Chapter 1: Have I Been Here Before?

Stretching his legs felt good to Peter after leaving the A&W and the celebration.

He needed the run; his legs had cramped after the season’s final game, where he ran for three touchdowns and threw ten completions with three scoring drives. “Too bad the UW scouts missed that,” he grumbled, jogging through the early dusk.

The fog rose from the Duwamish River beside the road, and he shuddered, recalling the recent discovery of young women’s bodies, victims of the ‘Green River Killer,’ as the press had named him. He remembered last Spring’s hysteria when everyone thought the killer lived nearby and shivered. Zipping up his letterman jacket, he slowed at the bridge over the infamous river, briefly regretting not accepting a ride home, but the stiffness in his thighs and calves needed the exercise.

A dedicated runner, he usually jogged five miles on weekends unless his parents were tripping out over the latest body dump. His house was only a mile from the A&W, and the road was flat. Ten minutes of exercise, maybe a bit more considering the game, and he’d be home with just enough of a workout to keep his legs from cramping again.

Peter was living life to the fullest. He was breezing through Junior Year with a 4.0 average, taking AP classes and Pre-Calculus, normally a senior course. He had dodged the restriction by enrolling in the district’s Pre-College Pathway (PCP) program, and next fall, he’d be able to commute between high school and the Green River Community College.

His plans for the future were progressing at least as well as he’d hoped. After graduation from the PCP, he’d have an associate’s degree in science and a diploma. With luck, his coach would get UW’s scouts to review his tapes for an athletic scholarship to complement the academic one he intended to apply for. They lived well on his dad’s executive salary at Weyerhauser. As for his stay-at-home mom, she rarely attended games or practices. His dad had always pushed Peter to apply himself more and work harder while offering only encouragement to his sister Veronica. She now had a full-ride scholarship at WSU, while Peter worked part-time at The Old Cannery House furniture store in Sumner. He hoped to work full-time during summer break, intending to earn enough for a new Sharp 80486 computer with Windows 3.0.

A car racing up behind him interrupted his reflections. He felt the faint vibrations and heard the engine noise as the vehicle approached. He saw his shadow stretch out before him from the bright headlights. He had just left the bridge with its pedestrian-protected median, and now he moved farther inside the white line marking the left shoulder.

Despite the noise, he felt no concern. After all, he was running into traffic and faced no oncoming cars—but then he heard the bone-chilling screech of tires skidding on asphalt. He barely had time to open his mouth in surprise during the split second before the white van plowed into him.

His last thought before the devastating impact was the feeling of absolute certainty that he’d been here before.

When he became aware, he couldn’t understand what was happening or why he was in so much pain. The lights were painfully bright, and he couldn’t see from one eye. Beeps, alarms, and urgent voices filled the air. Several hands lifted him roughly and dumped him onto another surface. The lights got brighter, and when he tried to cry out, he gagged on something in his throat. He felt a sudden, stabbing pain in his side, and more voices yelled as he felt himself being moved. The wheels under him bumped, and he wondered if he was on a wagon going somewhere, and for some reason, he didn’t understand. He felt dizzy, nauseated, and in agony, and then the dark ring around his vision closed in.

He came awake to brighter lights and blurry figures, but calmer voices surrounded him this time. He was in an operating room that much he understood, and déjà vu once again crept into his confused mind. How am I reliving this nightmare?

He lay in the hospital bed, understanding that he was recovering from multiple life-saving surgeries. Metal frames suspended by ropes fixed both his femurs and his right arm in position, and metal rods protruded from his hip and pelvis. A plastic collar immobilized his neck, and a metal halo contraption supported his head, but worst of all was the chest tube inserted between his ribs to reinflate his lung and drain blood. Listening to what was being said by the operating room crew, he realized that a tension pneumothorax, whatever that was, had nearly killed him before EMTs relieved the pressure with a needle. Despite the heavy drugs they had used, everything hurt, and he couldn’t even pee without a catheter.

He remembered the accident and the events in the operating room, which had happened a few days ago. He woke up in the ICU, head lowered to stabilize his blood pressure due to internal bleeding, and while he felt uncomfortable, the stabbing pains were gone.

Now he was in bed with his head elevated 90 degrees, unable to move anything other than his left arm, which was in a cast from wrist to elbow. Scanning his eyes as far to the side as possible, he saw that the room’s front wall was decorated with hand-drawn posters and get-well cards from almost everyone in town. Tables placed wherever there was room held flowers, balloons, and stuffed animals. He vaguely remembered a few visits from classmates, and there had been some from adults he didn’t recognize.

His mom spent hours with him daily the first week, but that had since declined. Now, she visited only once or twice a week. He remembered seeing his sister once and a nurse told him that his dad had visited twice while he was asleep. But when the lawyers arrived, he began feeling odd notions and perceptions like distant memories. How could he know and anticipate what they were telling him, and why they wanted to represent him in a lawsuit?

His TV was never on, but someone had brought in a portable CD player and FM radio, and he remembered the news breaks and the background songs as if he could predict them. Several attorneys had left business cards on his bedside table, but it was impossible to check them without causing pain to lance through his hips, back, and chest.

His girlfriend, Brittney, had visited on a Wednesday during his second week in the hospital. She peeked nervously through his door and saw he was awake. He met her eyes and knew she had moved on but wasn’t sure how to break it to him. He heard whispered voices of other girls she brought along for moral support. They had stayed in the hallway as she stepped into his room. There was another moment of clarity, in which he recalled losing his shit on her and sending her away in tears. He sighed, having no desire to cause or relive that drama. He was resigned, and her abandonment felt inconsequential.

“Hi, Peter,” she said softly as she moved closer to his bed. He could open both eyes again, but the heavy skull brace restricted his vision to what was directly in front of him with only limited periphery.

“Hi,” he replied harshly.

“You look terrible.”

He grunted, “I feel worse.”

“I’m really sorry that this happened to you,” she murmured. “The whole school was in shock.”

“Look ... Brit,” he started.

“I can’t believe you survived! They said you died on the table—”

“Brit!” he tried again, and she stopped talking to face him. “I know why you’re here,” he said softly. “I get it. I’ll be crippled for life, and that isn’t what you signed up for when we started dating.”

She shook her head and tried to object, but he waved his left hand to stop her. “It’s okay,” he stated firmly. He felt no anger, only rational acceptance. He felt older than his fifteen years and much older than the girl beside him. “If it helps, tell them I broke it off, okay?” He met her eyes and saw tears threatening to spill. “Tell them I’m wallowing in self-pity and lashed out at you, screaming and bawling, and threw you out of my room.”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she looked down at her feet and anxiously chewed her lips as she considered his words. She sniffed and touched his cheek, quickly snatching her hand away from the brief contact, and without another word, she turned and left. The door closed softly behind her.

Peter considered how different the encounter had been from his odd recollection of a previous memory. It felt like watching an old movie about himself but played by a much older actor. He recalled some of the events clearly but had no real memory of others; he just had a vague feeling that something was missing.

An unexpected event occurred a few hours after his ‘second’ breakup with Brittney. He rested with his eyes closed, trying to anticipate what would happen next, when a familiar voice invaded his introspection. “Hey, Ship!” a young masculine voice called from his doorway.

He opened his eyes to see his best friend, Alan Shoemaker, standing nervously in the doorway. “Are you still in a coma?” he asked.

Alan was a year older but still a sophomore, although as brilliant as any junior in Peter’s grade. His Korean mother had refused to let him skip a grade. At five feet, ten inches, he stood eye-to-eye with Peter but carried more weight around his midsection. His stocky build, sharp mind, soft Asian features, and thick Coke bottle glasses identified him as a geek.

“Hey, Al,” Peter replied evenly. “Come in. I have a small break in my busy schedule to spare a few moments.” He pronounced it ‘Shed-jewel’ with a mock accent to lighten the mood.

Alan grinned and held the door open. “I didn’t come alone,” he said, stepping aside for another friendly figure to enter. Kathy Parsons was another of his ‘nerdy’ friends, but a senior and possibly as smart as Peter. She’d graduate this year at 17 as senior class Valedictorian.

Physically, she was taller than either by an inch, with a full figure that included pronounced cleavage and hips. Comfortable and self-confident, she neither flaunted her feminine charms nor tried to obscure them. Her mahogany-toned skin and jet-black hair, which she kept shoulder-length, revealed her Puyallup Indian heritage.

She stood before Peter wearing cut-off shorts, flip-flops, and a Judas Priest Tour shirt. They had grown up together, and the two boys had become acutely aware of her allure once puberty blessed her with ‘girl parts.’ Yet they still treated her as a ‘bruh’, and if they aspired for something more, they stifled the urge out of respect.

The pair lifted his spirits as soon as they entered. At first, he thought it was because he craved companionship, but then he realized this visit deviated from his ‘expected outcomes.’ It was unexpected, unpredictable, and much more pleasant than Brit’s.

They seemed hesitant as they stood on either side of his bed. “I know what you’re thinking,” he told them soberly. “David Hasselhoff ain’t got nothing on the new Peter Shipley.” He tried not to wince as he chuckled at their disbelief.

They seemed relieved by his candor, and Alan slowly shook his head. “No, dude,” he said, mocking severity. “You look like a used-up, crash-test dummy tossed in a dumpster and set on fire.”

Kathy gasped at his harsh analogy, but Peter laughed hard enough to cause a painful groan. “Oh God!” he gasped. “Don’t make me laugh anymore, please. That hurt!”

“Sorry!” his nerdy friend replied contritely. Then his eyes brightened. “Hey, I brought you the latest MAC World and PC Mag issues.” He held up the magazines.

Peter gaped back at him through his black eyes. “Oh great! Thanks, man,” he snorted. “How do you expect me to read a magazine when I’m strung up like a puppet?”

Alan looked stricken by his words but bristled when Kathy giggled. “Maybe you can hold it and turn the pages for him, Shoe,” she quipped.

“Hardy-fucking-har,” he grumbled, “A-holes.”

“Thanks for the magazines,” Peter said. “I can read them if my nurse raises my knees.”

“You’ll love this issue!” Alan replied eagerly. “It’s all about the 80486s and the new Pentium processor coming out. Hey, did you know why Intel is calling it the ‘Pentium’ instead of the 586?” He began rambling, oblivious to Kathy’s smirk, “It’s because—”