mom?" the boy asked as he turned the key in the ignition. "Are you mad at me? I'm sorry, you know. I just wasn't paying attention."
"No, I'm just confused," I admitted. "I want to go home."
And then he turned to me and said the strangest thing. "It's going to be okay, Mom. You need to take care of yourself no matter what. I love you, you know." It was odd considering the circumstances but somehow very comforting. He would be there for me while I figured out who I was and what to do.
I kept my eyes closed during the ride home and began to relax. A sense of peace inexplicably washed over me and I actually drifted off to sleep.
I was awakened by the ring of a telephone and reached instinctively toward the sound and picked up the receiver.
"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" the voice said. "I know this is a hard time for you, and I hate to bother you with this, but there has been a mix up in scheduling. The chapel will not be available on Monday. We are going to have to push your son's funeral service to Tuesday."
And then I remembered. My son had been in an auto accident last week. He worked for the Thompsons and was driving their blue van down Main Street to unlock someone's car when a white sports car came out of nowhere. He hit a phone booth trying to avoid the car and was thrown out of the van. He lingered a few days, his body broken and his mind confused, before he finally died yesterday morning at dawn. In one of his last lucid moments my son had said to me, "Are you mad at me? I'm sorry, Mom. I wasn't paying attention. I just want to go home now."
THE END