Chapter 1: The Twilight Zone

Tuesday, July 12, 2011 11am

“He’s coming around, Doctor,” the nurse announced as resident physician Daniel Scruton approached the third floor critical care nursing station at Coast Central Hospital. Nurse Dana Mannerly had paged the doctor after she had checked on their mystery patient and saw signs of him regaining consciousness.

Scruton nodded and immediately marched down the hallway towards room 313, bed 4. Perhaps now he could find out just what had happened to John Doe, the unnamed patient. He’d been brought in two days ago with no identification and no apparent wounds or bruises. Moreover, no one had come looking for him. Administration had contacted the police, but they had no missing person bulletin for anyone fitting the boy’s description.

As the doctor gazed at him, he noted his patient again. He was clean cut, neat hair, no tattoos or piercings, and nothing in his bloodstream that indicated drugs or alcohol. Who was he? He’d been found unconscious, wearing only a pair of old fashioned, clean, flannel pyjamas: a not-so-typical John Doe. He was put in critical care because there was no other logical place for him. For now, John Doe was Dan Scruton’s puzzle.

Scruton gave the youth a quick, general examination, checking eyes, respiration, blood pressure ... the usual. The boy seemed very fit from first observation, well fed with good muscle tone. No marks or bruises, no signs of needle usage. What had happened to him? He drew a chair up beside the bed and observed the young man. They’d done all the tests and could find nothing wrong with him other than some abnormal readings in the neuro-imaging. A second set of scans yesterday showed those abnormalities to be decreasing significantly. He was mystified at what had been going on with this boy, but perhaps when he regained consciousness he could enlighten the doctor as to what had happened to him.

It was an hour later that the patient woke completely and began searching around for someone to talk to. There were three other patients in the room and all of them were recovering from surgery. The young man didn’t know that, of course. He simply wanted to know where he was and why.

His voice was a hoarse rattle. “Hello, is anybody there?”

He heard a groan from the bed next to him, but with a screen around all the other beds except his, he could see no one. He looked around the room and knew instinctively he was in a hospital, but where ... and why? He checked the immediate area around his bed and found a grey electrical cord with a button on the end of it attached to a handrail. He made a guess and pushed the button hoping he was right.

It was only a minute later that an older nurse hustled into his room, a smile on her face as she approached him.

“Ah ... awake at last. How are you feeling?” she asked, placing a cup of water with a bent straw on the nearby table.

Jesse attempted to reach for it, but the nurse had to pass it to him. He took a tentative sip. The young man took another sip of water, and then another while the nurse raised the head of the bed up to a more comfortable position.

“I’m okay, I guess. My headache’s gone. Where am I?”

“You’re in the critical care ward at Coast Central Hospital,” she said, offering him another pillow. “You’ve been here almost ten days.”

“Critical care? That sounds serious. What’s wrong with me?”

“Your doctor will be along shortly and he can fill you in. In the meantime, what is your name?”

“Jesse Peterson.”

“Where do you live?” she continued, clipboard in hand and pen at the ready.

“1205 Hemlock Avenue, West Vancouver. Why are you asking me these questions? Didn’t my parents tell you all this?”

“You were brought in by ambulance. I understand you were found lying unconscious wearing only a pair of pyjamas. No one has come looking for you so far.”

How long have I been here?” he asked again.

“This is day ten,” she repeated.

Nurse Mannerly stepped back, wondering why she was getting this strange feeling about their mystery patient.

“We should phone your parents, Mister Peterson. What is your phone number?”

“Uhm, Walnut 3-1198. My mom should be home. Dad works during the day.”

“That’s an old fashioned phoned number,” she smiled. “Let’s see ... that’s 923-1198, right?”

“I guess,” he answered.

“I’ll have administration call them right away and let them know where you are,” she promised, heading out of the room and swiftly walking to the nursing station, approaching the head nurse.

“Tell Dr. Scruton that his mystery boy is awake and talking. I’ve got a phone number for his home and his name is Jesse Peterson. We need someone to call there and get some information and get him properly registered.”

“Give me what you’ve got and I’ll call Clarence in Admin and get him started,” the head nurse said. “How is the boy?”

“Seems fine,” Mannerly said with a shrug. “Awake, alert, a little disoriented of course. He has no recollection of how he got here.”

Scruton cut short his rounds to head back to Room 313. His curiosity was too much to leave it until later.

“Good morning,” he said as he glanced at the patient board at the end of the bed. “I see your name is Jesse Peterson. You’ve been a mystery to us until now. How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good. The headache’s finally gone. Where are my parents? What’s happened to them?” the boy asked, a look of fear mixed with bewilderment on his face.

“We’re trying to contact them now,” Scruton assured the young man. “I’m sure they’ll be along shortly.”

“What’s this thing in my penis?”

“It’s a catheter. It’s how you can empty your bladder. You’ve been existing on IV feeding,” the doctor said casually.

With that, Jesse relaxed back on the bed. “What day is this?”

“Tuesday, July 12^th. What is the last thing you remember before waking this morning?”

“I ... I was sick. A headache that wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t eat, no energy ... just wanted to sleep.”

“Were you in your own home at the time?”

“Yes ... in my bed ... downstairs in my room.”

“You were found Sunday morning on a bus stop bench near Stanley Park wearing only your pyjamas, nothing else. No identification or any other things with you. Perhaps you were robbed, but why just wearing pyjamas?”

The boy closed his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t remember any of that.”

“Are you hungry? Do you have an appetite?” the doctor asked.

“Yeah ... I am hungry. Can I get something?”

“Do you have any symptoms of nausea?”

“No ... I feel ... normal, except for that thing,” Jesse said, pointing to his groin area.

“I’ll see what I can do. We may be a little late to catch lunch, but we’ll find something for you. As far as I can tell, whatever was bothering you has passed. I’ll have the duty nurse remove the IV and the catheter once we are sure you can handle regular food. We’ve done all the necessary tests and you show no sign of infection or injury. We’ll keep an eye on you for a day or so before you’re released.”

“Okay. I’m sure my parents must be worried about me. I couldn’t just disappear for ten days without them noticing.”

“Yes ... I’m sure you’re right,” the doctor said thoughtfully. That fact was both surprising ... and troubling.

“Doctor Scruton, Admin wants to have a word with you about our mystery patient,” the duty nurse said as he checked in at the main desk.

“Oh? Okay, I’ll give them a call in a couple of minutes.”

“Don’t forget. They sounded quite concerned. I was talking to Jana Farley, so you should ask for her.”

Scruton sighed, smiled at the woman, then picked up the desk phone.

“It’s Dan Scruton, Jana. What’s up with Jesse Peterson?”

“There is no Jesse Peterson,” she answered immediately. “That is, not at the address and phone number he gave us. The phone number is listed for a Mrs. Callan, an eighty-something widow who lives in an apartment on the waterfront. The address he gave us is occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Naziz Sharaz who’ve lived there for eight years. Neither Mrs. Callan nor the Sharazs have ever heard of a Jesse Peterson. Our mystery patient is still a mystery. I’ve contacted both the city and West Van police to see if there’s a missing persons’ bulletin on someone of that name, but nothing.”

“Hmmm. Now what? I think we’d better contact Psychiatric Services and see if they can help us. He doesn’t look or sound like he’s off his meds, but you never know. As I recall, there was absolutely nothing on the tox screen to indicate drugs of any kind. He really is a puzzle.”

“Okay, Doctor. I’ll get hold of Psych and ask them to visit.”

The doctor hung up the phone, shook his head in wonder, and continued on his rounds. Someone else could handle this problem now.

Doctor Evelina Mikeska walked into room 313 and immediately spotted her patient. The clean-cut young man was sitting up, reading a paperback, a look of complete confusion on his face.

“Hello,” the doctor smiled as she approached him. “You must be Jesse. I’m Doctor Eve Mikeska.”

“Hi. Have you heard from my parents?” he asked immediately.

“No ... not yet. Are you feeling well enough to get up?” she asked.

“Yeah. I was up to go to the bathroom a few minutes ago. Why haven’t my parents called?”

“We’re having a bit of trouble locating them. Let me get a wheelchair and we’ll go have a talk in a private area.”

“Has something bad happened to Mom and Dad?” he asked, now looking alarmed.

“Not that we know of. Let me get a wheelchair and we’ll find someplace we can get some more information from you.”

The doctor retrieved a wheelchair from the hallway and brought it to the young man’s bedside.