From nothing to everything

Part I

MICHELLE FINISHED ADDING GROUND coffee to the drip brewer and switched it on. Pausing, she sipped her glass of chilled orange juice enjoying the sweet flavor and pulp, then checked that the toaster was ready. With the frying pan warming, a pat of butter melting, and fresh eggs waiting at the side, she checked her watch.

Where was he? Usually he was the first up in the morning, especially today, Father's Day.

She moved the frying pan off the heat and left the kitchen, walked down the hall of the sprawling bungalow-style home, and into his bedroom. Dad was sound asleep, uncovered from the waist up, his sandy hair a mess. She moved to the bed and shook his shoulder. "Time to wake up."

He didn't stir. She shook his shoulder harder. "Wake up, Dad." With no response and a tickle of worry, she shoved his shoulder, relieved when he finally stirred, his eyes opening.

"It's Father's Day! Time to get up," she repeated.

Something was off in his pale grey eyes. They had a strange expression she'd never seen before. He studied her for a moment then asked, "Who are you?"

Michelle laughed. "Stop kidding around and get up."

When his expression didn't change, a thread of fear wormed into her, her heart beating faster. "You really don't know who I am?" she asked.

"No. Who are you?"

"I'm Michelle, your daughter." When he didn't respond, she asked, "Dad? What day of the week is it?"

"I don't know."

"What year is it?"

"I don't know."

"What's your name?"

He didn't answer, his brow wrinkling in concentration. She didn't like the confusion in his eyes or the lack of affection he usually had in his voice.

Now panic threatened her. "Get up and get dressed RIGHT NOW, Dad! We're going to the hospital. There's something wrong with you!"

When he didn't move, Michelle yelled, fear making her louder. "GET UP!"

An hour later, Michelle sat quietly in the examination room as a neurosurgeon flashed a penlight in each of Dad's eyes, talking to him in a soft voice.

"Can you tell me who the Prime Minister is?" he asked.

"I don't know," Dad answered. "John something?"

"Where were you born?"

"I don't remember."

As the surgeon asked more questions, Michelle's fear intensified, her heart thumping, her hands damp. Why couldn't Dad remember? What happened last night?"

"We're going to conduct some tests, Mr. Jerry," the surgeon said. "There could be a blood clot in your brain causing your memory loss."

"Is that my name?" Dad asked. Before the surgeon could answer, Dad glanced at Michelle. "You're my daughter?"

Michelle nodded and wiped her eyes before tears could fall. "You'll be okay, Dad."

Once Dad was wheeled out of the examination room, Michelle found a seat in the waiting room. The doctor had told her it would be a while, with Dad undergoing x-rays and possibly an MRI scan.

Sunday morning in the hospital was oddly busy. She watched people come and go, some obviously injured, some in pain, family members distraught, one wife chastising her husband for something stupid he'd done - his arm and hand wrapped in a bloody towel.

For the first hour she was numb with shock. Adrenaline faded to be replaced by fear. What had happened to his brain? What would happen if he couldn't get his memory back?

She thought about her life with Dad. In so many ways she thought herself lucky, especially compared to some of her friends. Despite losing Mom five years ago, Dad had made sure she felt secure. Sure, he was a pain and bugged her about her school grades. He worked far too hard and long, long hours. And she didn't like the chores he made her do when she'd rather be out with her friends. But he was Dad. He was supposed to do those things. He never yelled at her. He didn't punish her. He went out of his way to support her school activities even if he couldn't be there.

Maybe he didn't spend as much time with her as she wanted. But he was Dad. My dad! The only family she had.

Worry distracted her. She waited, sitting on the hard plastic chair, lost in "What ifs?"

"Mr Jerry?"

Shaking herself, she looked up. Dr. Mcdonalds was approaching. He was youngish, about Dad's age - mid thirties - with sharp, intelligent brown eyes behind wire-framed glasses, slender and short.

She jumped up. "Is he better?"

Dr. Mcdonalds sat in the seat next to her. She sat down. He turned slightly towards her. "The good news is your father does not appear to have a brain clot. He seems healthy."

"Then, what's wrong with him?"

"The truth is, we don't know." The doctor paused before continuing. "Physically, every test we've run has been negative." His expression softened. "The brain is a mystery to us, even today. We know a little about it, but there are still mysteries we don't understand. From a health standpoint, your father is fine. That's good. He's suffering from retrograde amnesia; he's lost his episodic memories."

"I don't understand," Michelle told him.

Dr. Mcdonalds smiled gently. "Think about riding a bike. Your father can describe how to ride a bike - we call that semantic memory - but he can't remember when he learned how to ride a bike. He can't remember the event itself."

"But, he doesn't remember me!" she said.

"That's true. At the moment, you're the keeper of his memories. All he'll know about his past is what's in your mind."

Michelle wrestled with the news. "Will he ever remember?" she asked.

"No one can answer that. We simply don't understand enough. He might wake up tomorrow with all his memories back, or it might take months or years ... or perhaps never."

Michelle's eyes welled. She brushed the tears away. "He didn't even know I'm his daughter."

Dr. Mcdonalds put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "It's going to be hard on both of you. Try not to inundate him with information. He's grappling to come to terms with his condition. Just be yourself and help him. Tell him about your life together, but don't overwhelm him. It might help."

Michelle nodded, looking down at her lap.

"Has he ever been injured?" the doctor asked.

"Once, a couple of years ago, he fell off a ladder and was unconscious for a long time. But he was fine when he came to."

"How long was he unconscious for?"

Michelle shrugged. "I don't know. I found him when I came home from school." Glancing at the doctor, she asked, "Is that why he's lost his memory?"

Dr. Mcdonalds smiled softly. "It's unlikely. If it was a couple of years ago, it probably has nothing to do with his current condition."

He patted her knee. "Come. He's waiting. You can take him home."

Maxwell's POV

I SAT ON THE edge of the examining table. Across from me was a mirror. A stranger looked back at me. The void in my mind terrified me; a hole that should have been filled with something but wasn't. It was eerily empty.

The stranger looking back at me appeared just as lost. It was in his pale grey eyes; desperation to understand, full of fear.

"Dad?" a hesitant voice said.

I looked away from the stranger in the mirror and saw her - the girl who woke me up. The girl who said she was my daughter. I looked back into the mirror and studied the stranger.

Was someone playing a cosmic joke on me? Was this a dream?

"Dad?" This time softer and filled with worry.

Turning back to the girl, I asked, "Are you really my daughter?"

Tears welled in her eyes. She nodded, tears falling down her cheeks, and I felt worse for making her hurt despite needing to ask. I had to ask. She was so different.

She had long, straight, jet-black hair and, despite her normal eye shape, was clearly of Asian descent; short, petite, delicate, and very slender. I strained to see any of me in her and couldn't, except for her eye colour - dark grey, smoky and haunted.

She stood crying silently, not moving, her eyes studying me. I saw the pain battling fear in them.

"What did you say your name is?"

"Michelle," she replied.

"What's my name?"

"Maxwell Robinson."

Silence. Neither of us moved.

"Okay. I guess we should go home," I suggested.

She nodded.

Michelle gave the taxi driver the address. The taxi ride was disconcerting. Everywhere I looked was new and unfamiliar. The city, or town, was neat, clean, with retail strip malls giving way to residential neighborhoods, semi-detached homes transitioning to detached homes on larger and larger plots, all with neatly manicured lawns.

Michelle pulled some wrinkled bills from the pocket of her jeans and paid while I studied the house. The bungalow-style home sprawled on a huge plot backing onto a stand of trees. Ocher brick. Shingled roof. Wide double front doors. A detached two car garage to the side. The front garden was neat, lawn mowed, with flower beds full of blooming plants; a miniature Japanese Maple with red leaves the centerpiece.

As I stood studying the house, the taxi pulled away. Michelle stood next to me.

"Do I have a wife?" I asked.

"You used to. Mom died five years ago."

I wracked my brain. Nothing. No feelings. No sense of loss. That terrified me even more. I'd loved someone and I didn't feel anything.

Eventually, I said, "Okay."

Michelle unlocked the front door. I stepped in and recognized what I'd first seen this morning. Now more details registered. The entry opened into a broad, expansive living room tastefully decorated. There were halls to the left and right. Across from me, floor to ceiling windows looked out onto the well-maintained back garden, a shed at the back to the left, the old trees behind giving privacy, and the edge of an in-ground pool to the right. A flagstone patio stretched from left to right, outdoor furniture, and a gas barbecue grill on it.

Turning my attention back to the living room, I noticed exotic wood side tables with framed pictures on them. I hesitated. Michelle stood silently at my side as if keeping me company while I tried to absorb.

Eventually, I moved, walking in. I circled the room pausing at one side table. The picture was of me with a petite Asian woman at my side and a child of seven or eight - Michelle. The woman - my wife - had a wonderful smile. I looked serious. Michelle was making a goofy face.

Nothing. No memory. But now I felt an ache of loss. I wanted to remember people in my life being that happy.

"What was her name?" I asked quietly.

"Christelle."

I slumped onto the couch. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to do."

Michelle sat next to me. After a moment of silence, she asked, "Would you like me to show you the house?"

I nodded.

Much later, lying in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, wearing unfamiliar pajamas that didn't feel right, I stared up at the dark ceiling. Had I ever been this scared before?

Everything was disorienting. There wasn't one thing I could relate to. Every thought in my mind came with questions. How old was I? Had I been happy? What career did I have and was I even good at it? Simple things were beyond me. Did I like ice cream? Did I drink? Was I an alcoholic or an abusive father? Did I have friends?

I knew some things. I knew how a car worked and how to turn on the television. I knew how to shower and brush my teeth. But I didn't know if I owned a car. I couldn't remember actually driving one. I didn't recognize my toothbrush. I didn't recognize any of the clothes in the bedroom closets or drawers.

Worst of all was seeing the pain and fear in Michelle's eyes. I didn't know what she expected of me. Was I a hugger? Had I been a good father or not? How could I help her cope when I couldn't help myself?

Michelle CURLED UP IN bed and cried silently. She felt abandoned even though Dad was in the house. In some ways, this was worse than losing Mom. At least with Mom, she was gone. Dad was here but not. Every time she looked at him she could see he was different - not Dad.

She hadn't recognized how important he was in her life. Before, he was always there, her Dad, providing an anchor in her life. Now...

Tears fell to the pillow. Now Dad was gone. It was in his eyes. They didn't look the same. Every familiar expression was no more. This dad was a stranger. And what made it worse was his confusion, watching him struggle to understand and not.

Until today, she hadn't understood how Dad was her foundation, the rock tethering her to life, always dependable, always consistent. Now she was adrift and didn't know what to do.