| Prologue
At first, there was only a quick flash of
light. Through my closed eyelids I barely noticed it.
The length of time it took me to open my eyes told me
I had been asleep for a while. My mind operated much faster
than my body, which seemed unaccustomed to responding.
No doubt I had been asleep for a long time.
Where was I? A glance around the room didn’t offer
any new information, at least nothing recognizable. The
room was small and consisted of a bed, a small dresser,
and nondescript beige paint on the walls. My first instincts
told me it was a hotel room, sparked by some memory that
came to me right then, something about making a reservation
and checking in. Fear came along with that memory, causing
tension throughout my seemingly weak body. A sense of
danger overwhelmed me and the only thing that seemed important
was getting out.
An attempt to get up only caused a severe pain at the
base of my skull and some nausea. No, getting up was not
a good idea. The small twin bed—with a standard
blue wool blanket—would be the only spot I’d
experience for a bit. I slowly moved my hand to the back
of my head, expecting to feel some bump or cut. Hangovers
felt like this and I had experienced enough drunken nights
to wake up with injuries from such excursions. The back
of my head was clean, at least as far as I could tell.
Joseph Silvestri. The name echoed in my mind. Initially,
I thought the name was mine. My memory had been so jolted
that it appeared to feel right, the name. It took me a
long moment to register that it wasn’t right, that
it wasn’t mine. Following the twisted pathways of
my thoughts led me to the correct one. I said it to myself
several times to act as a reminder. Darren, I said to
myself, Darren Camponi. I did this while feeling some
deep primal urge to not do it. Something inside indicated
saying that name would bring trouble. Perhaps it was such
trouble that left me in some stranger’s guest room
with an aching head. One thing I knew for sure was that
I had a penchant for saying the wrong thing at the wrong
time. Been there, done that, got coffee stains on the
t-shirt.
So, if I knew this much about myself, who was Joseph Silvestri,
and what did he mean to me? Every time I thought of the
name I felt a twinge in my stomach. The voice in my head
which said the name was undoubtedly mine, this much I
knew for sure. The importance of all this was lost on
me, a man stuck on a cheap bed who couldn’t tell
what time of day it was and how he got into the situation
in the first place. For all the talk and posturing about
how tough a man is, how resilient he can be, most of us
find comfort in the familiar and only discover fear when
such comfort is lost. Part of me wanted to curl up in
a ball and wait for someone to tell me what was going
on.
Considering the head injury—if that was what it
was—I couldn’t do much else. Instead of just
lying there I forced myself to think of something, hopefully
the most recent memory I had would come to mind. All I
could think about was that name, and some very stressful
situation that wouldn’t present itself to me clearly.
I knew how the human mind worked. The harder I tried to
remember the less chance I had at doing exactly that.
My mother. When all else fails, it’s best to think
about the certainties in life. I knew my mother. I knew
what she looked like, what her voice sounded like, what
she would do in any given situation. I’d found a
starting point. I could see my mother and I could remember
the last time I saw her. It was at my uncle’s wake.
I didn’t make the funeral, I remembered that. Something
prevented me from doing so. Mom had been angry at me for
that. Uncle Joe, that’s whose wake it was. Joe Silvestri?
No, couldn’t be, I thought. Too easy. Wasn’t
Joe Camponi, either. This uncle was on Mom’s side.
A date, I needed to find a date for that wake in my mind.
Days first. It wasn’t a Monday, this I was certain
of. Friday didn’t ring a bell either. I saw myself
in front of the mirror, getting dressed. Actually, I remembered
hunting for a tie. The hunt had led me across a good part
of my apartment, inside drawers, in the back of a closet,
rummaging through piles of laundry that were separated
in order of importance. The tie I’d found needed
ironing. While I ironed it, my cell phone rang. This memory
thrust itself forward, coming through clearly.
“It’s time,” the voice at the other
end said urgently.
“Give me two hours.”
“We don’t have two—“
“You have no choice.”
I’d ended the call, angry that the person at the
other end didn’t understand my situation. Something
told me he was aware of where I had to go and didn’t
much care. The voice was familiar. Lying in that bed,
I’d recalled it perfectly. Was this Joseph Silvestri?
Could have been. There was no way to know.
My cell phone. I could check my cell phone and see the
recent calls. The wake hadn’t been long ago. It
had been a day or two it seemed. All I needed was my cell
phone. Maybe there would be an entry for Joseph Silvestri.
For all the times I had complained about humankind’s
reliance on technology, I appreciated technology right
then. A simple object could help clear up everything.
I just needed to find my phone.
A noise from behind the door to my left startled me. My
right hand went for something that wasn’t there.
I didn’t know what it was at first. Then, it came
to me. I went for a gun. Get out before you’re
seen. If you’re seen, get them before they get you.
They’d seen me. I remembered that. Who were they?
Were they behind the door? I tried to move again and was
met with the same result as before. I was stuck. I had
no weapon, no way to defend myself.
I was dead.
The door opened and I saw the back of a woman. She had
opened the door that way because she was holding a tray
in her hands. She turned to look at me and jumped back.
Her face was totally unrecognizable to me. I’d never
seen her in my life.
“You’ve woken,” she said in a shaky
voice.
“Seems that way. Where am I?”
“My house.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Two weeks.”
That didn’t register right away. I’d thought
I had seen my mother only days ago. Sleep did this to
a mind, tricked it in terms of time. Two hours can seem
like a week. Two weeks can seem like two days.
“What?”
She moved closer to me. The light from the lamp on the
dresser illuminated her face better. She had soft features,
with big blue eyes and a button nose. She was cute, not
overwhelmingly attractive, but certainly cute. Still,
I couldn’t recognize her.
“You’ve been here for two weeks. I thought
you were never going to wake up, Joe.”
“Joe?” I asked.
“Yes. It was on your passport. Joseph Silvestri.
That’s your name, right?”
Something told me the best thing to do was go along. “Yes.
I thought you said something else. My hearing seems to
be a little off.”
“Considering the bump you had on top of your head,
that’s not surprising.”
I noticed she had a bowl of soup on the tray. “That
for me?” I asked.
She nodded. “I’ve been trying to feed you
regularly so you’d keep your strength.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I can’t believe you’re awake. I thought
you’d sleep forever.” She sat on the side
of the bed and put a napkin under my chin. She then proceeded
to feed me the soup. I wanted to do it myself but had
the feeling that would be impossible.
I could barely taste the soup but it felt good going down.
It almost seemed like it was rejuvenating me. Eating also
helped me keep my mind focused. Otherwise, the questions
swirling around my head would have taken over and I would
have interrogated this poor girl.
I finished eating and she wiped my chin, which I could
feel was pretty wet with soup. She collected everything,
put it on the tray and stood up. “This is great,”
she said, “For a while, I didn’t know what
I should do. The important thing is, you’re awake,
and I am sure you know what to do.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. “Sure.
I just need my cell phone.”
The girl gave me a look. “Cell phone, what’s
that?”
“Ha, ha. I am sure I had it on me.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.
Maybe that blow to the head did more damage than I thought.
What, do I have to ask you questions like who you are,
where you’re from, and who the President is?”
I gave her a ‘very funny’ look and said, “That’s
easy. George Bush.”
“Good,” she said, walking toward the door,
“Though in two weeks, he’s going to get his
ass kicked by Clinton.” She closed the door, her
last words just lingering there in the room.
Some of it came back to me, enough for me to remember
not where I was, but when. They’d talked me into
going back, whatever it was I had to do, it was of importance.
I was supposed to make sure something didn’t happen.
The first question I had to ask was, what was I doing
in 1992?
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